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This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. The system of separate confinement, first experimented on in England at the model prison, Pentonville, London, and now spreading through the country, appears to us to require a little calm consideration and reflection on the part of the public. We purpose, in this paper, to suggest what we consider some grave objections to this system. We shall do this temperately, and without considering it necessary to regard every one from whom we differ, as a scoundrel, actuated by base motives, to whom the most unprincipled conduct may be recklessly attributed. Our faith in most questions where the good men are represented to be all pro, and the bad men to be all con, is very small. There is a hot class of riders of hobby-horses in the field, in this century, who think they do nothing unless they make a steeple-chase of their object, throw a vast quantity of mud about, and spurn every sort of decent restraint and reasonable consideration under their horses' heels. This question has not escaped such championship. It has its steeplechase riders, who hold the dangerous principle that the end justifies any means, and to whom no means, truth and fair- dealing usually excepted, come amiss. Considering the separate system of imprisonment, here, solely in reference to England, we discard, for the purpose of this discussion, the objection founded on its extreme severity, which would immediately arise if we were considering it with any reference to the State of Pennsylvania in America. For whereas in that State it may be inflicted for a dozen years, the idea is quite abandoned at home of extending it usually, beyond a dozen months, or in any case beyond eighteen months. Besides which, the school and the chapel afford periods of comparative relief here, which are not afforded in America. Though it has been represented by the steeplechase riders as a most enormous heresy to contemplate the possibility of any prisoner going mad or idiotic, under the prolonged effects of separate confinement; and although any one who should have the temerity to maintain such a doubt in Pennsylvania would have a chance of becoming a profane St. Stephen; Lord Grey, in his very last speech in the House of Lords on this subject, made in the present session of Parliament, in praise of this separate system, said of it: ‘Wherever it has been fairly tried, one of its great defects has been discovered to be this, that it cannot be continued for a sufficient length of time without danger to the individual, and that human nature cannot bear it beyond a limited period. The evidence of medical authorities proves beyond dispute that, if it is protracted beyond twelve months, the health of the convict, mental and physical, would require the most close and vigilant superintendence. Eighteen months is stated to be the maximum time for the continuance of its infliction, and, as a general rule, it is advised that it never be continued for more than twelve months.’ This being conceded, and it being clear that the prisoner's mind, and all the apprehensions weighing upon it, must be influenced from the first hour of his imprisonment by the greater or less extent of its duration in perspective before him, we are content to regard the system as dissociated in England from the American objection of too great severity. We shall consider it, first in the relation of the extraordinary contrast it presents, in a country circumstanced as England is, between the physical condition of the convict in prison, and that of the hard-working man outside, or the pauper outside. We shall then enquire, and endeavour to lay before our readers some means of judging, whether its proved or probable efficiency in producing a real, trustworthy, practically repentant state of mind, is such as to justify the presentation of that extraordinary contrast. If, in the end, we indicate the conclusion that the associated silent system is less objectionable, it is not because we consider it in the abstract a good secondary punishment, but because it is a severe one, capable of judicious administration, much less expensive, not presenting the objectionable contrast so strongly, and not calculated to pet and pamper the mind of the prisoner and swell his sense of his own importance. We are not acquainted with any system of secondary punishment that we think reformatory, except the mark system of Captain Macconnochie, formerly governor of Norfolk Island, which proceeds upon the principle of obliging the convict to some exercise of self-denial and resolution in every act of his prison life, and which would condemn him to a sentence of so much labour and good conduct instead of so much time. There are details in Captain Macconnochie's scheme on which we have our doubts (rigid silence we consider indispensable); but, in the main, we regard it as embodying sound and wise principles. We infer from the writings of Archbishop Whateley, that those principles have presented themselves to his profound and acute mind in a similar light. We will first contrast the dietary of The Model Prison at Pentonville, with the dietary of what we take to be the nearest workhouse, namely, that of Saint Pancras. In the prison, every man receives twenty-eight ounces of meat weekly. In the workhouse, every able-bodied adult receives eighteen. In the prison, every man receives one hundred and forty ounces of bread weekly. In the workhouse, every able-bodied adult receives ninety-six. In the prison, every man receives one hundred and twelve ounces of potatoes weekly. In the workhouse, every able-bodied adult receives thirty-six. In the prison, every man receives five pints and a quarter of liquid cocoa weekly, (made of flaked cocoa or cocoa-nibs), with fourteen ounces of milk and forty-two drams of molasses; also seven pints of gruel weekly, sweetened with forty-two drams of molasses. In the workhouse, every able-bodied adult receives fourteen pints and a half of milk-porridge weekly, and no cocoa, and no gruel. In the prison, every man receives three pints and a half of soup weekly. In the workhouse, every able-bodied adult male receives four pints and a half, and a pint of Irish stew. This, with seven pints of table-beer weekly, and six ounces of cheese, is all the man in the workhouse has to set off against the immensely superior advantages of the prisoner in all the other respects we have stated. His lodging is very inferior to the prisoner’s, the costly nature of whose accommodation we shall presently show. Let us reflect upon this contrast in another aspect. We beg the reader to glance once more at The Model Prison dietary, and consider its frightful disproportion to the dietary of the free labourer in any of the rural parts of England. What shall we take his wages at? Will twelve shillings a week do? It cannot be called a low average, at all events. Twelve shillings a week make thirty-one pounds four a year. The cost, in 1848, for the victualling and management of every prisoner in the Model Prison was within a little of thirty-six pounds. Consequently, that free labourer, with young children to support, with cottage- rent to pay, and clothes to buy, and no advantage of purchasing his food in large amounts by contract, has, for the whole subsistence of himself and family, between four and five pounds a year less than the cost of feeding and overlooking one man in the Model Prison. Surely to his enlightened mind, and sometimes low morality, this must be an extraordinary good reason for keeping out of it! But we will not confine ourselves to the contrast between the labourer’s scanty fare and the prisoner’s ‘flaked cocoa or cocoa-nibs’ and daily dinner of soup, meat, and potatoes. We will rise a little higher in the scale. Let us see what advertisers in the Times newspaper can board the middle classes at, and get a profit out of, too. A LADY, residing in a cottage, with a large garden, in a pleasant and healthful locality, would be happy to receive one or two LADIES to BOARD with her. Two ladies occupying the same apartment may be accommodated for 12s. a week each. The cottage is within a quarter of an hour’s walk of a good market town, 10 minutes’ of a South-Western Railway Station, and an hour’s distance from town. These two ladies could not be so cheaply boarded in the Model Prison. BOARD and RESIDENCE, at £70 per annum, for a married couple, or in proportion for a single gentleman or lady, with a respectable family. Rooms large and airy, in an eligible dwelling, at Islington, about 20 minutes’ walk from the Bank. Dinner hour six o’clock. There are one or two vacancies to complete a small, cheerful, and agreeable circle. Still cheaper than the Model Prison! BOARD and RESIDENCE. - A lady, keeping a select school, in a town, about 30 miles from London, would be happy to meet with a LADY to BOARD and RESIDE with her. She would have her own bed-room and a sitting-room. Any lady wishing for accomplishments would find this desirable. Terms £30 per annum. References will be expected and given. Again, some six pounds a year less than the Model Prison! And if we were to pursue the contrast through the newspaper file for a month, or through the advertising pages of two or three numbers of Bradshaw’s Railway Guide, we might probably fill the present number of this publication with similar examples, many of them including a decent education into the bargain. This Model Prison had cost at the close of 1847, under the heads of ‘building ‘and’ repairs’ alone, the insignificant sum of ninety-three thousand pounds – within seven thousand pounds of the amount of the last Government grant for the Education of the whole people, and enough to pay for the emigration to Australia of four thousand, six hundred and fifty poor persons at twenty pounds per head. Upon the work done by five hundred prisoners in the Model Prison, in the year 1848, (we collate these figures from the Reports, and from Mr. Hepworth Dixon’s useful work on the London Prisons,) there was no profit, but an actual loss of upwards of eight hundred pounds. The cost of instruction, and the time occupied in instruction, when the labour is necessarily unskilled and unproductive, may be pleaded in explanation of this astonishing fact. We are ready to allow all due weight to such considerations, but we put it to our readers whether the whole system is right or wrong; whether the money ought or ought not rather to be spent in instructing the unskilled and neglected outside the prison walls. It will be urged that it is expended in preparing the convict for the exile to which he is doomed. We submit to our readers, who are the jury in this case, that all this should be done outside the prison, first; that the first persons to be prepared for emigration are the miserable children who are consigned to the tender mercies of a DROUET, or who disgrace our streets; and that in this beginning at the wrong end, a spectacle of monstrous inconsistency is presented, shocking to the mind. Where is our Model House of Youthful Industry, where is our Model Ragged School, costing for building and repairs, from ninety to a hundred thousand pounds, and for its annual maintenance upwards of twenty thousand pounds a year? Would it be a Christian act to build that, first? To breed our skilful labour there? To take the hewers of wood and drawers of water in a strange country from the convict ranks, until those men by earnest working, zeal, and perseverance, proved themselves, and raised themselves? Here are two sets of people in a densely populated land, always in the balance before the general eye. Is Crime for ever to carry it against Poverty, and to have a manifest advantage? There are the scales before all men. Whirlwinds of dust scattered in mens’ eyes – and there is plenty flying about – cannot blind them to the real state of the balance. We now come to enquire into the condition of mind produced by the seclusion (limited in duration as Lord Grey limits it) which is purchased at this great cost in money, and this greater cost in stupendous injustice. That it is a consummation much to be desired, that a respectable man, lapsing into crime, should expiate his offence without incurring the liability of being afterwards recognised by hardened offenders who were his fellow-prisoners, we most readily admit. But, that this object, howsoever desirable and benevolent, is in itself sufficient to outweigh such objections as we have set forth, we cannot for a moment concede. Nor have we any sufficient guarantee that even this solitary point is gained. Under how many apparently inseparable difficulties, men immured in solitary cells, will by some means obtain a knowledge of other men immured in other solitary cells, most of us know from all the accounts and anecdotes we have read of secret prisons and secret prisoners from our school-time upwards. That there is a fascination in the desire to know something of the hidden presence beyond the blank wall of the cell; that the listening ear is often laid against that wall; that there is an overpowering temptation to respond to the muffled knock, or any other signal which sharpened ingenuity pondering day after day on one idea can devise: is in that constitution of human nature which impels mankind to communication with one another, and makes solitude a false condition against which nature strives. That such communication within the Model Prison, is not only probable, but indisputably proved to be possible by its actual discovery, we have no hesitation in stating as a fact. Some pains have been taken to hush the matter, but the truth is, that when the Prisoners at Pentonville ceased to be selected Prisoners, especially picked out and chosen for the purposes of that experiment, an extensive conspiracy was found out among them, involving, it is needless to say, extensive communication. Small pieces of paper with writing upon them, had been crushed into balls, and shot into the apertures of cell doors, by prisoners passing along the passages; false responses had been made during Divine Service in the chapel, in which responses they addressed one another; and armed men were secretly dispersed by the Governor in various parts of the building, to prevent the general rising, which was anticipated as the consequence of this plot. Undiscovered communication, under this system, we assume to be frequent. The state of mind into which a man is brought who is the lonely inhabitant of his own small world, and who is only visited by certain regular visitors, all addressing themselves to him individually and personally, as the object of their particular solicitude we believe in most cases to have very little promise in it, and very little of solid foundation. A strange absorbing selfishness – a spiritual egotism and vanity, real or assumed – is the first result. It is most remarkable to observe, in the cases of murderers who become this kind of object of interest, when they are at last consigned to the condemned cell, how the rule is (of course there are exceptions,) that the murdered person disappears from the stage of their thoughts, except as a part of their own important story; and how they occupy the whole scene. I did this, I feel that, I confide in the mercy of Heaven being extended to me; this is the autograph of me, the unfortunate and unhappy; in my childhood I was so and so; in my youth I did such a thing, to which I attribute my downfall not this thing of basely and barbarously defacing the image of my Creator, and sending an immortal soul into eternity without a moment's warning, but something else of a venial kind that many unpunished people do. I don’t want the forgiveness of this foully murdered person’s bereaved wife, husband, brother, sister, child, friend; I don’t ask for it, I don’t care for it. I make no enquiry of the clergyman concerning the salvation of that murdered person’s soul; mine is the matter; and I am almost happy that I came here, as to the gate of Paradise. ‘I never liked him,’ said the repentant Mr. Manning, false of heart to the last, calling a crowbar by a milder name, to lessen the cowardly horror of it, ‘and I beat in his skull with the ripping chisel.’ I am going to bliss, exclaims the same authority, in effect. Where my victim went to, is not my business at all. Now, GOD forbid that we, unworthily believing in the Redeemer, should shut out hope, or even humble trustfulness, from any criminal at that dread pass; but, it is not in us to call this state of mind repentance. The present question is with a state of mind analogous to this (as we conceive) but with a far stronger tendency to hypocrisy; the dread of death not being present, and there being every possible inducement, either to feign contrition, or to set up an unreliable semblance of it. If I, John Styles, the prisoner, don’t do my work, and outwardly conform to the rules of the prison, I am a mere fool. There is nothing here to tempt me to do anything else, and everything to tempt me to do that. The capital dietary (and every meal is a great event in this lonely life) depends upon it; the alternative is a pound of bread a day. I should be weary of myself without occupation. I should be much more dull if I didn’t hold these dialogues with the gentlemen who are so anxious about me. I shouldn’t be half the object of interest I am, if I didn’t make the professions I do. Therefore, I John Styles go in for what is popular here, and I may mean it, or I may not. There will always, under any decent system, be certain prisoners, betrayed into crime by a variety of circumstances, who will do well in exile, and o end against the laws no more. Upon this class, we think the Associated Silent System would have quite as good an influence as this expensive and anomalous one; and we cannot accept them as evidence of the efficiency of separate confinement. Assuming John Styles to mean what he professes, for the time being, we desire to track the workings of his mind, and to try to test the value of his professions. Where shall we find an account of John Styles, proceeding from no objector to this system, but from a staunch supporter of it? We will take it from a work called ‘Prison Discipline, and the advantages of the separate system of imprisonment,’ written by the Reverend Mr. Field, chaplain of the new County Gaol at Reading; pointing out to Mr. Field, in passing, that the question is not justly, as he would sometimes make it, a question between this system and the profligate abuses and customs of the old unreformed gaols, but between it and the improved gaols of this time, which are not constructed on his favourite principles.* * As Mr. Field condescends to quote some vapouring about the account given by Mr. Charles Dickens in his ‘American Notes,’ of the Solitary Prison at Philadelphia, he may perhaps really wish for some few words of information on the subject. For this purpose, Mr. Charles Dickens has referred to the entry in his Diary, made at the close of that day. He left his hotel for the Prison at twelve o’clock, being waited on, by appointment, by the gentlemen who showed it to him; and he returned between seven and eight at night; dining in the prison in the course of that time; which, according to his calculation, in despite of the Philadelphia Newspaper, rather exceeds two hours. He found the Prison admirably conducted, extremely clean, and the system administered in a most intelligent, kind, orderly, tender, and careful manner. He did not consider (nor should he, if he were to visit Pentonville to-morrow) that the book in which visitors were expected to record their observation of the place, was intended for the insertion of criticisms on the system, but for honest testimony to the manner of its administration; and to that, he bore, as an impartial visitor, the highest testimony in his power. In returning thanks for his health being drunk, at the dinner within the walls, he said that what he had seen that day was running in his mind; that he could not help reflecting on it; and that it was an awful punishment. If the American officer who rode back with him afterwards should ever see these words, he will perhaps recall his conversation with Mr. Dickens on the road, as to Mr. Dickens having said so, very plainly and strongly. In reference to the ridiculous assertion that Mr. Dickens in his book termed a woman ‘quite beautiful’ who was a Negress, he positively believes that he was shown no Negress in the Prison, but one who was nursing a woman much diseased, and to whom no reference whatever is made in his published account. In describing three young women, ‘all convicted at the same time of a conspiracy,’ he may, possibly, among many cases, have substituted in his memory for one of them whom he did not see, some other prisoner, confined for some other crime, whom he did see; but he has not the least doubt of having been guilty of the (American) enormity of detecting beauty in a pensive quadroon or mulatto girl, or of having seen exactly what he describes; and he remembers the girl more particularly described in this connexion, perfectly. Can Mr. Field really suppose that Mr. Dickens had any interest or purpose in misrepresenting the system, or that if he could be guilty of such unworthy conduct, or desire to do it anything but justice, he would have volunteered the narrative of a man's having, of his own choice, undergone it for two years? We will not notice the objection of Mr. Field (who strengthens the truth of Burns to nature, by the testimony of Mr. Pitt!) to the discussion of such a topic as the present in a work of ‘mere amusement;’ though, we had thought we remembered in that book a word or two about slavery, which, although a very amusing, can scarcely be considered an unmitigatedly comic theme. We are quite content to believe, without seeking to make a convert of the Reverend Mr. Field, that no work need be one of ‘mere amusement;’ and that some works to which he would apply that designation have done a little good in advancing principles to which, we hope, and will believe, for the credit of his Christian office, he is not indifferent. Now, here is John Styles, twenty years of age, in prison for a felony. He has been there five months, and he writes to his sister, ‘Don't fret my dear sister, about my being here. I cannot help fretting when I think about my usage to my father and mother: when I think about it, it makes me quite ill. I hope God will forgive me; I pray for it night and day from my heart. Instead of fretting about imprisonment, I ought to thank God for it, for before I came here, I was living quite a careless life; neither was God in all my thoughts; all I thought about was ways that led me towards destruction. Give my respects to my wretched companions, and I hope they will alter their wicked course, for they don't know for a day nor an hour but what they may be cut o . I have seen my folly, and I hope they may see their folly; but I shouldn't if I had not been in trouble. It is good for me that I have been in trouble. Go to church, my sister, every Sunday, and don't give your mind to going to playhouses and theatres, for that is no good to you. There are a great many temptations.’ Observe! John Styles, who has committed the felony has been ‘living quite a careless life.’ That is his worst opinion of it, whereas his companions who did not commit the felony are ‘wretched companions.’ John saw his ‘folly,’ and sees their ‘wicked course’ It is playhouses and theatres which many unfelonious people go to, that prey upon John’s mind not felony. John is shut up in that pulpit to lecture his companions and his sister, about the wickedness of the unfelonious world. Always supposing him to be sincere, is there no exaggeration of himself in this? Go to church where I can go, and don't go to theatres where I can’t! Is there any tinge of the fox and the grapes in it? Is this the kind of penitence that will wear outside! Put the case that he had written, of his own mind, ‘My dear sister, I feel that I have disgraced you and all who should be dear to me, and if it please God that I live to be free, I will try hard to repair that, and to be a credit to you. My dear sister, when I committed this felony, I stole something – and these pining five months have not put it back – and I will work my fingers to the bone to make restitution, and oh! my dear sister, seek out my late companions, and tell Tom Jones, that poor boy, who was younger and littler than me, that I am grieved I ever led him so wrong, and I am suffering for it now!’ Would that be better? Would it be more like solid truth? But no. This is not the pattern penitence. There would seem to be a pattern penitence, of a particular form, shape, limits, and dimensions, like the cells. While Mr. Field is correcting his proof-sheets for the press, another letter is brought to him, and in that letter too, that man, also a felon, speaks of his ‘past folly,’ and lectures his mother about labouring under ‘strong delusions of the devil.’ Does this overweening readiness to lecture other people, suggest the suspicion of any parrot-like imitation of Mr. Field, who lectures him, and any presumptuous confounding of their relative positions? We venture altogether to protest against the citation, in support of this system, of assumed repentance which has stood no test or trial in the working world. We consider that it proves nothing, and is worth nothing, except as a discouraging sign of that spiritual egotism and presumption of which we have already spoken. It is not peculiar to the separate system at Reading; Miss Martineau, who was on the whole decidedly favourable to the separate prison at Philadelphia, observed it there. ‘The cases I became acquainted with,’ says she, ‘were not all hopeful. Some of the convicts were so stupid as not to be relied upon, more or less. Others canted so detestably, and were (always in connexion with their cant) so certain that they should never sin more, that I have every expectation that they will find themselves in prison again some day. One fellow, a sailor, notorious for having taken more lives than probably any man in the United States, was quite confident that he should be perfectly virtuous henceforth. He should never touch anything stronger than tea, or lift his hand against money or life. I told him I thought he could not be sure of all this till he was within sight of money and the smell of strong liquors; and that he was more confident than I should like to be. He shook his shock of red hair at me, and glared with his one ferocious eye, as he said he knew all about it. He had been the worst of men, and Christ had had mercy on his poor soul.’ (Observe again, as in the general case we have put, that he is not at all troubled about the souls of the people whom he had killed.) Let us submit to our readers another instance from Mr. Field, of the wholesome state of mind produced by the separate system. ‘The 25th of March, in the last year, was the day appointed for a general fast, on account of the threatened famine. The following note is in my journal of that day. “During the evening I visited many prisoners, and found with much satisfaction that a large proportion of them had observed the day in a manner becoming their own situation, and the purpose for which it had been set apart. I think it right to record the following remarkable proof of the effect of discipline. * * * * * They were all supplied with their usual rations. I went first this evening to the cells of the prisoners recently committed for trial (Ward A. 1.), and amongst these (upwards of twenty) I found that but three had abstained from any portion of their food. I then visited twenty-one convicted prisoners who had spent some considerable time in the gaol (Ward C. 1.), and amongst them I found that some had altogether abstained from food, and of the whole number two-thirds had partially abstained.”’ We will take it for granted that this was not because they had more than they could eat, though we know that with such a dietary even that sometimes happens, especially in the case of persons long conned. ‘The remark of one prisoner whom I questioned concerning his abstinence was, I believe, sincere, and was very pleasing. “Sir, I have not felt able to eat today, whilst I have thought of those poor starving people; but I hope that I have prayed a good deal that God will give them something to eat.”’ If this were not pattern penitence, and the thought of those poor starving people had honestly originated with that man, and were really on his mind, we want to know why he was not uneasy, every day, in the contemplation of his soup, meat, bread, potatoes, cocoa-nibs, milk, molasses, and gruel, and its contrast to the fare of ‘those poor starving people’ who, in some form or other, were taxed to pay for it? We do not deem it necessary to comment on the authorities quoted by Mr. Field to show what a fine thing the separate system is, for the health of the body; how it never affects the mind except for good; how it is the true preventive of pulmonary disease; and so on. The deduction we must draw from such things is, that Providence was quite mistaken in making us gregarious, and that we had better all shut ourselves up directly. Neither will we refer to that ‘talented criminal,’ Dr. Dodd, whose exceedingly indifferent verses applied to a system now extinct, in reference to our penitentiaries for convicted prisoners. Neither, after what we have quoted from Lord Grey, need we refer to the likewise quoted report of the American authorities, who are perfectly sure that no extent of confinement in the Philadelphia prison has ever affected the intellectual powers of any prisoner. Mr. Croker cogently observes, in the Good-Natured Man, that either his hat must be on his head, or it must be off. By a parity of reasoning, we conclude that both Lord Grey and the American authorities cannot possibly be right – unless indeed the notoriously settled habits of the American people, and the absence of any approach to restlessness in the national character, render them unusually good subjects for protracted seclusion, and an exception from the rest of mankind. In using the term “pattern penitence” we beg it to be understood that we do not apply it to Mr. Field, or to any other chaplain, but to the system; which appears to us to make these doubtful converts all alike. Although Mr. Field has not shown any remarkable courtesy in the instance we have set forth in a note, it is our wish to show all courtesy to him, and to his office, and to his sincerity in the discharge of its duties. In our desire to represent him with fairness and impartiality, we will not take leave of him without the following quotation from his book: ‘Scarcely sufficient time has yet expired since the present system was introduced, for me to report much concerning discharged criminals. Out of a class so degraded – the very dregs of the community – it can be no wonder that some, of whose improvement I cherished the hope, should have relapsed. Disappointed in a few cases I have been, yet by no means discouraged, since I can with pleasure refer to many whose conduct is affording proof of reformation. Gratifying indeed have been some accounts received from liberated offenders themselves, as well as from clergymen of parishes to which they have returned. I have also myself visited the homes of some of our former prisoners, and have been cheered by the testimony given, and the evident signs of improved character which I have there observed. Although I do not venture at present to describe the particular cases of prisoners, concerning whose reformation I feel much confidence, because, as I have stated, the time of trial has hitherto been short; yet I can with pleasure refer to some public documents which prove the happy effects of similar discipline in other establishments.’ It should also be stated that the Reverend Mr. Kingsmill, the chaplain of the Model Prison at Pentonville, in his calm and intelligent report made to the Commissioners on the first of February, 1849, expresses his belief ‘that the effects produced here upon the character of prisoners, have been encouraging in a high degree.’ But, we entreat our readers once again to look at that Model Prison dietary (which is essential to the system, though the system is so very healthy of itself); to remember the other enormous expenses of the establishment; to consider the circumstances of this old country, with the inevitable anomalies and contrasts it must present; and to decide, on temperate reflection, whether there are any sufficient reasons for adding this monstrous contrast to the rest. Let us impress upon our readers that the existing question is, not between this system and the old abuses of the old profligate Gaols (with which, thank Heaven, we have nothing to do), but between this system and the associated silent system, where the dietary is much lower, where the annual cost of provision, management, repairs, clothing, &amp;c., does not exceed, on a liberal average, £25 for each prisoner; where many prisoners are, and every prisoner would be (if due accommodation were provided in some overcrowded prisons), locked up alone, for twelve hours out of every twenty-four, and where, while preserved from contamination, he is still one of a society of men, and not an isolated being, filling his whole sphere of view with a diseased dilation of himself. We hear that the associated silent system is objectionable, because of the number of punishments it involves for breaches of the prison discipline; but how can we, in the same breath, be told that the resolutions of prisoners for the misty future are to be trusted, and that, on the least temptation, they are so little to be relied on, as to the solid present? How can I set the pattern penitence against the career that preceded it, when I am told that if I put that man with other men, and lay a solemn charge upon him not to address them by word or sign, there are such and such great chances that he will want the resolution to obey? Remember that this separate system, though commended in the English Parliament and spreading in England, has not spread in America, despite of all the steeple-chase riders in the United States. Remember that it has never reached the State most distinguished for its learning, for its moderation, for its remarkable men of European reputation, for the excellence of its public Institutions. Let it be tried here, on a limited scale, if you will, with fair representatives of all classes of prisoners: let Captain Macconnochie’s system be tried: let anything with a ray of hope in it be tried: but, only as a part of some general system for raising up the prostrate portion of the people of this country, and not as an exhibition of such astonishing consideration for crime, in comparison with want and work. Any prison built, at a great expenditure, for this system, is comparatively useless for any other; and the ratepayers will do well to think of this, before they take it for granted that it is a proved boon to the country which will be enduring. Under the separate system, the prisoners work at trades. Under the associated silent system, the Magistrates of Middlesex have almost abolished the treadmill. Is it no part of the legitimate consideration of this important point of work, to discover what kind of work the people always filtering through the gaols of large towns – the pickpocket, the sturdy vagrant, the habitual drunkard, and the begging-letter impostor – like least, and to give them that work to do in preference to any other? It is out of fashion with the steeple-chase riders we know; but we would have, for all such characters, a kind of work in gaols, badged and degraded as belonging to gaols only, and never done elsewhere. And we must avow that, in a country circumstanced as England is, with respect to labour and labourers, we have strong doubts of the propriety of bringing the results of prison labour into the over-stocked market. On this subject some public remonstrances have recently been made by tradesmen; and we cannot shut our eyes to the fact that they are well-founded. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 'Pet Prisoners' Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1850-04-27 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <em>Dickens Journals Online,</em> used by permission. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1850-04-27-Pet_Prisoners Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <em>Household Words,</em><span>&nbsp;</span><span>vol. 1, no.5, 27 April 1850, pp. 97-103.</span><span>&nbsp;</span><em>Dickens Journals Online,</em><span>&nbsp;</span><a href="https://www.djo.org.uk/household-words/volume-i/page-97.html">https://www.djo.org.uk/household-words/volume-i/page-97.html</a><span>.</span> Type The nature or genre of the resource Journalism article Bibliographic Citation A bibliographic reference for the resource. Recommended practice is to include sufficient bibliographic detail to identify the resource as unambiguously as possible. <span>Dickens, Charles. 'Pet Prisoners'.&nbsp;</span><em>Dickens Search.<span>&nbsp;</span></em><span>Eds. Emily Middleton and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date].&nbsp;</span><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/journalism/1850-04-27-Pet_Prisoners">https://dickenssearch.com/journalism/1850-04-27-Pet_Prisoners</a><span>.</span> Description An account of the resource Published in <em>Household Words</em> (27 April 1850) Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. <p>The system of separate confinement, first experimented on in England at the model prison, Pentonville, London, and now spreading through the country, appears to us to require a little calm consideration and reflection on the part of the public. We purpose, in this paper, to suggest what we consider some grave objections to this system.</p> <p>We shall do this temperately, and without considering it necessary to regard every one from whom we differ, as a scoundrel, actuated by base motives, to whom the most unprincipled conduct may be recklessly attributed. Our faith in most questions where the good men are represented to be all pro, and the bad men to be all con, is very small. There is a hot class of riders of hobby-horses in the field, in this century, who think they do nothing unless they make a steeple-chase of their object, throw a vast quantity of mud about, and spurn every sort of decent restraint and reasonable consideration under their horses' heels. This question has not escaped such championship. It has its steeplechase riders, who hold the dangerous principle that the end justifies any means, and to whom no means, truth and fair- dealing usually excepted, come amiss.</p> <p>Considering the separate system of imprisonment, here, solely in reference to England, we discard, for the purpose of this discussion, the objection founded on its extreme severity, which would immediately arise if we were considering it with any reference to the State of Pennsylvania in America. For whereas in that State it may be inflicted for a dozen years, the idea is quite abandoned at home of extending it usually, beyond a dozen months, or in any case beyond eighteen months. Besides which, the school and the chapel afford periods of comparative relief here, which are not afforded in America.</p> <p>Though it has been represented by the steeplechase riders as a most enormous heresy to contemplate the possibility of any prisoner going mad or idiotic, under the prolonged effects of separate confinement; and although any one who should have the temerity to maintain such a doubt in Pennsylvania would have a chance of becoming a profane St. Stephen; Lord Grey, in his very last speech in the House of Lords on this subject, made in the present session of Parliament, in praise of this separate system, said of it: ‘Wherever it has been fairly tried, one of its great defects has been discovered to be this, that it cannot be continued for a sufficient length of time without danger to the individual, and that human nature cannot bear it beyond a limited period. The evidence of medical authorities proves beyond dispute that, if it is protracted beyond twelve months, the health of the convict, mental and physical, would require the most close and vigilant superintendence. Eighteen months is stated to be the <em>maximum </em>time for the continuance of its infliction, and, as a general rule, it is advised that it never be continued for more than twelve months.’ This being conceded, and it being clear that the prisoner's mind, and all the apprehensions weighing upon it, must be influenced from the first hour of his imprisonment by the greater or less extent of its duration in perspective before him, we are content to regard the system as dissociated in England from the American objection of too great severity.</p> <p>We shall consider it, first in the relation of the extraordinary contrast it presents, in a country circumstanced as England is, between the physical condition of the convict in prison, and that of the hard-working man outside, or the pauper outside. We shall then enquire, and endeavour to lay before our readers some means of judging, whether its proved or probable efficiency in producing a real, trustworthy, practically repentant state of mind, is such as to justify the presentation of that extraordinary contrast. If, in the end, we indicate the conclusion that the associated silent system is less objectionable, it is not because we consider it in the abstract a good secondary punishment, but because it is a severe one, capable of judicious administration, much less expensive, not presenting the objectionable contrast so strongly, and not calculated to pet and pamper the mind of the prisoner and swell his sense of his own importance. We are not acquainted with any system of secondary punishment that we think reformatory, except the mark system of Captain Macconnochie, formerly governor of Norfolk Island, which proceeds upon the principle of obliging the convict to some exercise of self-denial and resolution in every act of his prison life, and which would condemn him to a sentence of so much labour and good conduct instead of so much time. There are details in Captain Macconnochie's scheme on which we have our doubts (rigid silence we consider indispensable); but, in the main, we regard it as embodying sound and wise principles. We infer from the writings of Archbishop Whateley, that those principles have presented themselves to his profound and acute mind in a similar light.</p> <p>We will first contrast the dietary of The Model Prison at Pentonville, with the dietary of what we take to be the nearest workhouse, namely, that of Saint Pancras. In the prison, every man receives twenty-eight ounces of meat weekly. In the workhouse, every able-bodied adult receives eighteen. In the prison, every man receives one hundred and forty ounces of bread weekly. In the workhouse, every able-bodied adult receives ninety-six. In the prison, every man receives one hundred and twelve ounces of potatoes weekly. In the workhouse, every able-bodied adult receives thirty-six. In the prison, every man receives five pints and a quarter of liquid cocoa weekly, (made of flaked cocoa or cocoa-nibs), with fourteen ounces of milk and forty-two drams of molasses; also seven pints of gruel weekly, sweetened with forty-two drams of molasses. In the workhouse, every able-bodied adult receives fourteen pints and a half of milk-porridge weekly, and no cocoa, and no gruel. In the prison, every man receives three pints and a half of soup weekly. In the workhouse, every able-bodied adult male receives four pints and a half, and a pint of Irish stew. This, with seven pints of table-beer weekly, and six ounces of cheese, is all the man in the workhouse has to set off against the immensely superior advantages of the prisoner in all the other respects we have stated. His lodging is very inferior to the prisoner’s, the costly nature of whose accommodation we shall presently show.</p> <p>Let us reflect upon this contrast in another aspect. We beg the reader to glance once more at The Model Prison dietary, and consider its frightful disproportion to the dietary of the free labourer in any of the rural parts of England. What shall we take his wages at? Will twelve shillings a week do? It cannot be called a low average, at all events. Twelve shillings a week make thirty-one pounds four a year. The cost, in 1848, for the victualling and management of every prisoner in the Model Prison was within a little of thirty-six pounds. Consequently, that free labourer, with young children to support, with cottage- rent to pay, and clothes to buy, and no advantage of purchasing his food in large amounts by contract, has, for the whole subsistence of himself and family, between four and five pounds a year less than the cost of feeding and overlooking one man in the Model Prison. Surely to his enlightened mind, and sometimes low morality, this must be an extraordinary good reason for keeping out of it! But we will not confine ourselves to the contrast between the labourer’s scanty fare and the prisoner’s ‘flaked cocoa or cocoa-nibs’ and daily dinner of soup, meat, and potatoes. We will rise a little higher in the scale. Let us see what advertisers in the <em>Times </em>newspaper can board the middle classes at, and get a profit out of, too.</p> <p>A LADY, residing in a cottage, with a large garden, in a pleasant and healthful locality, would be happy to receive one or two LADIES to BOARD with her. Two ladies occupying the same apartment may be accommodated for 12s. a week each. The cottage is within a quarter of an hour’s walk of a good market town, 10 minutes’ of a South-Western Railway Station, and an hour’s distance from town.</p> <p>These two ladies could not be so cheaply boarded in the Model Prison.</p> <p>BOARD and RESIDENCE, at £70 per annum, for a married couple, or in proportion for a single gentleman or lady, with a respectable family. Rooms large and airy, in an eligible dwelling, at Islington, about 20 minutes’ walk from the Bank. Dinner hour six o’clock. There are one or two vacancies to complete a small, cheerful, and agreeable circle.</p> <p>Still cheaper than the Model Prison!</p> <p>BOARD and RESIDENCE. - A lady, keeping a select school, in a town, about 30 miles from London, would be happy to meet with a LADY to BOARD and RESIDE with her. She would have her own bed-room and a sitting-room. Any lady wishing for accomplishments would find this desirable. Terms £30 per annum. References will be expected and given.</p> <p>Again, some six pounds a year less than the Model Prison! And if we were to pursue the contrast through the newspaper file for a month, or through the advertising pages of two or three numbers of Bradshaw’s Railway Guide, we might probably fill the present number of this publication with similar examples, many of them including a decent education into the bargain.</p> <p>This Model Prison had cost at the close of 1847, under the heads of ‘building ‘and’ repairs’ alone, the insignificant sum of ninety-three thousand pounds – within seven thousand pounds of the amount of the last Government grant for the Education of the whole people, and enough to pay for the emigration to Australia of four thousand, six hundred and fifty poor persons at twenty pounds per head. Upon the work done by five hundred prisoners in the Model Prison, in the year 1848, (we collate these figures from the Reports, and from Mr. Hepworth Dixon’s useful work on the London Prisons,) there was no profit, but an actual loss of upwards of eight hundred pounds. The cost of instruction, and the time occupied in instruction, when the labour is necessarily unskilled and unproductive, may be pleaded in explanation of this astonishing fact. We are ready to allow all due weight to such considerations, but we put it to our readers whether the whole system is right or wrong; whether the money ought or ought not rather to be spent in instructing the unskilled and neglected outside the prison walls. It will be urged that it is expended in preparing the convict for the exile to which he is doomed. We submit to our readers, who are the jury in this case, that all this should be done outside the prison, first; that the first persons to be prepared for emigration are the miserable children who are consigned to the tender mercies of a DROUET, or who disgrace our streets; and that in this beginning at the wrong end, a spectacle of monstrous inconsistency is presented, shocking to the mind. Where is our Model House of Youthful Industry, where is our Model Ragged School, costing for building and repairs, from ninety to a hundred thousand pounds, and for its annual maintenance upwards of twenty thousand pounds a year? Would it be a Christian act to build that, first? To breed our skilful labour there? To take the hewers of wood and drawers of water in a strange country from the convict ranks, until those men by earnest working, zeal, and perseverance, proved themselves, and raised themselves? Here are two sets of people in a densely populated land, always in the balance before the general eye. Is Crime for ever to carry it against Poverty, and to have a manifest advantage? There are the scales before all men. Whirlwinds of dust scattered in mens’ eyes – and there is plenty flying about – cannot blind them to the real state of the balance.</p> <p>We now come to enquire into the condition of mind produced by the seclusion (limited in duration as Lord Grey limits it) which is purchased at this great cost in money, and this greater cost in stupendous injustice. That it is a consummation much to be desired, that a respectable man, lapsing into crime, should expiate his offence without incurring the liability of being afterwards recognised by hardened offenders who were his fellow-prisoners, we most readily admit. But, that this object, howsoever desirable and benevolent, is in itself sufficient to outweigh such objections as we have set forth, we cannot for a moment concede. Nor have we any sufficient guarantee that even this solitary point is gained. Under how many apparently inseparable difficulties, men immured in solitary cells, will by some means obtain a knowledge of other men immured in other solitary cells, most of us know from all the accounts and anecdotes we have read of secret prisons and secret prisoners from our school-time upwards. That there is a fascination in the desire to know something of the hidden presence beyond the blank wall of the cell; that the listening ear is often laid against that wall; that there is an overpowering temptation to respond to the muffled knock, or any other signal which sharpened ingenuity pondering day after day on one idea can devise: is in that constitution of human nature which impels mankind to communication with one another, and makes solitude a false condition against which nature strives. That such communication within the Model Prison, is not only probable, but indisputably proved to be possible by its actual discovery, we have no hesitation in stating as a fact. Some pains have been taken to hush the matter, but the truth is, that when the Prisoners at Pentonville ceased to be selected Prisoners, especially picked out and chosen for the purposes of that experiment, an extensive conspiracy was found out among them, involving, it is needless to say, extensive communication. Small pieces of paper with writing upon them, had been crushed into balls, and shot into the apertures of cell doors, by prisoners passing along the passages; false responses had been made during Divine Service in the chapel, in which responses they addressed one another; and armed men were secretly dispersed by the Governor in various parts of the building, to prevent the general rising, which was anticipated as the consequence of this plot. Undiscovered communication, under this system, we assume to be frequent.</p> <p>The state of mind into which a man is brought who is the lonely inhabitant of his own small world, and who is only visited by certain regular visitors, all addressing themselves to him individually and personally, as the object of their particular solicitude we believe in most cases to have very little promise in it, and very little of solid foundation. A strange absorbing selfishness – a spiritual egotism and vanity, real or assumed – is the first result. It is most remarkable to observe, in the cases of murderers who become this kind of object of interest, when they are at last consigned to the condemned cell, how the rule is (of course there are exceptions,) that the murdered person disappears from the stage of their thoughts, except as a part of their own important story; and how they occupy the whole scene. <em>I </em>did this, <em>I </em>feel that, <em>I</em> confide in the mercy of Heaven being extended to me; this is the autograph of <em>me</em>, the unfortunate and unhappy; in my childhood I was so and so; in my youth I did such a thing, to which I attribute my downfall not this thing of basely and barbarously defacing the image of my Creator, and sending an immortal soul into eternity without a moment's warning, but something else of a venial kind that many unpunished people do. I don’t want the forgiveness of this foully murdered person’s bereaved wife, husband, brother, sister, child, friend; I don’t ask for it, I don’t care for it. I make no enquiry of the clergyman concerning the salvation of that murdered person’s soul; <em>mine</em> is the matter; and I am almost happy that I came here, as to the gate of Paradise. ‘I never liked him,’ said the repentant Mr. Manning, false of heart to the last, calling a crowbar by a milder name, to lessen the cowardly horror of it, ‘and I beat in his skull with the ripping chisel.’ I am going to bliss, exclaims the same authority, in effect. Where my victim went to, is not my business at all. Now, GOD forbid that we, unworthily believing in the Redeemer, should shut out hope, or even humble trustfulness, from any criminal at that dread pass; but, it is not in us to call this state of mind repentance.</p> <p>The present question is with a state of mind analogous to this (as we conceive) but with a far stronger tendency to hypocrisy; the dread of death not being present, and there being every possible inducement, either to feign contrition, or to set up an unreliable semblance of it. If I, John Styles, the prisoner, don’t do my work, and outwardly conform to the rules of the prison, I am a mere fool. There is nothing here to tempt me to do anything else, and everything to tempt me to do that. The capital dietary (and every meal is a great event in this lonely life) depends upon it; the alternative is a pound of bread a day. I should be weary of myself without occupation. I should be much more dull if I didn’t hold these dialogues with the gentlemen who are so anxious about me. I shouldn’t be half the object of interest I am, if I didn’t make the professions I do. Therefore, I John Styles go in for what is popular here, and I may mean it, or I may not. There will always, under any decent system, be certain prisoners, betrayed into crime by a variety of circumstances, who will do well in exile, and o end against the laws no more. Upon this class, we think the Associated Silent System would have quite as good an influence as this expensive and anomalous one; and we cannot accept them as evidence of the efficiency of separate confinement. Assuming John Styles to mean what he professes, for the time being, we desire to track the workings of his mind, and to try to test the value of his professions. Where shall we find an account of John Styles, proceeding from no objector to this system, but from a staunch supporter of it? We will take it from a work called ‘Prison Discipline, and the advantages of the separate system of imprisonment,’ written by the Reverend Mr. Field, chaplain of the new County Gaol at Reading; pointing out to Mr. Field, in passing, that the question is not justly, as he would sometimes make it, a question between this system and the profligate abuses and customs of the old unreformed gaols, but between it and the improved gaols of this time, which are not constructed on his favourite principles.* * As Mr. Field condescends to quote some vapouring about the account given by Mr. Charles Dickens in his ‘American Notes,’ of the Solitary Prison at Philadelphia, he may perhaps really wish for some few words of information on the subject. For this purpose, Mr. Charles Dickens has referred to the entry in his Diary, made at the close of that day. He left his hotel for the Prison at twelve o’clock, being waited on, by appointment, by the gentlemen who showed it to him; and he returned between seven and eight at night; dining in the prison in the course of that time; which, according to his calculation, in despite of the Philadelphia Newspaper, rather exceeds two hours. He found the Prison admirably conducted, extremely clean, and the system administered in a most intelligent, kind, orderly, tender, and careful manner. He did not consider (nor should he, if he were to visit Pentonville to-morrow) that the book in which visitors were expected to record their observation of the place, was intended for the insertion of criticisms on the system, but for honest testimony to the manner of its administration; and to that, he bore, as an impartial visitor, the highest testimony in his power. In returning thanks for his health being drunk, at the dinner within the walls, he said that what he had seen that day was running in his mind; that he could not help reflecting on it; and that it was an awful punishment. If the American officer who rode back with him afterwards should ever see these words, he will perhaps recall his conversation with Mr. Dickens on the road, as to Mr. Dickens having said so, very plainly and strongly. In reference to the ridiculous assertion that Mr. Dickens in his book termed a woman ‘quite beautiful’ who was a Negress, he positively believes that he was shown no Negress in the Prison, but one who was nursing a woman much diseased, and to whom no reference whatever is made in his published account. In describing three young women, ‘all convicted at the same time of a conspiracy,’ he may, possibly, among many cases, have substituted in his memory for one of them whom he did not see, some other prisoner, confined for some other crime, whom he did see; but he has not the least doubt of having been guilty of the (American) enormity of detecting beauty in a pensive quadroon or mulatto girl, or of having seen exactly what he describes; and he remembers the girl more particularly described in this connexion, perfectly. Can Mr. Field really suppose that Mr. Dickens had any interest or purpose in misrepresenting the system, or that if he could be guilty of such unworthy conduct, or desire to do it anything but justice, he would have volunteered the narrative of a man's having, of his own choice, undergone it for two years? We will not notice the objection of Mr. Field (who strengthens the truth of Burns to nature, by the testimony of Mr. Pitt!) to the discussion of such a topic as the present in a work of ‘mere amusement;’ though, we had thought we remembered in that book a word or two about slavery, which, although a very amusing, can scarcely be considered an unmitigatedly comic theme. We are quite content to believe, without seeking to make a convert of the Reverend Mr. Field, that no work need be one of ‘mere amusement;’ and that some works to which he would apply that designation have done a little good in advancing principles to which, we hope, and will believe, for the credit of his Christian office, he is not indifferent.</p> <p>Now, here is John Styles, twenty years of age, in prison for a felony. He has been there five months, and he writes to his sister, ‘Don't fret my dear sister, about my being here. I cannot help fretting when I think about my usage to my father and mother: when I think about it, it makes me quite ill. I hope God will forgive me; I pray for it night and day from my heart. Instead of fretting about imprisonment, I ought to thank God for it, for before I came here, I was living quite a careless life; neither was God in all my thoughts; all I thought about was ways that led me towards destruction. Give my respects to my wretched companions, and I hope they will alter their wicked course, for they don't know for a day nor an hour but what they may be cut o . I have seen my folly, and I hope they may see their folly; but I shouldn't if I had not been in trouble. It is good for me that I have been in trouble. Go to church, my sister, every Sunday, and don't give your mind to going to playhouses and theatres, for that is no good to you. There are a great many temptations.’ Observe! John Styles, who has committed the felony has been ‘living quite a careless life.’ That is his worst opinion of it, whereas his companions who did not commit the felony are ‘wretched companions.’ John saw <em>his</em> ‘folly,’ and sees <em>their </em>‘wicked course’ It is playhouses and theatres which many unfelonious people go to, that prey upon John’s mind not felony. John is shut up in that pulpit to lecture his companions and his sister, about the wickedness of the unfelonious world. Always supposing him to be sincere, is there no exaggeration of himself in this? Go to church where I can go, and don't go to theatres where I can’t! Is there any tinge of the fox and the grapes in it? Is this the kind of penitence that will wear outside! Put the case that he had written, of his own mind, ‘My dear sister, I feel that I have disgraced you and all who should be dear to me, and if it please God that I live to be free, I will try hard to repair that, and to be a credit to you. My dear sister, when I committed this felony, I stole something – and these pining five months have not put it back – and I will work my fingers to the bone to make restitution, and oh! my dear sister, seek out my late companions, and tell Tom Jones, that poor boy, who was younger and littler than me, that I am grieved I ever led him so wrong, and I am suffering for it now!’ Would that be better? Would it be more like solid truth?</p> <p>But no. This is not the pattern penitence. There would seem to be a pattern penitence, of a particular form, shape, limits, and dimensions, like the cells. While Mr. Field is correcting his proof-sheets for the press, another letter is brought to him, and in that letter too, that man, also a felon, speaks of his ‘past folly,’ and lectures his mother about labouring under ‘strong delusions of the devil.’ Does this overweening readiness to lecture other people, suggest the suspicion of any parrot-like imitation of Mr. Field, who lectures him, and any presumptuous confounding of their relative positions?</p> <p>We venture altogether to protest against the citation, in support of this system, of assumed repentance which has stood no test or trial in the working world. We consider that it proves nothing, and is worth nothing, except as a discouraging sign of that spiritual egotism and presumption of which we have already spoken. It is not peculiar to the separate system at Reading; Miss Martineau, who was on the whole decidedly favourable to the separate prison at Philadelphia, observed it there. ‘The cases I became acquainted with,’ says she, ‘were not all hopeful. Some of the convicts were so stupid as not to be relied upon, more or less. Others canted so detestably, and were (always in connexion with their cant) so certain that they should never sin more, that I have every expectation that they will find themselves in prison again some day. One fellow, a sailor, notorious for having taken more lives than probably any man in the United States, was quite confident that he should be perfectly virtuous henceforth. He should never touch anything stronger than tea, or lift his hand against money or life. I told him I thought he could not be sure of all this till he was within sight of money and the smell of strong liquors; and that he was more confident than I should like to be. He shook his shock of red hair at me, and glared with his one ferocious eye, as he said he knew all about it. He had been the worst of men, and Christ had had mercy on his poor soul.’ (Observe again, as in the general case we have put, that he is not at all troubled about the souls of the people whom he had killed.)</p> <p>Let us submit to our readers another instance from Mr. Field, of the wholesome state of mind produced by the separate system. ‘The 25th of March, in the last year, was the day appointed for a general fast, on account of the threatened famine. The following note is in my journal of that day. “During the evening I visited many prisoners, and found with much satisfaction that a large proportion of them had observed the day in a manner becoming their own situation, and the purpose for which it had been set apart. I think it right to record the following remarkable proof of the effect of discipline. * * * * * They were all supplied with their usual rations. I went first this evening to the cells of the prisoners recently committed for trial (Ward A. 1.), and amongst these (upwards of twenty) I found that but three had abstained from any portion of their food. I then visited twenty-one convicted prisoners who had spent some considerable time in the gaol (Ward C. 1.), and amongst them I found that some had altogether abstained from food, and of the whole number two-thirds had partially abstained.”’ We will take it for granted that this was not because they had more than they could eat, though we know that with such a dietary even that sometimes happens, especially in the case of persons long conned. ‘The remark of one prisoner whom I questioned concerning his abstinence was, I believe, sincere, and was very pleasing. “Sir, I have not felt able to eat today, whilst I have thought of those poor starving people; but I hope that I have prayed a good deal that God will give <em>them</em> something to eat.”’</p> <p>If this were not pattern penitence, and the thought of those poor starving people had honestly originated with that man, and were really on his mind, we want to know why he was not uneasy, every day, in the contemplation of his soup, meat, bread, potatoes, cocoa-nibs, milk, molasses, and gruel, and its contrast to the fare of ‘those poor starving people’ who, in some form or other, were taxed to pay for it?</p> <p>We do not deem it necessary to comment on the authorities quoted by Mr. Field to show what a fine thing the separate system is, for the health of the body; how it never affects the mind except for good; how it is the true preventive of pulmonary disease; and so on. The deduction we must draw from such things is, that Providence was quite mistaken in making us gregarious, and that we had better all shut ourselves up directly. Neither will we refer to that ‘talented criminal,’ Dr. Dodd, whose exceedingly indifferent verses applied to a system now extinct, in reference to our penitentiaries for convicted prisoners. Neither, after what we have quoted from Lord Grey, need we refer to the likewise quoted report of the American authorities, who are perfectly sure that no extent of confinement in the Philadelphia prison has ever affected the intellectual powers of any prisoner. Mr. Croker cogently observes, in the Good-Natured Man, that either his hat must be on his head, or it must be off. By a parity of reasoning, we conclude that both Lord Grey and the American authorities cannot possibly be right – unless indeed the notoriously settled habits of the American people, and the absence of any approach to restlessness in the national character, render them unusually good subjects for protracted seclusion, and an exception from the rest of mankind.</p> <p>In using the term “pattern penitence” we beg it to be understood that we do not apply it to Mr. Field, or to any other chaplain, but to the system; which appears to us to make these doubtful converts all alike. Although Mr. Field has not shown any remarkable courtesy in the instance we have set forth in a note, it is our wish to show all courtesy to him, and to his office, and to his sincerity in the discharge of its duties. In our desire to represent him with fairness and impartiality, we will not take leave of him without the following quotation from his book: ‘Scarcely sufficient time has yet expired since the present system was introduced, for me to report much concerning discharged criminals. Out of a class so degraded – the very dregs of the community – it can be no wonder that some, of whose improvement I cherished the hope, should have relapsed. Disappointed in a few cases I have been, yet by no means discouraged, since I can with pleasure refer to many whose conduct is affording proof of reformation. Gratifying indeed have been some accounts received from liberated offenders themselves, as well as from clergymen of parishes to which they have returned. I have also myself visited the homes of some of our former prisoners, and have been cheered by the testimony given, and the evident signs of improved character which I have there observed. Although I do not venture at present to describe the particular cases of prisoners, concerning whose reformation I feel much confidence, because, as I have stated, the time of trial has hitherto been short; yet I can with pleasure refer to some public documents which prove the happy effects of similar discipline in other establishments.’</p> <p>It should also be stated that the Reverend Mr. Kingsmill, the chaplain of the Model Prison at Pentonville, in his calm and intelligent report made to the Commissioners on the first of February, 1849, expresses his belief ‘that the effects produced here upon the character of prisoners, have been encouraging in a high degree.’</p> <p>But, we entreat our readers once again to look at that Model Prison dietary (which is essential to the system, though the system is so very healthy of itself); to remember the other enormous expenses of the establishment; to consider the circumstances of this old country, with the inevitable anomalies and contrasts it must present; and to decide, on temperate reflection, whether there are any sufficient reasons for adding this monstrous contrast to the rest. Let us impress upon our readers that the existing question is, not between this system and the old abuses of the old profligate Gaols (with which, thank Heaven, we have nothing to do), but between this system and the associated silent system, where the dietary is much lower, where the annual cost of provision, management, repairs, clothing, &amp;c., does not exceed, on a liberal average, £25 for each prisoner; where many prisoners are, and every prisoner would be (if due accommodation were provided in some overcrowded prisons), locked up alone, for twelve hours out of every twenty-four, and where, while preserved from contamination, he is still one of a society of men, and not an isolated being, filling his whole sphere of view with a diseased dilation of himself. We hear that the associated silent system is objectionable, because of the number of punishments it involves for breaches of the prison discipline; but how can we, in the same breath, be told that the resolutions of prisoners for the misty future are to be trusted, and that, on the least temptation, they are so little to be relied on, as to the solid present? How can I set the pattern penitence against the career that preceded it, when I am told that if I put that man with other men, and lay a solemn charge upon him not to address them by word or sign, there are such and such great chances that he will want the resolution to obey?</p> <p>Remember that this separate system, though commended in the English Parliament and spreading in England, has not spread in America, despite of all the steeple-chase riders in the United States. Remember that it has never reached the State most distinguished for its learning, for its moderation, for its remarkable men of European reputation, for the excellence of its public Institutions. Let it be tried here, on a limited scale, if you will, with fair representatives of all classes of prisoners: let Captain Macconnochie’s system be tried: let anything with a ray of hope in it be tried: but, only as a part of some general system for raising up the prostrate portion of the people of this country, and not as an exhibition of such astonishing consideration for crime, in comparison with want and work. Any prison built, at a great expenditure, for this system, is comparatively useless for any other; and the ratepayers will do well to think of this, before they take it for granted that it is a proved boon to the country which will be enduring.</p> <p>Under the separate system, the prisoners work at trades. Under the associated silent system, the Magistrates of Middlesex have almost abolished the treadmill. Is it no part of the legitimate consideration of this important point of work, to discover what kind of work the people always filtering through the gaols of large towns – the pickpocket, the sturdy vagrant, the habitual drunkard, and the begging-letter impostor – like least, and to give them that work to do in preference to any other? It is out of fashion with the steeple-chase riders we know; but we would have, for all such characters, a kind of work in gaols, badged and degraded as belonging to gaols only, and never done elsewhere. And we must avow that, in a country circumstanced as England is, with respect to labour and labourers, we have strong doubts of the propriety of bringing the results of prison labour into the over-stocked market. On this subject some public remonstrances have recently been made by tradesmen; and we cannot shut our eyes to the fact that they are well-founded.</p> https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/Prologue/The_Patrician.png 6f0bdd9eb655a7020527d7b4f99ba7c5 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Verse Description An account of the resource <h4>This collection brings together the most complete set of Dickens's verse to date, supplementing the work of existing editions with previously uncollected poems Dickens contributed to albums, or wrote anonymously.</h4> Though such productions receive scant attention from scholars interested in his fiction and journalism, Dickens composed a surprising amount of verse. It was a genre in which he evidently felt much less at home (and financially rewarded) than when writing in prose. However, several poems gained popular favour during his lifetime; that so many were <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Song">written to be set to music</a> indicates the permeable boundary between metered verse functioning as poem or song in the nineteenth century, and may explain why some of Dickens’s poems were more enduringly popular than others. Notably, <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-05_Pickwick_Papers_The_Ivy_Green">'The Ivy Green'</a> from <em>Pickwick Papers</em> (1837), a story of time’s inexorable passing, was frequently republished in newspapers.<br /><br />Several poems written to young ladies of Dickens’s acquaintance are released on <em>Dickens Search</em> as part of the author’s poetic output for the first time, testifying to the author’s ability to write impromptu poetry and gallantly turn a phrase. Since keeping <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album&amp;collection=&amp;type=&amp;tags=&amp;date_search_term=&amp;submit_search=Search+For+Items">autograph albums</a> was a popular pastime for women in the Victorian era, it is possible that further examples of such activity remain to be discovered in various archives and private collections.<br /><br />When writing <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter&amp;collection=3&amp;type=&amp;tags=&amp;date_search_term=&amp;submit_search=Search+For+Items">letters</a> to friends, Dickens occasionally included comedic poems for the recipient. Several of these are included.&nbsp;Considering the enormity of Dickens’s correspondence, likely more instances of this sort of poetic humour will result over time.<br /><br /><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Epitaph">Epitaphs</a> Dickens wrote for friends and family, whether used or not, are included with Dickens's other verse for the first time. Users can also browse <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Play">verse from Dickens's plays</a>, including songs removed from&nbsp;<em>The Strange Gentleman&nbsp;</em>and&nbsp;<em>Is She His Wife? Or, Something Singular!&nbsp;</em>before performance.<br /><br />Care is necessary when verifying the accuracy of these poems, as some are misattributed to Dickens. Widespread reprintings of 'Dickens poems' in nineteenth-century newspapers are insufficient evidence for authorial attribution, owing to the mistakes intentionally or inadvertently made in ascribing authorship.<br /><br />An unusual example of a poem that is and is not by Dickens, the lines of 'Little Nell’s Funeral' are taken, with minimal alterations, from Chapter 72 of <em>The Old Curiosity Shop</em>. An instance of the strikingly lyrical quality of Dickens’s sentimental prose, they were divided into metered, unrhymed verse by M.A.H. for the 1849 collection <em>Echoes of Infant Voices</em>. Because Dickens did not intend for this passage to be structured in verse form, the poem is not included in the poetry collection of <em>Dickens Search</em>. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/poetry-dickens-didnt-write">Read our blog post for more on poetry Dickens <em>didn't </em>write.</a><br /><br />Occasionally, Dickens will quote a poem by another author, as in his burlesque <em>Is She his Wife? Or, Something Singular!</em>&nbsp;(1836). The character Mr Felix Tapkins launches into a short hunting song beginning 'The wife around her husband throws/Her arms to make him stay'. As William Chappell noted in 1840, this is a well-known variant of 'A Hunting We Will Go' (1777), by Thomas Arne, though he misattributes its composition to Henry Fielding.<br /><br />Previous notable collections of some of Dickens's poetry include <em>The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens</em> (1882) edited by Richard Herne Shepherd and <em>The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens</em> (1903) edited by Frederic G. Kitton. In 2025, we published <em><a href="https://edinburghuniversitypress.com/book-the-verse-of-charles-dickens.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Verse of Charles Dickens</a> </em>(Edinburgh University Press), which includes an introduction and editorial apparatus for this verse.&nbsp;<br /><br />Caution has been taken when ascertaining that each poem is indeed by Dickens. Please <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/contact">contact us</a> with any errors, corrections, suggestions, or other poems written by Dickens.<br /><br />1. <em>The Verse of Charles Dickens.</em> Edited by Lydia Craig and Emily Middleton. Edinburgh University Press, 2025; Robert Butterworth. 'The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers.' <em>The Dickensian</em> 516.118.1 (Spring 2022): pp. 43-56; Eva-Charlotta Mebius. 'Dreams of Dying Girls: The Poetry of Thomas J. Ouseley and Charles Dickens.' <em>Dickens Quarterly</em> 34.3 (September 2017): pp. 256-261; Robert C. Hanna. 'Before Boz; The Juvenilia and Early Writings of Charles Dickens, 1820-1833'. <em>Dickens Studies Annual</em> 40 (2009): pp. 231-364. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context verse Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Lydia Craig; Emily Middleton Poem Ngram Date Hidden from users and search. All items in a collection need to have the same data in the same format in order to show up in Ngram (either YYYY, YYYYMMDD, or YYYYMMDD). No combinations will work. For journalism, letters and poetry, if there is no month or day, default to the first of the month or January. So a poem with a date of March 1843 would be 18430301. A poem published in 1856 with no month or date information would be 18560101. 18421212 Ngram Text Hidden from users and search. Copy and paste from the Scripto transcription. Then check and uncheck HTML to strip out all formatting. Finally, search and remove any &nbsp; (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. No tale of streaming plumes and harness bright Dwells on the poet’s maiden harp to-night; No trumpet’s clamour and no battle’s fire Breathes in the trembling accents of his lyre; Enough for him, if in his boldest word The beating heart of MAN be dimly heard. Its solemn music which, like strains that sigh Through charmèd gardens, all who hearing die; Its solemn music he does not pursue To distant ages out of human view; Nor listen to its wild and mournful chime In the dead caverns on the shore of time; But musing with a calm and steady gaze Before the crackling flames of living days, He hears it whisper through the busy roar Of what shall be and what has been before. Awake the Present! Shall no scene display The tragic passion of the passing day? Is it with Man, as with some meaner things, That out of death his single purpose springs? Can his eventful life no moral teach Until he be, for aye, beyond its reach? Obscurely shall he suffer, act, and fade, Dubb’d noble only by the sexton’s spade? Awake the Present! Though the steel-clad age Find life along within its storied page, Iron is worn, at heart by many still – The tyrant Custom binds the serf-like will; If the sharp rack, and screw, and chain be gone, These later days have tortures of their own; The guiltless writhe, while Guilt is stretch’d in sleep, And Virtues lies, too often, dungeon deep. Awake the Present! what the Past has sown Be in its harvest garner’d, reap’d, and grown! How pride breeds pride, and wrong engenders wrong, Read in the volume Truth has held so long, Assured that where life’s flowers freshest blow, The sharpest thorns and keenest briars grow, How social usage has the pow’r to change Good thoughts to evil; in its highest range To cramp the noble soul, and turn to ruth The kindling impulse of our glorious youth, Crushing the spirit in its house of clay, Learn from the lessons of the present day. Not light its import and not poor its mien; Yourselves the actors, and your homes the scene. Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Newspaper Publication The title of the newspaper/serial (if applicable) Morning Advertiser TEI File Link to TEI file <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1842-12-12_Morning_Advertiser_The_Patricians_Daughter_Prologue.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Prologue.' <em>Morning Advertiser</em> (12 December 1842).</a> Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 'Prologue' Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <em>British Newspapers Archive</em> Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1842-12-12 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <em>British Newspapers Archive,</em> <a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0001427/18421212/018/0003" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0001427/18421212/018/0003</a>. Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1842-12-12_Morning_Advertiser_The_Patricians_Daughter_Prologue Bibliographic Citation A bibliographic reference for the resource. Recommended practice is to include sufficient bibliographic detail to identify the resource as unambiguously as possible. Dickens, Charles. 'Prologue.' <em>The Patrician's Daughter </em>(1842) by John Westland Marston. <em>The Morning Advertiser </em>(12 December 1842): p.3. <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily <span>Middleton</span> and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1842-12-12_Morning_Advertiser_Prologue_The_Patricians_Daughter">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1842-12-12_Morning_Advertiser_Prologue_The_Patricians_Daughter</a>. Relation A related resource Prologue to John Westland Marston's <em>The Patrician's Daughter</em> (1842) Type The nature or genre of the resource Prologue Description An account of the resource Published in the <em>Morning Advertiser</em> (12 December 1842). Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. No tale of streaming plumes and harness bright<br />Dwells on the poet’s maiden harp to-night;<br />No trumpet’s clamour and no battle’s fire<br />Breathes in the trembling accents of his lyre;<br />Enough for him, if in his boldest word<br />The beating heart of MAN be dimly heard.<br /><br />Its solemn music which, like strains that sigh<br />Through charmèd gardens, all who hearing die;<br />Its solemn music he does not pursue<br />To distant ages out of human view;<br />Nor listen to its wild and mournful chime<br />In the dead caverns on the shore of time;<br />But musing with a calm and steady gaze<br />Before the crackling flames of living days,<br />He hears it whisper through the busy roar<br />Of what shall be and what has been before.<br />Awake the Present! Shall no scene display<br />The tragic passion of the passing day?<br />Is it with Man, as with some meaner things,<br />That out of death his single purpose springs?<br />Can his eventful life no moral teach<br />Until he be, for aye, beyond its reach?<br />Obscurely shall he suffer, act, and fade,<br />Dubb’d noble only by the sexton’s spade?<br />Awake the Present! Though the steel-clad age<br />Find life along within its storied page,<br />Iron is worn, at heart by many still – <br />The tyrant Custom binds the serf-like will;<br />If the sharp rack, and screw, and chain be gone,<br />These later days have tortures of their own;<br />The guiltless writhe, while Guilt is stretch’d in sleep,<br />And Virtues lies, too often, dungeon deep.<br />Awake the Present! what the Past has sown<br />Be in its harvest garner’d, reap’d, and grown!<br /><br />How pride breeds pride, and wrong engenders wrong,<br />Read in the volume Truth has held so long,<br />Assured that where life’s flowers freshest blow,<br />The sharpest thorns and keenest briars grow,<br />How social usage has the pow’r to change<br />Good thoughts to evil; in its highest range<br />To cramp the noble soul, and turn to ruth<br />The kindling impulse of our glorious youth,<br />Crushing the spirit in its house of clay,<br />Learn from the lessons of the present day.<br />Not light its import and not poor its mien;<br />Yourselves the actors, and your homes the scene. https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/Prologue/Prologue_Lighthouse.png 7b928f4a0c00fba03c67b8e796442fdc Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Verse Description An account of the resource <h4>This collection brings together the most complete set of Dickens's verse to date, supplementing the work of existing editions with previously uncollected poems Dickens contributed to albums, or wrote anonymously.</h4> Though such productions receive scant attention from scholars interested in his fiction and journalism, Dickens composed a surprising amount of verse. It was a genre in which he evidently felt much less at home (and financially rewarded) than when writing in prose. However, several poems gained popular favour during his lifetime; that so many were <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Song">written to be set to music</a> indicates the permeable boundary between metered verse functioning as poem or song in the nineteenth century, and may explain why some of Dickens’s poems were more enduringly popular than others. Notably, <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-05_Pickwick_Papers_The_Ivy_Green">'The Ivy Green'</a> from <em>Pickwick Papers</em> (1837), a story of time’s inexorable passing, was frequently republished in newspapers.<br /><br />Several poems written to young ladies of Dickens’s acquaintance are released on <em>Dickens Search</em> as part of the author’s poetic output for the first time, testifying to the author’s ability to write impromptu poetry and gallantly turn a phrase. Since keeping <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album&amp;collection=&amp;type=&amp;tags=&amp;date_search_term=&amp;submit_search=Search+For+Items">autograph albums</a> was a popular pastime for women in the Victorian era, it is possible that further examples of such activity remain to be discovered in various archives and private collections.<br /><br />When writing <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter&amp;collection=3&amp;type=&amp;tags=&amp;date_search_term=&amp;submit_search=Search+For+Items">letters</a> to friends, Dickens occasionally included comedic poems for the recipient. Several of these are included.&nbsp;Considering the enormity of Dickens’s correspondence, likely more instances of this sort of poetic humour will result over time.<br /><br /><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Epitaph">Epitaphs</a> Dickens wrote for friends and family, whether used or not, are included with Dickens's other verse for the first time. Users can also browse <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Play">verse from Dickens's plays</a>, including songs removed from&nbsp;<em>The Strange Gentleman&nbsp;</em>and&nbsp;<em>Is She His Wife? Or, Something Singular!&nbsp;</em>before performance.<br /><br />Care is necessary when verifying the accuracy of these poems, as some are misattributed to Dickens. Widespread reprintings of 'Dickens poems' in nineteenth-century newspapers are insufficient evidence for authorial attribution, owing to the mistakes intentionally or inadvertently made in ascribing authorship.<br /><br />An unusual example of a poem that is and is not by Dickens, the lines of 'Little Nell’s Funeral' are taken, with minimal alterations, from Chapter 72 of <em>The Old Curiosity Shop</em>. An instance of the strikingly lyrical quality of Dickens’s sentimental prose, they were divided into metered, unrhymed verse by M.A.H. for the 1849 collection <em>Echoes of Infant Voices</em>. Because Dickens did not intend for this passage to be structured in verse form, the poem is not included in the poetry collection of <em>Dickens Search</em>. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/poetry-dickens-didnt-write">Read our blog post for more on poetry Dickens <em>didn't </em>write.</a><br /><br />Occasionally, Dickens will quote a poem by another author, as in his burlesque <em>Is She his Wife? Or, Something Singular!</em>&nbsp;(1836). The character Mr Felix Tapkins launches into a short hunting song beginning 'The wife around her husband throws/Her arms to make him stay'. As William Chappell noted in 1840, this is a well-known variant of 'A Hunting We Will Go' (1777), by Thomas Arne, though he misattributes its composition to Henry Fielding.<br /><br />Previous notable collections of some of Dickens's poetry include <em>The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens</em> (1882) edited by Richard Herne Shepherd and <em>The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens</em> (1903) edited by Frederic G. Kitton. In 2025, we published <em><a href="https://edinburghuniversitypress.com/book-the-verse-of-charles-dickens.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Verse of Charles Dickens</a> </em>(Edinburgh University Press), which includes an introduction and editorial apparatus for this verse.&nbsp;<br /><br />Caution has been taken when ascertaining that each poem is indeed by Dickens. Please <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/contact">contact us</a> with any errors, corrections, suggestions, or other poems written by Dickens.<br /><br />1. <em>The Verse of Charles Dickens.</em> Edited by Lydia Craig and Emily Middleton. Edinburgh University Press, 2025; Robert Butterworth. 'The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers.' <em>The Dickensian</em> 516.118.1 (Spring 2022): pp. 43-56; Eva-Charlotta Mebius. 'Dreams of Dying Girls: The Poetry of Thomas J. Ouseley and Charles Dickens.' <em>Dickens Quarterly</em> 34.3 (September 2017): pp. 256-261; Robert C. Hanna. 'Before Boz; The Juvenilia and Early Writings of Charles Dickens, 1820-1833'. <em>Dickens Studies Annual</em> 40 (2009): pp. 231-364. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context verse Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Lydia Craig; Emily Middleton Poem Ngram Date Hidden from users and search. All items in a collection need to have the same data in the same format in order to show up in Ngram (either YYYY, YYYYMMDD, or YYYYMMDD). No combinations will work. For journalism, letters and poetry, if there is no month or day, default to the first of the month or January. So a poem with a date of March 1843 would be 18430301. A poem published in 1856 with no month or date information would be 18560101. 18550501 Ngram Text Hidden from users and search. Copy and paste from the Scripto transcription. Then check and uncheck HTML to strip out all formatting. Finally, search and remove any &nbsp; (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. (Slow music all the time; unseen speaker; curtain down.) A story of those rock where doom’d ships come To cast them wreck’d upon the steps of home, Where solitary men, the long year through – The wind their music and the brine their view – Warn mariners to shun the beacon-light; A story of those rocks is here to-night. Eddystone Lighthouse! (Exterior view discovered.) In its ancient form, Ere he would built it wish’d for the great storm That shiver’d it to nothing, once again Behold outgleaming on the angry main! Within it are three men; to these repair In our frail bark of Fancy, swift as air! They are but shadows, as the rower grim Took none by shadows in his boat with him. So be ye shades, and, for a little space, The real world a dream without a trace. Return is easy. It will have ye back Too soon to the old beaten dusty track; For but one hour forget it. Billows, rise; Blow winds, fall rain, be black, ye midnight skies; And you who watch the light, arise! arise! (Exterior view rises and discovers the scene.) Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Play Publication The title of the newspaper/serial (if applicable) The Lighthouse TEI File Link to TEI file <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1855-05_The_Lighthouse_Prologue.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Prologue.'&nbsp;<em>The Lighthouse&nbsp;</em>(May 1855).</a> Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 'Prologue' Description An account of the resource Prologue to <em>The Lighthouse</em> (May 1855), co-author Wilkie Collins. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived "Miscellaneous Papers." Volume 2. <em>The Works of Charles Dickens</em>. Volume 20 (1911). London: Chapman and Hall; 483-484, <a href="https://www.google.com/books/edition/The_Works_of_Charles_Dickens/91s4AAAAIAAJ?hl=en&amp;gbpv=1&amp;dq=dickens+prologue+the+lighthouse&amp;pg=PA483&amp;printsec=frontcover" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.google.com/books/edition/The_Works_of_Charles_Dickens/91s4AAAAIAAJ?hl=en&amp;gbpv=1&amp;dq=dickens+prologue+the+lighthouse&amp;pg=PA483&amp;printsec=frontcover</a>. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Chapman and Hall Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1855-05 Type The nature or genre of the resource Prologue Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1855-05_The_Lighthouse_Prologue Bibliographic Citation A bibliographic reference for the resource. Recommended practice is to include sufficient bibliographic detail to identify the resource as unambiguously as possible. Dickens, Charles. 'Prologue' to <em>The Lighthouse</em> (May 1855), co-author Wilkie Collins. Printed in Volume 20 of <em>The Works of Charles Dickens</em> (1911). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily <span>Middleton</span> and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1855-05_The_Lighthouse_Prologue">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1855-05_The_Lighthouse_Prologue</a>. Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. <em>(Slow music all the time; unseen speaker; curtain down.)</em><br /><br /> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">A story of those rock where doom’d ships come</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">To cast them wreck’d upon the steps of home,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Where solitary men, the long year through –&nbsp;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">The wind their music and the brine their view –&nbsp;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Warn mariners to shun the beacon-light;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">A story of those rocks is here to-night.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Eddystone Lighthouse!</span></p> <p><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">(Exterior view discovered.)</span></em></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;In its ancient form,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Ere he would built it wish’d for the great storm</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">That shiver’d it to nothing, once again</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Behold outgleaming on the angry main!</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Within it are three men; to these repair</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">In our frail bark of Fancy, swift as air!</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">They are but shadows, as the rower grim</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Took none by shadows in his boat with him.</span></p> <br /> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">So be ye shades, and, for a little space,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">The real world a dream without a trace.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Return is easy. It will have ye back</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Too soon to the old beaten dusty track;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">For but one hour forget it. Billows, rise;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Blow winds, fall rain, be black, ye midnight skies;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">And you who watch the light, arise! arise!<br /><br /></span></p> <p><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">(Exterior view rises and discovers the scene.)</span></em></p> https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/Prologue/Prologue_The_Frozen_Deep.png 3cdc6eebfcc1bbac35efe6cf113a7463 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Verse Description An account of the resource <h4>This collection brings together the most complete set of Dickens's verse to date, supplementing the work of existing editions with previously uncollected poems Dickens contributed to albums, or wrote anonymously.</h4> Though such productions receive scant attention from scholars interested in his fiction and journalism, Dickens composed a surprising amount of verse. It was a genre in which he evidently felt much less at home (and financially rewarded) than when writing in prose. However, several poems gained popular favour during his lifetime; that so many were <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Song">written to be set to music</a> indicates the permeable boundary between metered verse functioning as poem or song in the nineteenth century, and may explain why some of Dickens’s poems were more enduringly popular than others. Notably, <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-05_Pickwick_Papers_The_Ivy_Green">'The Ivy Green'</a> from <em>Pickwick Papers</em> (1837), a story of time’s inexorable passing, was frequently republished in newspapers.<br /><br />Several poems written to young ladies of Dickens’s acquaintance are released on <em>Dickens Search</em> as part of the author’s poetic output for the first time, testifying to the author’s ability to write impromptu poetry and gallantly turn a phrase. Since keeping <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album&amp;collection=&amp;type=&amp;tags=&amp;date_search_term=&amp;submit_search=Search+For+Items">autograph albums</a> was a popular pastime for women in the Victorian era, it is possible that further examples of such activity remain to be discovered in various archives and private collections.<br /><br />When writing <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter&amp;collection=3&amp;type=&amp;tags=&amp;date_search_term=&amp;submit_search=Search+For+Items">letters</a> to friends, Dickens occasionally included comedic poems for the recipient. Several of these are included.&nbsp;Considering the enormity of Dickens’s correspondence, likely more instances of this sort of poetic humour will result over time.<br /><br /><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Epitaph">Epitaphs</a> Dickens wrote for friends and family, whether used or not, are included with Dickens's other verse for the first time. Users can also browse <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Play">verse from Dickens's plays</a>, including songs removed from&nbsp;<em>The Strange Gentleman&nbsp;</em>and&nbsp;<em>Is She His Wife? Or, Something Singular!&nbsp;</em>before performance.<br /><br />Care is necessary when verifying the accuracy of these poems, as some are misattributed to Dickens. Widespread reprintings of 'Dickens poems' in nineteenth-century newspapers are insufficient evidence for authorial attribution, owing to the mistakes intentionally or inadvertently made in ascribing authorship.<br /><br />An unusual example of a poem that is and is not by Dickens, the lines of 'Little Nell’s Funeral' are taken, with minimal alterations, from Chapter 72 of <em>The Old Curiosity Shop</em>. An instance of the strikingly lyrical quality of Dickens’s sentimental prose, they were divided into metered, unrhymed verse by M.A.H. for the 1849 collection <em>Echoes of Infant Voices</em>. Because Dickens did not intend for this passage to be structured in verse form, the poem is not included in the poetry collection of <em>Dickens Search</em>. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/poetry-dickens-didnt-write">Read our blog post for more on poetry Dickens <em>didn't </em>write.</a><br /><br />Occasionally, Dickens will quote a poem by another author, as in his burlesque <em>Is She his Wife? Or, Something Singular!</em>&nbsp;(1836). The character Mr Felix Tapkins launches into a short hunting song beginning 'The wife around her husband throws/Her arms to make him stay'. As William Chappell noted in 1840, this is a well-known variant of 'A Hunting We Will Go' (1777), by Thomas Arne, though he misattributes its composition to Henry Fielding.<br /><br />Previous notable collections of some of Dickens's poetry include <em>The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens</em> (1882) edited by Richard Herne Shepherd and <em>The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens</em> (1903) edited by Frederic G. Kitton. In 2025, we published <em><a href="https://edinburghuniversitypress.com/book-the-verse-of-charles-dickens.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Verse of Charles Dickens</a> </em>(Edinburgh University Press), which includes an introduction and editorial apparatus for this verse.&nbsp;<br /><br />Caution has been taken when ascertaining that each poem is indeed by Dickens. Please <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/contact">contact us</a> with any errors, corrections, suggestions, or other poems written by Dickens.<br /><br />1. <em>The Verse of Charles Dickens.</em> Edited by Lydia Craig and Emily Middleton. Edinburgh University Press, 2025; Robert Butterworth. 'The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers.' <em>The Dickensian</em> 516.118.1 (Spring 2022): pp. 43-56; Eva-Charlotta Mebius. 'Dreams of Dying Girls: The Poetry of Thomas J. Ouseley and Charles Dickens.' <em>Dickens Quarterly</em> 34.3 (September 2017): pp. 256-261; Robert C. Hanna. 'Before Boz; The Juvenilia and Early Writings of Charles Dickens, 1820-1833'. <em>Dickens Studies Annual</em> 40 (2009): pp. 231-364. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context verse Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Lydia Craig; Emily Middleton Poem Ngram Date Hidden from users and search. All items in a collection need to have the same data in the same format in order to show up in Ngram (either YYYY, YYYYMMDD, or YYYYMMDD). No combinations will work. For journalism, letters and poetry, if there is no month or day, default to the first of the month or January. So a poem with a date of March 1843 would be 18430301. A poem published in 1856 with no month or date information would be 18560101. 18560101 Ngram Text Hidden from users and search. Copy and paste from the Scripto transcription. Then check and uncheck HTML to strip out all formatting. Finally, search and remove any &nbsp; (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. (Curtain rises; mists and darkness’ soft music throughout.) One savage footprint on the lonely shore Where one man listen’d to the surge’s roar, Not all the winds that stir the mighty sea Can ever ruffle in the memory. If such its interest and thrall, O then Pause on the footprints of heroic men, Making a garden of the desert wide Where Parry conquer’d death and Franklin died. To that white region where the Lost lie low, Wrapt in their mantles of eternal snow, - Unvisited by change, nothing to mock Those statues sculptured in the icy rock, We pray your company; that hearts as true (Though nothings of the air) may live for you; Nor only yet that on our little glass A faint reflection of those wilds may pass, But that the secrets of the vast Profound Within us, an exploring hand may sound, Testing the region of the ice-bound soul, Seeking the passage at its northern pole, Softening the horrors of its wintry sleep, Melting the surface of that ‘Frozen Deep.’ Vanish, ye mists! But ere this gloom departs, And to the union of three sister arts We give a winter evening, good to know That in the charms of such another show, That in the fiction of a friendly play, The Arctic sailors, too, put gloom away, Forgot their long night, saw no starry dome, Hail’d the warm sun, and were again at Home. Vanish, ye mists! Not yet do we repair To the still country of the piercing air; But seek, before the cross the troubled seas, An English hearth and Devon’s waving trees. Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Play Publication The title of the newspaper/serial (if applicable) The Frozen Deep TEI File Link to TEI file <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1856_The_Frozen_Deep_Prologue.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Prologue.'&nbsp;<em>The Frozen Deep&nbsp;</em>(1856).</a> Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 'Prologue' Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Volume 20 of <em>The Works of Charles Dickens</em> (1911). London: Chapman and Hall; pp. 486-487, <a href="https://www.google.com/books/edition/The_Works_of_Charles_Dickens/91s4AAAAIAAJ?hl=en&amp;gbpv=1&amp;bsq=The%20frozen%20deep" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.google.com/books/edition/The_Works_of_Charles_Dickens/91s4AAAAIAAJ?hl=en&amp;gbpv=1&amp;bsq=The%20frozen%20deep</a>. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Chapman and Hall Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1856 Type The nature or genre of the resource Prologue Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1856_The_Frozen_Deep_Prologue Bibliographic Citation A bibliographic reference for the resource. Recommended practice is to include sufficient bibliographic detail to identify the resource as unambiguously as possible. Dickens, Charles. 'Prologue' to <em>The Frozen Deep</em> (1856), co-author Wilkie Collins. Printed in Volume 20 of <em>The Works of Charles Dickens</em> (1911). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily <span>Middleton</span> and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1856_The_Frozen_Deep_Prologue">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1856_The_Frozen_Deep_Prologue</a>. Description An account of the resource Prologue to <em>The Frozen Deep</em> (1856), co-author Wilkie Collins. Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. <p><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">(Curtain rises; mists and darkness’ soft music throughout.)<br /></span></em></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">One savage footprint on the lonely shore</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Where one man listen’d to the surge’s roar,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Not all the winds that stir the mighty sea&nbsp;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Can ever ruffle in the memory.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">If such its interest and thrall, O then</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Pause on the footprints of heroic men,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Making a garden of the desert wide</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Where Parry conquer’d death and Franklin died.</span></p> <br /> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">To that white region where the Lost lie low,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Wrapt in their mantles of eternal snow, -&nbsp;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Unvisited by change, nothing to mock</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Those statues sculptured in the icy rock,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">We pray your company; that hearts as true</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">(Though nothings of the air) may live for you;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Nor only yet that on our little glass</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">A faint reflection of those wilds may pass,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">But that the secrets of the vast Profound&nbsp;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Within us, an exploring hand may sound,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Testing the region of the ice-bound soul,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Seeking the passage at its northern pole,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Softening the horrors of its wintry sleep,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Melting the surface of that ‘Frozen Deep.’</span></p> <br /> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Vanish, ye mists! But ere this gloom departs,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">And to the union of three sister arts</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">We give a winter evening, good to know</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">That in the charms of such another show,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">That in the fiction of a friendly play,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">The Arctic sailors, too, put gloom away,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Forgot their long night, saw no starry dome,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Hail’d the warm sun, and were again at Home.</span></p> <br /> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Vanish, ye mists! Not yet do we repair</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">To the still country of the piercing air;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">But seek, before the cross the troubled seas,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">An English hearth and Devon’s waving trees.</span></p> https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Public_Life_of_Mr._Tulrumble_Once_Mayor_of_Mudfog/1837-01-Public_Life_Tulrumble.pdf 399860df9f9efc3df7ed874864f592a8 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Short Fiction Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context short-stories Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Lydia Craig Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. <p><strong>This collection (still in development) unites various short stories that Dickens wrote throughout his career for various publications, including newspapers and periodicals, and for inclusion in short story collections.</strong></p> <p>Between 1833, when he tentatively submitted “A Dinner at Poplar Walk” for publication in <em>The Monthly Magazine,</em> and his death in 1870, Dickens as ‘BOZ,’ briefly, as ‘TIBBS,’ and as “Charles Dickens” wrote dozens of short stories and ‘sketches,’ which often moved easily between journalism and story. It was as Boz, the late Georgian literary persona, that he first endeared himself to the British reading public in the pages of such newspapers and periodicals as <em>The Evening Chronicle</em>, <em>Bell’s Life in London, </em>and <em>Bentley's Miscellany</em> with a unique blend of comedy and pathos. By turns scathing of observed social and personal injustices, and appreciative of London’s colourful, vibrant culture and the oddities of human nature, Boz followed in the literary footsteps of other recent metropolitan commentators like Charles Lamb (‘ELIA’), Leigh Hunt, Theodore Hook, Robert Surtees, Thomas Hood, and John Poole, and eighteenth-century Picaresque novelists, Tobias Smollett and Henry Fielding. Soon, Dickens established his own unique voice. Prior to and following the ascension of the young Queen Victoria in 1837, Boz became a prescient spectator of both the rising empire’s rapidly developing culture in public spaces and of the domestic dramas enacted in British homes.</p> <p>Global fame arrived with the serial publication of <em>The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club</em> (1837), marking Dickens’s shift to writing novels. In tone, this rambling comedic travelogue owed much to Boz’s voice and incidentally featured several tales unrelated to the main narrative. Dickens would sporadically publish the Mudfog stories in 1836 and 1837, enlarging on them in <em>Sketches by Boz</em>, a collection of many of the sketches and stories first published by John Macrone in two volumes in 1836 and 1837 and illustrated by George Cruikshank. According to Robert L. Patten, ‘When Dickens gathered up previously published writing, anonymous and pseudonymous, for republication, he identified authorship with a particular subset of his journalistic pieces, the ‘sketches’ rather than the tales or portraits of characters, and with his pseudonym. Hence, after mooting several other titles, Dickens settled on <em>Sketches by Boz</em>’ (44). <em>Sketches of Young Gentlemen</em> (1838), a joking response to Rev. Edward Caswell, or “QUIZ’s” recent effort <em>Sketches of Young Ladies</em> (1838), and <em>Sketches of Couples</em> (1840) were published by Chapman and Hall and illustrated by Hablot Knight Browne, better known as ‘PHIZ’.</p> <p>After this point, Dickens’s short stories were published in his periodicals <em>Household Words</em> and <em>All the Year Round</em>, though after 1837 he never published them with any regularity, preferring instead to focus on writing and serialising novels. Occasionally, he contributed several chapters to a jointly authored short story, collection, or series; Christmas numbers of his periodicals provided the opportunity to feature multiple famous writers uniting to weave a Yule-tide yarn, such as <em>The Haunted House</em> (1859). Notably, his collaboration with Wilkie Collins resulted in such works as <em>The Perils of Certain English Prisoners</em> (1857) and <em>No Thoroughfare</em> (1867). Towards the end of his life, Dickens began to publish short stories again in American publications such as <em>The New York Ledger, The Atlantic Monthly, </em>and <em>Our Young Folks</em>.</p> <p>Until now, first printings of Dickens’s earliest short stories published between 1833 and 1836 have been difficult to find for those unable to visit the periodicals and newspaper holdings at eminent institutions such as The British Library. Similarly, the last ones written by Dickens have remained understudied due in part to their obscurity. Twentieth-century editions of the <em>Sketches </em>are generally based on the text of Chapman and Hall’s later 1839 single volume edition, which relies on the reissue serialised between 1837 and 1839, or the 1868 Charles Dickens Edition, which is based on the 1850 cheap (and further revised) edition.</p> <p>Other anthologies, for instance <em>Selected Short Fiction</em> (Penguin, 2005), edited by Deborah A. Thomas, choose excerpts from Dickens’s entire <em>oeuvre </em>in the short fiction genre. Several scholars have explored the drafting, publication, and impact of the early sketches and short stories, with notable studies including&nbsp;<em>Dickens and the Short Story</em>. (University of Philadelphia Press, 1982) by Deborah A. Thomas and <em>Charles Dickens and ‘Boz’: The Birth of the Industrial-Age Author</em> (Cambridge, 2012) by Patten.1 To date, the most comprehensive overview of the sketches is provided by<em> The Oxford Edition of Charles Dickens’s Sketches by Boz</em> (2021) edited by Paul Schlicke with David Hewitt. Others include <em>Dickens's Uncollected Magazine and Newspaper Sketches as Originally Composed and Published 1833–1836</em> (2012), edited by Robert C. Hanna, and <em>Sketches by Boz and Other Early Papers</em> (1994), edited by Michael Slater.</p> <p>Because Dickens made many alterations, whether significant or incidental, between the first printing of a sketch and successive editions, these changes open up a window into his editorial process and developing intentions for the ‘Boz’ legacy. Now, with this <em>Dickens Search</em> collection, these emendations can be studied with greater ease than ever before. Our transcription field contains text Dickens is believed to have solely authored, though our pdfs of the short story collaborations will be provided in their entirety to facilitate easier engagement and comprehension of how his narrative might interact with those constructed by other writers. Ngram search and other text analysis tools will be applied to Dickens’s words only, to avoid skewing the results.<br /><br />While building this collection, we have consulted, and transcribed scans found on databases such as <em>British Newspaper Archive (BNA),</em> digital archives, and such open-access sites as<em> Hathi Trust, Internet Archive,</em> and <em>Google Books</em>; all items are linked to their original location on the internet.</p> <p>Please contact us with any errors, corrections, and suggestions, or to mention other short stories by Dickens that might have been overlooked.</p> 1. See Dominic Rainsford. ‘“Luller-li-e-te”! Language, Personhood, and Sympathy in <em>Sketches by Boz.’</em> In <em>Some Keywords in Dickens</em>. Edited by Michael Hollington, Francesca Orestano, and Nathalie Vanfasse. Vandenhoeck &amp; Ruprecht, 2021, pp. 117-130; William F. Long. ‘“Our Space is Limited”: Fitting Sketches by Boz into the <em>Morning Chronicle</em>”. <em>Dickens Quarterly </em>4 (December 2020): pp. 325-348; William F. Long. 'Dickens before <em>Sketches by Boz</em>: Earliest Reactions to his Earliest Works'. <em>Dickensian</em> (2018), 114.505, pp.170-176; Christina Jen. '"Drop the Curtain": Astonishment and the Anxieties of Authorship in Charles Dickens's <em>Sketches by Boz. Dickens Studies Annual</em> 49.2 (2018): pp. 249-278; Dianne F. Sadoff. ‘Boz and Beyond: “Oliver Twist” and the Dickens Legacy’. <em>Dickens Studies Annual</em> 45 (2014): pp. 23-44; <em>Dickens's Uncollected Magazine and Newspaper Sketches, as Originally Composed and Published, 1833–1836, </em>No. 46. Ed. Robert C. Hanna (2012): New York, AMS Press; Danielle Coriale. ‘Sketches by Boz, “So Frail a Machine”. <em>SEL: Studies in English Literature </em>48.4 (2008): pp. 801-812; Paul Schlicke. ‘“Risen Like a Rocket”: The Impact of <em>Sketches by Boz’</em>. <em>Dickens Quarterly</em> 22.1 (2005): pp. 3-18; Ellen Miller Casey. ‘“Boz has got the Town by the ear”: Dickens and the “Athenæum Critics”’. <em>Dickens Studies Annual</em> 33 (2003): pp. 159-190; Richard Maxwell. ‘Dickens, the Two “Chronicles”, and the Publication of “Sketches by Boz”’. <em>Dickens Studies Annual</em> 9 (1981): pp. 21–32; Angus Easson. “Who is Boz? Dickens and His Sketches”. <em>The Dickensian</em> 18.1.405 (Spring 1985): pp. 13-22; Julian W. Breslow. 'The Narrator in <em>Sketches by Boz</em>.' <em>ELH</em> 44.1 (1977): pp. 127–49. Short Story Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Periodical Publication The title of the newspaper/serial (if applicable) <em>Bentley's Miscellany</em> Pseudonym The name under which the item was published BOZ Ngram Date Hidden from users and search. All items in a collection need to have the same data in the same format in order to show up in Ngram (either YYYY, YYYYMMDD, or YYYYMMDD). No combinations will work. For journalism, letters and poetry, if there is no month or day, default to the first of the month or January. So a poem with a date of March 1843 would be 18430301. A poem published in 1856 with no month or date information would be 18560101. 18370101 Ngram Text Hidden from users and search. Copy and paste from the Scripto transcription. Then check and uncheck HTML to strip out all formatting. Finally, search and remove any &nbsp; (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. Mudfog is a pleasant town—a remarkably pleasant town—situated in a charming hollow by the side of a river, from which river, Mudfog derives an agreeable scent of pitch, tar, coals, and rope-yarn, a roving population in oil-skin hats, a pretty steady influx of drunken bargemen, and a great many other maritime advantages. There is a good deal of water about Mudfog, and yet it is not exactly the sort of town for a watering-place, either. Water is a perverse sort of element at the best of times, and in Mudfog it is particularly so. In winter, it comes oozing down the streets and tumbling over the fields,—nay, rushes into the very cellars and kitchens of the houses, with a lavish prodigality that might well be dispensed with; but in the hot summer weather it will dry up, and turn green: and, although green is a very good colour in its way, especially in grass, still it certainly is not becoming to water; and it cannot be denied that the beauty of Mudfog is rather impaired, even by this trifling circumstance. Mudfog is a healthy place—very healthy;—damp, perhaps, but none the worse for that. It’s quite a mistake to suppose that damp is unwholesome: plants thrive best in damp situations, and why shouldn’t men? The inhabitants of Mudfog are unanimous in asserting that there exists not a finer race of people on the face of the earth; here we have an indisputable and veracious contradiction of the vulgar error at once. So, admitting Mudfog to be damp, we distinctly state that it is salubrious. The town of Mudfog is extremely picturesque. Limehouse and Ratcliffe Highway are both something like it, but they give you a very faint idea of Mudfog. There are a great many more public-houses in Mudfog,—more than in Ratcliffe Highway and Limehouse put together. The public buildings, too, are very imposing. We consider the Town-hall one of the finest specimens of shed architecture, extant: it is a combination of the pig-sty and tea-garden-box, orders; and the simplicity of its design is of surpassing beauty. The idea of placing a large window on one side of the door, and a small one on the other, is particularly happy. There is a fine bold Doric beauty, too, about the padlock and scraper, which is strictly in keeping with the general effect. In this room do the mayor and corporation of Mudfog assemble together in solemn council for the public weal. Seated on the massive wooden benches, which, with the table in the centre, form the only furniture of the whitewashed apartment, the sage men of Mudfog spend hour after hour in grave deliberation. Here they settle at what hour of the night the public-houses shall be closed, at what hour of the morning they shall be permitted to open, how soon it shall be lawful for people to eat their dinner on church-days, and other great political questions; and sometimes, long after silence has fallen on the town, and the distant lights from the shops and houses have ceased to twinkle, like far-off stars, to the sight of the boatmen on the river, the illumination in the two unequal-sized windows of the town-hall, warns the inhabitants of Mudfog that its little body of legislators, like a larger and better-known body of the same genus, a great deal more noisy, and not a whit more profound, are patriotically dozing away in company, far into the night, for their country’s good. Among this knot of sage and learned men, no one was so eminently distinguished, during many years, for the quiet modesty of his appearance and demeanour, as Nicholas Tulrumble, the well-known coal-dealer. However exciting the subject of discussion, however animated the tone of the debate, or however warm the personalities exchanged, (and even in Mudfog we get personal sometimes,) Nicholas Tulrumble was always the same. To say truth, Nicholas, being an industrious man, and always up betimes, was apt to fall asleep when a debate began, and to remain asleep till it was over, when he would wake up very much refreshed, and give his vote with the greatest complacency. The fact was, that Nicholas Tulrumble, knowing that everybody there, had made up his mind beforehand, considered the talking as just a long botheration about nothing at all; and to the present hour it remains a question, whether, on this point at all events, Nicholas Tulrumble was not pretty near right. Time, which strews a man’s head with silver, sometimes fills his pockets with gold. As he gradually performed one good office for Nicholas Tulrumble, he was obliging enough, not to omit the other. Nicholas began life in a wooden tenement of four feet square, with a capital of two and ninepence, and a stock in trade of three bushels and a-half of coals, exclusive of the large lump which hung, by way of sign-board, outside. Then he enlarged the shed, and kept a truck; then he left the shed, and the truck too, and started a donkey and a Mrs. Tulrumble; then he moved again and set up a cart; the cart was soon afterwards exchanged for a waggon; and so he went on, like his great predecessor Whittington—only without a cat for a partner—increasing in wealth and fame, until at last he gave up business altogether, and retired with Mrs. Tulrumble and family to Mudfog Hall, which he had himself erected, on something which he endeavoured to delude himself into the belief was a hill, about a quarter of a mile distant from the town of Mudfog. About this time, it began to be murmured in Mudfog that Nicholas Tulrumble was growing vain and haughty; that prosperity and success had corrupted the simplicity of his manners, and tainted the natural goodness of his heart; in short, that he was setting up for a public character, and a great gentleman, and affected to look down upon his old companions with compassion and contempt. Whether these reports were at the time well-founded, or not, certain it is that Mrs. Tulrumble very shortly afterwards started a four-wheel chaise, driven by a tall postilion in a yellow cap,—that Mr. Tulrumble junior took to smoking cigars, and calling the footman a “feller,”—and that Mr. Tulrumble from that time forth, was no more seen in his old seat in the chimney-corner of the Lighterman’s Arms at night. This looked bad; but, more than this, it began to be observed that Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble attended the corporation meetings more frequently than heretofore; that he no longer went to sleep as he had done for so many years, but propped his eyelids open with his two fore-fingers; that he read the newspapers by himself at home; and that he was in the habit of indulging abroad in distant and mysterious allusions to “masses of people,” and “the property of the country,” and “productive power,” and “the monied interest:” all of which denoted and proved that Nicholas Tulrumble was either mad, or worse; and it puzzled the good people of Mudfog amazingly. At length, about the middle of the month of October, Mr. Tulrumble and family went up to London; the middle of October being, as Mrs. Tulrumble informed her acquaintance in Mudfog, the very height of the fashionable season. Somehow or other, just about this time, despite the health-preserving air of Mudfog, the Mayor died. It was a most extraordinary circumstance; he had lived in Mudfog for eighty-five years. The corporation didn’t understand it at all; indeed it was with great difficulty that one old gentleman, who was a great stickler for forms, was dissuaded from proposing a vote of censure on such unaccountable conduct. Strange as it was, however, die he did, without taking the slightest notice of the corporation; and the corporation were imperatively called upon to elect his successor. So, they met for the purpose; and being very full of Nicholas Tulrumble just then, and Nicholas Tulrumble being a very important man, they elected him, and wrote off to London by the very next post to acquaint Nicholas Tulrumble with his new elevation. Now, it being November time, and Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble being in the capital, it fell out that he was present at the Lord Mayor’s show and dinner, at sight of the glory and splendour whereof, he, Mr. Tulrumble, was greatly mortified, inasmuch as the reflection would force itself on his mind, that, had he been born in London instead of in Mudfog, he might have been a Lord Mayor too, and have patronised the judges, and been affable to the Lord Chancellor, and friendly with the Premier, and coldly condescending to the Secretary to the Treasury, and have dined with a flag behind his back, and done a great many other acts and deeds which unto Lord Mayors of London peculiarly appertain.&nbsp;The more he thought of the Lord Mayor, the more enviable a personage he seemed. To be a King was all very well; but what was the King to the Lord Mayor! When the King made a speech, everybody knew it was somebody else’s writing; whereas here was the Lord Mayor, talking away for half an hour—all out of his own head—amidst the enthusiastic applause of the whole company, while it was notorious that the King might talk to his parliament till he was black in the face without getting so much as a single cheer. As all these reflections passed through the mind of Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble, the Lord Mayor of London appeared to him the greatest sovereign on the face of the earth, beating the Emperor of Russia all to nothing, and leaving the Great Mogul immeasurably behind. Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was pondering over these things, and inwardly cursing the fate which had pitched his coal-shed in Mudfog, when the letter of the corporation was put into his hand. A crimson flush mantled over his face as he read it, for visions of brightness were already dancing before his imagination. “My dear,” said Mr. Tulrumble to his wife, “they have elected me, Mayor of Mudfog.” “Lor-a-mussy!” said Mrs. Tulrumble: “why, what’s become of old Sniggs?” “The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble,” said Mr. Tulrumble sharply, for he by no means approved of the notion of unceremoniously designating a gentleman who had filled the high office of Mayor, as “old Sniggs,”—“The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble, is dead.” The communication was very unexpected; but Mrs. Tulrumble only ejaculated “Lor-a-mussy!” once again, as if a Mayor were a mere ordinary Christian, at which Mr. Tulrumble frowned gloomily. “What a pity ’tan’t in London, ain’t it?” said Mrs. Tulrumble, after a short pause; “what a pity ’tan’t in London, where you might have had a show.” “I might have a show in Mudfog, if I thought proper, I apprehend,” said Mr. Tulrumble mysteriously. “Lor! so you might, I declare,” replied Mrs. Tulrumble.“And a good one, too,” said Mr. Tulrumble. “Delightful!” exclaimed Mrs. Tulrumble. “One which would rather astonish the ignorant people down there,” said Mr. Tulrumble. “It would kill them with envy,” said Mrs. Tulrumble. So it was agreed that his Majesty’s lieges in Mudfog should be astonished with splendour, and slaughtered with envy, and that such a show should take place as had never been seen in that town, or in any other town before,—no, not even in London itself. On the very next day after the receipt of the letter, down came the tall postilion in a post-chaise,—not upon one of the horses, but inside—actually inside the chaise,—and, driving up to the very door of the town-hall, where the corporation were assembled, delivered a letter, written by the Lord knows who, and signed by Nicholas Tulrumble, in which Nicholas said, all through four sides of closely-written, gilt-edged, hot-pressed, Bath post letter-paper, that he responded to the call of his fellow-townsmen with feelings of heartfelt delight; that he accepted the arduous office which their confidence had imposed upon him; that they would never find him shrinking from the discharge of his duty; that he would endeavour to execute his functions with all that dignity which their magnitude and importance demanded; and a great deal more to the same effect. But even this was not all. The tall postilion produced from his right-hand top-boot, a damp copy of that afternoon’s number of the county paper; and there, in large type, running the whole length of the very first column, was a long address from Nicholas Tulrumble to the inhabitants of Mudfog, in which he said that he cheerfully complied with their requisition, and, in short, as if to prevent any mistake about the matter, told them over again what a grand fellow he meant to be, in very much the same terms as those in which he had already told them all about the matter in his letter. The corporation stared at one another very hard at all this, and then looked as if for explanation to the tall postilion, but as the tall postilion was intently contemplating the gold tassel on the top of his yellow cap, and could have afforded no explanation whatever, even if his thoughts had been entirely disengaged, they contented themselves with coughing very dubiously, and looking very grave. The tall postilion then delivered another letter, in which Nicholas Tulrumble informed the corporation, that he intended repairing to the town-hall, in grand state and gorgeous procession, on the Monday afternoon then next ensuing. At this, the corporation looked still more solemn; but, as the epistle wound up with a formal invitation to the whole body to dine with the Mayor on that day, at Mudfog Hall, Mudfog Hill, Mudfog, they began to see the fun of the thing directly, and sent back their compliments, and they’d be sure to come. Now there happened to be in Mudfog, as somehow or other there does happen to be, in almost every town in the British dominions, and perhaps in foreign dominions too—we think it very likely, but, being no great traveller, cannot distinctly say—there happened to be, in Mudfog a merry-tempered, pleasant-faced, good-for-nothing sort of vagabond, with an invincible dislike to manual labour, and an unconquerable attachment to strong beer and spirits, whom everybody knew, and nobody, except his wife, took the trouble to quarrel with, who inherited from his ancestors the appellation of Edward Twigger, and rejoiced in the&nbsp;sobriquet&nbsp;of Bottle-nosed Ned.&nbsp;He was drunk upon the average once a day, and penitent upon an equally fair calculation once a month; and when he was penitent, he was invariably in the very last stage of maudlin intoxication. He was a ragged, roving, roaring kind of fellow, with a burly form, a sharp wit, and a ready head, and could turn his hand to anything when he chose to do it. He was by no means opposed to hard labour on principle, for he would work away at a cricket-match by the day together,—running, and catching, and batting, and bowling, and revelling in toil which would exhaust a galley-slave. He would have been invaluable to a fire-office; never was a man with such a natural taste for pumping engines, running up ladders, and throwing furniture out of two-pair-of-stairs’ windows: nor was this the only element in which he was at home; he was a humane society in himself, a portable drag, an animated life-preserver, and had saved more people, in his time, from drowning, than the Plymouth life-boat, or Captain Manby’s apparatus.&nbsp;With all these qualifications, notwithstanding his dissipation, Bottle-nosed Ned was a general favourite; and the authorities of Mudfog, remembering his numerous services to the population, allowed him in return to get drunk in his own way, without the fear of stocks, fine, or imprisonment. He had a general licence, and he showed his sense of the compliment by making the most of it. We have been thus particular in describing the character and avocations of Bottle-nosed Ned, because it enables us to introduce a fact politely, without hauling it into the reader’s presence with indecent haste by the head and shoulders, and brings us very naturally to relate, that on the very same evening on which Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble and family returned to Mudfog, Mr. Tulrumble’s new secretary, just imported from London, with a pale face and light whiskers, thrust his head down to the very bottom of his neckcloth-tie, in at the tap-room door of the Lighterman’s Arms, and enquiring whether one Ned Twigger was luxuriating within, announced himself as the bearer of a message from Nicholas Tulrumble, Esquire, requiring Mr. Twigger’s immediate attendance at the hall, on private and particular business. It being by no means Mr. Twigger’s interest to affront the Mayor, he rose from the fire-place with a slight sigh, and followed the light-whiskered secretary through the dirt and wet of Mudfog streets, up to Mudfog Hall, without further ado. Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was seated in a small cavern with a skylight, which he called his library, sketching out a plan of the procession on a large sheet of paper; and into the cavern the secretary ushered Ned Twigger. “Well, Twigger!” said Nicholas Tulrumble, condescendingly. There was a time when Twigger would have replied, “Well, Nick!” but that was in the days of the truck, and a couple of years before the donkey; so, he only bowed. “I want you to go into training, Twigger,” said Mr. Tulrumble. “What for, sir?” enquired Ned, with a stare. “Hush, hush, Twigger!” said the Mayor. “Shut the door, Mr. Jennings. Look here, Twigger.” As the Mayor said this, he unlocked a high closet, and disclosed a complete suit of brass armour, of gigantic dimensions. “I want you to wear this, next Monday, Twigger,” said the Mayor. “Bless your heart and soul, sir!” replied Ned, “you might as well ask me to wear a seventy-four pounder, or a cast-iron boiler.” “Nonsense, Twigger! nonsense!” said the Mayor. “I couldn’t stand under it, sir,” said Twigger; “it would make mashed potatoes of me, if I attempted it.” “Pooh, pooh, Twigger!” returned the Mayor. “I tell you I have seen it done with my own eyes, in London, and the man wasn’t half such a man as you are, either.” “I should as soon have thought of a man’s wearing the case of an eight-day clock to save his linen,” said Twigger, casting a look of apprehension at the brass suit. “It’s the easiest thing in the world,” rejoined the Mayor. “It’s nothing,” said Mr. Jennings. “When you’re used to it,” added Ned. “You do it by degrees,” said the Mayor. “You would begin with one piece to-morrow, and two the next day, and so on, till you had got it all on. Mr. Jennings, give Twigger a glass of rum. Just try the breast-plate, Twigger. Stay; take another glass of rum first. Help me to lift it, Mr. Jennings. Stand firm, Twigger! There!—it isn’t half as heavy as it looks, is it?” Twigger was a good strong, stout fellow; so, after a great deal of staggering, he managed to keep himself up, under the breast-plate, and even contrived, with the aid of another glass of rum, to walk about in it, and the gauntlets into the bargain. He made a trial of the helmet, but was not equally successful, inasmuch as he tipped over instantly,—an accident which Mr. Tulrumble clearly demonstrated to be occasioned by his not having a counteracting weight of brass on his legs. “Now, wear that with grace and propriety on Monday next,” said Tulrumble, “and I’ll make your fortune.” “I’ll try what I can do, sir,” said Twigger. “It must be kept a profound secret,” said Tulrumble. “Of course, sir,” replied Twigger. “And you must be sober,” said Tulrumble; “perfectly sober.” Mr. Twigger at once solemnly pledged himself to be as sober as a judge, and Nicholas Tulrumble was satisfied, although, had we been Nicholas, we should certainly have exacted some promise of a more specific nature; inasmuch as, having attended the Mudfog assizes in the evening more than once, we can solemnly testify to having seen judges with very strong symptoms of dinner under their wigs. However, that’s neither here nor there. The next day, and the day following, and the day after that, Ned Twigger was securely locked up in the small cavern with the skylight, hard at work at the armour. With every additional piece he could manage to stand upright in, he had an additional glass of rum; and at last, after many partial suffocations, he contrived to get on the whole suit, and to stagger up and down the room in it, like an intoxicated effigy from Westminster Abbey. Never was man so delighted as Nicholas Tulrumble; never was woman so charmed as Nicholas Tulrumble’s wife. Here was a sight for the common people of Mudfog! A live man in brass armour! Why, they would go wild with wonder! The day—the&nbsp;Monday—arrived. If the morning had been made to order, it couldn’t have been better adapted to the purpose. They never showed a better fog in London on Lord Mayor’s day, than enwrapped the town of Mudfog on that eventful occasion. It had risen slowly and surely from the green and stagnant water with the first light of morning, until it reached a little above the lamp-post tops; and there it had stopped, with a sleepy, sluggish obstinacy, which bade defiance to the sun, who had got up very blood-shot about the eyes, as if he had been at a drinking-party over night, and was doing his day’s work with the worst possible grace. The thick damp mist hung over the town like a huge gauze curtain. All was dim and dismal. The church-steeples had bidden a temporary adieu to the world below; and every object of lesser importance—houses, barns, hedges, trees, and barges—had all taken the veil. The church-clock struck one. A cracked trumpet from the front-garden of Mudfog Hall produced a feeble flourish, as if some asthmatic person had coughed into it accidentally; the gate flew open, and out came a gentleman, on a moist-sugar coloured charger, intended to represent a herald, but bearing a much stronger resemblance to a court-card on horseback.&nbsp;This was one of the Circus people, who always came down to Mudfog at that time of the year, and who had been engaged by Nicholas Tulrumble expressly for the occasion. There was the horse, whisking his tail about, balancing himself on his hind-legs, and flourishing away with his fore-feet, in a manner which would have gone to the hearts and souls of any reasonable crowd. But a Mudfog crowd never was a reasonable one, and in all probability never will be. Instead of scattering the very fog with their shouts, as they ought most indubitably to have done, and were fully intended to do, by Nicholas Tulrumble, they no sooner recognised the herald, than they began to growl forth the most unqualified disapprobation at the bare notion of his riding like any other man. If he had come out on his head indeed, or jumping through a hoop, or flying through a red-hot drum, or even standing on one leg with his other foot in his mouth, they might have had something to say to him; but for a professional gentleman to sit astride in the saddle, with his feet in the stirrups, was rather too good a joke. So, the herald was a decided failure, and the crowd hooted with great energy, as he pranced ingloriously away. On the procession came. We are afraid to say how many supernumeraries there were, in striped shirts and black velvet caps, to imitate the London watermen, or how many base imitations of running-footmen, or how many banners, which, owing to the heaviness of the atmosphere, could by no means be prevailed on to display their inscriptions: still less do we feel disposed to relate how the men who played the wind instruments, looking up into the sky (we mean the fog) with musical fervour, walked through pools of water and hillocks of mud, till they covered the powdered heads of the running-footmen aforesaid with splashes, that looked curious, but not ornamental; or how the barrel-organ performer put on the wrong stop, and played one tune while the band played another; or how the horses, being used to the arena, and not to the streets, would stand still and dance, instead of going on and prancing;—all of which are matters which might be dilated upon to great advantage, but which we have not the least intention of dilating upon, notwithstanding. Oh! it was a grand and beautiful sight to behold the corporation in glass coaches, provided at the sole cost and charge of Nicholas Tulrumble, coming rolling along, like a funeral out of mourning, and to watch the attempts the corporation made to look great and solemn, when Nicholas Tulrumble himself, in the four-wheel chaise, with the tall postilion, rolled out after them, with Mr. Jennings on one side to look like the chaplain, and a supernumerary on the other, with an old life-guardsman’s sabre, to imitate the sword-bearer; and to see the tears rolling down the faces of the mob as they screamed with merriment. This was beautiful! and so was the appearance of Mrs. Tulrumble and son, as they bowed with grave dignity out of their coach-window to all the dirty faces that were laughing around them: but it is not even with this that we have to do, but with the sudden stopping of the procession at another blast of the trumpet, whereat, and whereupon, a profound silence ensued, and all eyes were turned towards Mudfog Hall, in the confident anticipation of some new wonder. “They won’t laugh now, Mr. Jennings,” said Nicholas Tulrumble. “I think not, sir,” said Mr. Jennings. “See how eager they look,” said Nicholas Tulrumble. “Aha! the laugh will be on our side now; eh, Mr. Jennings?” “No doubt of that, sir,” replied Mr. Jennings; and Nicholas Tulrumble, in a state of pleasurable excitement, stood up in the four-wheel chaise, and telegraphed gratification to the Mayoress behind. While all this was going forward, Ned Twigger had descended into the kitchen of Mudfog Hall for the purpose of indulging the servants with a private view of the curiosity that was to burst upon the town; and, somehow or other, the footman was so companionable, and the housemaid so kind, and the cook so friendly, that he could not resist the offer of the first-mentioned to sit down and take something—just to drink success to master in. So, down Ned Twigger sat himself in his brass livery on the top of the kitchen-table; and in a mug of something strong, paid for the by unconscious Nicholas Tulrumble, and provided by the companionable footman, drank success to the Mayor and his procession; and, as Ned laid by his helmet to imbibe the something strong, the companionable footman put it on his own head, to the immeasurable and unrecordable delight of the cook and housemaid. The companionable footman was very facetious to Ned, and Ned was very gallant to the cook and housemaid by turns. They were all very cosy and comfortable; and the something strong went briskly round. At last Ned Twigger was loudly called for, by the procession people: and, having had his helmet fixed on, in a very complicated manner, by the companionable footman, and the kind housemaid, and the friendly cook, he walked gravely forth, and appeared before the multitude. The crowd roared—it was not with wonder, it was not with surprise; it was most decidedly and unquestionably with laughter. “What!” said Mr. Tulrumble, starting up in the four-wheel chaise. “Laughing? If they laugh at a man in real brass armour, they’d laugh when their own fathers were dying. Why doesn’t he go into his place, Mr. Jennings? What’s he rolling down towards us for?—he has no business here!” “I am afraid, sir —” faltered Mr. Jennings. “Afraid of what, sir?” said Nicholas Tulrumble, looking up into the secretary’s face. “I am afraid he’s drunk, sir;” replied Mr. Jennings. Nicholas Tulrumble took one look at the extraordinary figure that was bearing down upon them; and then, clasping his secretary by the arm, uttered an audible groan in anguish of spirit. It is a melancholy fact that Mr. Twigger having full licence to demand a single glass of rum on the putting on of every piece of the armour, got, by some means or other, rather out in his calculation in the hurry and confusion of preparation, and drank about four glasses to a piece instead of one, not to mention the something strong which went on the top of it. Whether the brass armour checked the natural flow of perspiration, and thus prevented the spirit from evaporating, we are not scientific enough to know; but, whatever the cause was, Mr. Twigger no sooner found himself outside the gate of Mudfog Hall, than he also found himself in a very considerable state of intoxication; and hence his extraordinary style of progressing. This was bad enough, but, as if fate and fortune had conspired against Nicholas Tulrumble, Mr. Twigger, not having been penitent for a good calendar month, took it into his head to be most especially and particularly sentimental, just when his repentance could have been most conveniently dispensed with. Immense tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he was vainly endeavouring to conceal his grief by applying to his eyes a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief with white spots,— an article not strictly in keeping with a suit of armour some three hundred years old, or thereabouts. “Twigger, you villain!” said Nicholas Tulrumble, quite forgetting his dignity, “go back!” “Never,” said Ned. “I’m a miserable wretch. I’ll never leave you.” The by-standers of course received this declaration with acclamations of “That’s right, Ned; don’t!” “I don’t intend it,” said Ned, with all the obstinacy of a very tipsy man. “I’m very unhappy. I’m the wretched father of an unfortunate family; but I am very faithful, sir. I’ll never leave you.” Having reiterated this obliging promise, Ned proceeded in broken words to harangue the crowd upon the number of years he had lived in Mudfog, the excessive respectability of his character, and other topics of the like nature. “Here! will anybody lead him away?” said Nicholas: “if they’ll call on me afterwards, I’ll reward them well.” Two or three men stepped forward, with the view of bearing Ned off, when the secretary interposed. “Take care! take care!” said Mr. Jennings. “I beg your pardon, sir; but they’d better not go too near him, because, if he falls over, he’ll certainly crush somebody.” At this hint the crowd retired on all sides to a very respectful distance, and left Ned, like the Duke of Devonshire, in a little circle of his own. “But, Mr. Jennings,” said Nicholas Tulrumble, “he’ll be suffocated.” “I’m very sorry for it, sir,” replied Mr. Jennings; “but nobody can get that armour off, without his own assistance. I’m quite certain of it, from the way he put it on.” Here Ned wept dolefully, and shook his helmeted head, in a manner that might have touched a heart of stone; but the crowd had not hearts of stone, and they laughed heartily. “Dear me, Mr. Jennings,” said Nicholas, turning pale at the possibility of Ned’s being smothered in his antique costume—“Dear me, Mr. Jennings, can nothing be done with him?” “Nothing at all,” replied Ned, “nothing at all. Gentlemen, I’m an unhappy wretch. I’m a body, gentlemen, in a brass coffin.” At this poetical idea of his own conjuring up, Ned cried so much that the people began to get sympathetic, and to ask what Nicholas Tulrumble meant by putting a man into such a machine as that; and one individual in a hairy waistcoat like the top of a trunk, who had previously expressed his opinion that if Ned hadn’t been a poor man, Nicholas wouldn’t have dared to do it, hinted at the propriety of breaking the four-wheel chaise, or Nicholas’s head, or both, which last compound proposition the crowd seemed to consider a very good notion. It was not acted upon, however, for it had hardly been broached, when Ned Twigger’s wife made her appearance abruptly in the little circle before noticed, and Ned no sooner caught a glimpse of her face and form, than from the mere force of habit he set off towards his home just as fast as his legs would carry him; and that was not very quick in the present instance either, for, however ready they might have been to carry ''him'', they couldn’t get on very well under the brass armour. So, Mrs. Twigger had plenty of time to denounce Nicholas Tulrumble to his face: to express her opinion that he was a decided monster; and to intimate that, if her ill-used husband sustained any personal damage from the brass armour, she would have the law of Nicholas Tulrumble for manslaughter. When she had said all this with due vehemence, she posted after Ned, who was dragging himself along as best he could, and deploring his unhappiness in most dismal tones. What a wailing and screaming Ned’s children raised when he got home at last! Mrs. Twigger tried to undo the armour, first in one place, and then in another, but she couldn’t manage it; so she tumbled Ned into bed, helmet, armour, gauntlets, and all. Such a creaking as the bedstead made, under Ned’s weight in his new suit! It didn’t break down though; and there Ned lay, like the anonymous vessel in the Bay of Biscay, till next day, drinking barley-water, and looking miserable: and every time he groaned, his good lady said it served him right, which was all the consolation Ned Twigger got. Nicholas Tulrumble and the gorgeous procession went on together to the town-hall, amid the hisses and groans of all the spectators, who had suddenly taken it into their heads to consider poor Ned a martyr. Nicholas was formally installed in his new office, in acknowledgment of which ceremony he delivered himself of a speech, composed by the secretary, which was very long, and no doubt very good, only the noise of the people outside prevented anybody from hearing it, but Nicholas Tulrumble himself. After which, the procession got back to Mudfog Hall any how it could; and Nicholas and the corporation sat down to dinner. But the dinner was flat, and Nicholas was disappointed. They were such dull sleepy old fellows, that corporation. Nicholas made quite as long speeches as the Lord Mayor of London had done, nay, he said the very same things that the Lord Mayor of London had said, and the deuce a cheer the corporation gave him. There was only one man in the party who was thoroughly awake; and he was insolent, and called him Nick. Nick! What would be the consequence, thought Nicholas, of anybody presuming to call the Lord Mayor of London “Nick!” He should like to know what the sword-bearer would say to that; or the recorder, or the toast-master, or any other of the great officers of the city. They’d nick him. But these were not the worst of Nicholas Tulrumble’s doings; If they had been, he might have remained a Mayor to this day, and have talked till he lost his voice. He contracted a relish for statistics, and got philosophical; and the statistics and the philosophy together, led him into an act which increased his unpopularity and hastened his downfall. At the very end of the Mudfog High-street, and abutting on the river-side, stands the Jolly Boatmen, an old-fashioned, low-roofed, bay-windowed house, with a bar, kitchen, and tap-room all in one, and a large fire-place with a kettle to correspond, round which the working men have congregated time out of mind on a winter’s night, refreshed by draughts of good strong beer, and cheered by the sounds of a fiddle and tambourine: the Jolly Boatmen having been duly licensed by the Mayor and corporation, to scrape the fiddle and thumb the tambourine from time, whereof the memory of the oldest inhabitants goeth not to the contrary. Now Nicholas Tulrumble had been reading pamphlets on crime, and parliamentary reports,— or had made the secretary read them to him, which is the same thing in effect,—and he at once perceived that this fiddle and tambourine must have done more to demoralize Mudfog, than any other operating causes that ingenuity could imagine. So he read up for the subject, and determined to come out on the corporation with a burst, the very next time the licence was applied for. The licensing day came, and the red-faced landlord of the Jolly Boatmen, walked into the town-hall, looking as jolly as need be, having actually put on an extra fiddle for that night, to commemorate the anniversary of the Jolly Boatmen’s music licence. It was applied for in due form, and was just about to be granted as a matter of course, when up rose Nicholas Tulrumble, and drowned the astonished corporation in a torrent of eloquence. He descanted in glowing terms upon the increasing depravity of his native town of Mudfog, and the excesses committed by its population. Then, he related how shocked he had been, to see barrels of beer sliding down into the cellar of the Jolly Boatmen week after week; and how he had sat at a window opposite the Jolly Boatmen for two days together, to count the people who went in for beer between the hours of twelve and one o’clock alone—which, by-the-bye, was the time at which the great majority of the Mudfog people dined. Then, he went on to state, how the number of people who came out with beer-jugs, averaged twenty-one in five minutes, which, being multiplied by twelve, gave two hundred and fifty-two people with beer-jugs in an hour, and multiplied again by fifteen (the number of hours during which the house was open daily) yielded three thousand seven hundred and eighty people with beer-jugs per day, or twenty-six thousand four hundred and sixty people with beer-jugs, per week. Then he proceeded to show that a tambourine and moral degradation were synonymous terms, and a fiddle and vicious propensities wholly inseparable. All these arguments he strengthened and demonstrated by frequent references to a large book with a blue cover, and sundry quotations from the Middlesex magistrates; and in the end, the corporation, who were posed with the figures, and sleepy with the speech, and sadly in want of dinner into the bargain, yielded the palm to Nicholas Tulrumble, and refused the music licence to the Jolly Boatmen. But although Nicholas triumphed, his triumph was short. He carried on the war against beer-jugs and fiddles, forgetting the time when he was glad to drink out of the one, and to dance to the other, till the people hated, and his old friends shunned him. He grew tired of the lonely magnificence of Mudfog Hall, and his heart yearned towards the Lighterman’s Arms. He wished he had never set up as a public man, and sighed for the good old times of the coal-shop, and the chimney-corner. At length old Nicholas, being thoroughly miserable, took heart of grace, paid the secretary a quarter’s wages in advance, and packed him off to London by the next coach. Having taken this step, he put his hat on his head, and his pride in his pocket, and walked down to the old room at the Lighterman’s Arms. There were only two of the old fellows there, and they looked coldly on Nicholas as he proffered his hand. “Are you going to put down pipes, Mr. Tulrumble?” said one. “Or trace the progress of crime to ’baccer?”&nbsp;growled the other. “Neither,” replied Nicholas Tulrumble, shaking hands with them both, whether they would or not. “I’ve come down to say that I’m very sorry for having made a fool of myself, and that I hope you’ll give me up, the old chair, again.” The old fellows opened their eyes, and three or four more old fellows opened the door, to whom Nicholas, with tears in his eyes, thrust out his hand too, and told the same story. They raised a shout of joy, that made the bells in the ancient church-tower vibrate again, and wheeling the old chair into the warm corner, thrust old Nicholas down into it, and ordered in the very largest-sized bowl of hot punch, with an unlimited number of pipes, directly. The next day, the Jolly Boatmen got the licence, and the next night, old Nicholas and Ned Twigger’s wife led off a dance to the music of the fiddle and tambourine, the tone of which seemed mightily improved by a little rest, for they never had played so merrily before. Ned Twigger was in the very height of his glory, and he danced hornpipes, and balanced chairs on his chin, and straws on his nose, till the whole company, including the corporation, were in raptures of admiration at the brilliancy of his acquirements. Mr. Tulrumble, junior, couldn’t make up his mind to be anything but magnificent, so he went up to London and drew bills on his father; and when he had overdrawn, and got into debt, he grew penitent and came home again. As to old Nicholas, he kept his word, and having had six weeks of public life, never tried it any more. He went to sleep in the town-hall at the very next meeting; and, in full proof of his sincerity, has requested us to write this faithful narrative. We wish it could have the effect of reminding the Tulrumbles of another sphere, that puffed-up conceit is not dignity, and that snarling at the little pleasures they were once glad to enjoy, because they would rather forget the times when they were of lower station, renders them objects of contempt and ridicule. This is the first time we have published any of our gleanings from this particular source. Perhaps, at some future period, we may venture to open the chronicles of Mudfog. Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 'Public Life of Mr. Tulrumble, Once Mayor of Mudfog' Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1837-01 Type The nature or genre of the resource Short story Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1837-01-Public_Life_Tulrumble Description An account of the resource Published in <em>Bentley's Miscellany, </em>vol.1 (January 1837), pp. 49-63. Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <em>HathiTrust,</em> <a href="https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=iau.31858046014936">https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=iau.31858046014936</a>. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Google-digitised. Digitised materials on <em>Google Books</em> published before 1922 are in the public domain. Bibliographic Citation A bibliographic reference for the resource. Recommended practice is to include sufficient bibliographic detail to identify the resource as unambiguously as possible. Dickens, Charles. 'Public Life of Mr. Tulrumble, Once Mayor of Mudfog.' <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily <span>Middleton</span> and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1837-01-Public_Life_Tulrumble">https://www.dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1837-01-Public_Life_Tulrumble</a>. Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. <div class="transcription prose"> <p>Mudfog is a pleasant town—a remarkably pleasant town—situated in a charming hollow by the side of a river, from which river, Mudfog derives an agreeable scent of pitch, tar, coals, and rope-yarn, a roving population in oil-skin hats, a pretty steady influx of drunken bargemen, and a great many other maritime advantages. There is a good deal of water about Mudfog, and yet it is not exactly the sort of town for a watering-place, either. Water is a perverse sort of element at the best of times, and in Mudfog it is particularly so. In winter, it comes oozing down the streets and tumbling over the fields,—nay, rushes into the very cellars and kitchens of the houses, with a lavish prodigality that might well be dispensed with; but in the hot summer weather it <em>will</em> dry up, and turn green: and, although green is a very good colour in its way, especially in grass, still it certainly is not becoming to water; and it cannot be denied that the beauty of Mudfog is rather impaired, even by this trifling circumstance. Mudfog is a healthy place—very healthy;—damp, perhaps, but none the worse for that. It’s quite a mistake to suppose that damp is unwholesome: plants thrive best in damp situations, and why shouldn’t men? The inhabitants of Mudfog are unanimous in asserting that there exists not a finer race of people on the face of the earth; here we have an indisputable and veracious contradiction of the vulgar error at once. So, admitting Mudfog to be damp, we distinctly state that it is salubrious.</p> <p>The town of Mudfog is extremely picturesque. Limehouse and Ratcliffe Highway are both something like it, but they give you a very faint idea of Mudfog. There are a great many more public-houses in Mudfog,—more than in Ratcliffe Highway and Limehouse put together. The public buildings, too, are very imposing. We consider the Town-hall one of the finest specimens of shed architecture, extant: it is a combination of the pig-sty and tea-garden-box, orders; and the simplicity of its design is of surpassing beauty. The idea of placing a large window on one side of the door, and a small one on the other, is particularly happy. There is a fine bold Doric beauty, too, about the padlock and scraper, which is strictly in keeping with the general effect.</p> <p>In this room do the mayor and corporation of Mudfog assemble together in solemn council for the public weal. Seated on the massive wooden benches, which, with the table in the centre, form the only furniture of the whitewashed apartment, the sage men of Mudfog spend hour after hour in grave deliberation. Here they settle at what hour of the night the public-houses shall be closed, at what hour of the morning they shall be permitted to open, how soon it shall be lawful for people to eat their dinner on church-days, and other great political questions; and sometimes, long after silence has fallen on the town, and the distant lights from the shops and houses have ceased to twinkle, like far-off stars, to the sight of the boatmen on the river, the illumination in the two unequal-sized windows of the town-hall, warns the inhabitants of Mudfog that its little body of legislators, like a larger and better-known body of the same genus, a great deal more noisy, and not a whit more profound, are patriotically dozing away in company, far into the night, for their country’s good.</p> <p>Among this knot of sage and learned men, no one was so eminently distinguished, during many years, for the quiet modesty of his appearance and demeanour, as Nicholas Tulrumble, the well-known coal-dealer. However exciting the subject of discussion, however animated the tone of the debate, or however warm the personalities exchanged, (and even in Mudfog we get personal sometimes,) Nicholas Tulrumble was always the same. To say truth, Nicholas, being an industrious man, and always up betimes, was apt to fall asleep when a debate began, and to remain asleep till it was over, when he would wake up very much refreshed, and give his vote with the greatest complacency. The fact was, that Nicholas Tulrumble, knowing that everybody there, had made up his mind beforehand, considered the talking as just a long botheration about nothing at all; and to the present hour it remains a question, whether, on this point at all events, Nicholas Tulrumble was not pretty near right.</p> <p>Time, which strews a man’s head with silver, sometimes fills his pockets with gold. As he gradually performed one good office for Nicholas Tulrumble, he was obliging enough, not to omit the other. Nicholas began life in a wooden tenement of four feet square, with a capital of two and ninepence, and a stock in trade of three bushels and a-half of coals, exclusive of the large lump which hung, by way of sign-board, outside. Then he enlarged the shed, and kept a truck; then he left the shed, and the truck too, and started a donkey and a Mrs. Tulrumble; then he moved again and set up a cart; the cart was soon afterwards exchanged for a waggon; and so he went on, like his great predecessor Whittington—only without a cat for a partner—increasing in wealth and fame, until at last he gave up business altogether, and retired with Mrs. Tulrumble and family to Mudfog Hall, which he had himself erected, on something which he endeavoured to delude himself into the belief was a hill, about a quarter of a mile distant from the town of Mudfog.</p> <p>About this time, it began to be murmured in Mudfog that Nicholas Tulrumble was growing vain and haughty; that prosperity and success had corrupted the simplicity of his manners, and tainted the natural goodness of his heart; in short, that he was setting up for a public character, and a great gentleman, and affected to look down upon his old companions with compassion and contempt. Whether these reports were at the time well-founded, or not, certain it is that Mrs. Tulrumble very shortly afterwards started a four-wheel chaise, driven by a tall postilion in a yellow cap,—that Mr. Tulrumble junior took to smoking cigars, and calling the footman a “feller,”—and that Mr. Tulrumble from that time forth, was no more seen in his old seat in the chimney-corner of the Lighterman’s Arms at night. This looked bad; but, more than this, it began to be observed that Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble attended the corporation meetings more frequently than heretofore; that he no longer went to sleep as he had done for so many years, but propped his eyelids open with his two fore-fingers; that he read the newspapers by himself at home; and that he was in the habit of indulging abroad in distant and mysterious allusions to “masses of people,” and “the property of the country,” and “productive power,” and “the monied interest:” all of which denoted and proved that Nicholas Tulrumble was either mad, or worse; and it puzzled the good people of Mudfog amazingly.</p> <p>At length, about the middle of the month of October, Mr. Tulrumble and family went up to London; the middle of October being, as Mrs. Tulrumble informed her acquaintance in Mudfog, the very height of the fashionable season.</p> <p>Somehow or other, just about this time, despite the health-preserving air of Mudfog, the Mayor died. It was a most extraordinary circumstance; he had lived in Mudfog for eighty-five years. The corporation didn’t understand it at all; indeed it was with great difficulty that one old gentleman, who was a great stickler for forms, was dissuaded from proposing a vote of censure on such unaccountable conduct. Strange as it was, however, die he did, without taking the slightest notice of the corporation; and the corporation were imperatively called upon to elect his successor. So, they met for the purpose; and being very full of Nicholas Tulrumble just then, and Nicholas Tulrumble being a very important man, they elected him, and wrote off to London by the very next post to acquaint Nicholas Tulrumble with his new elevation.</p> <p>Now, it being November time, and Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble being in the capital, it fell out that he was present at the Lord Mayor’s show and dinner, at sight of the glory and splendour whereof, he, Mr. Tulrumble, was greatly mortified, inasmuch as the reflection would force itself on his mind, that, had he been born in London instead of in Mudfog, he might have been a Lord Mayor too, and have patronised the judges, and been affable to the Lord Chancellor, and friendly with the Premier, and coldly condescending to the Secretary to the Treasury, and have dined with a flag behind his back, and done a great many other acts and deeds which unto Lord Mayors of London peculiarly appertain.<span>&nbsp;</span>The more he thought of the Lord Mayor, the more enviable a personage he seemed. To be a King was all very well; but what was the King to the Lord Mayor! When the King made a speech, everybody knew it was somebody else’s writing; whereas here was the Lord Mayor, talking away for half an hour—all out of his own head—amidst the enthusiastic applause of the whole company, while it was notorious that the King might talk to his parliament till he was black in the face without getting so much as a single cheer. As all these reflections passed through the mind of Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble, the Lord Mayor of London appeared to him the greatest sovereign on the face of the earth, beating the Emperor of Russia all to nothing, and leaving the Great Mogul immeasurably behind.</p> <p>Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was pondering over these things, and inwardly cursing the fate which had pitched his coal-shed in Mudfog, when the letter of the corporation was put into his hand. A crimson flush mantled over his face as he read it, for visions of brightness were already dancing before his imagination.</p> <p>“My dear,” said Mr. Tulrumble to his wife, “they have elected me, Mayor of Mudfog.”</p> <p>“Lor-a-mussy!” said Mrs. Tulrumble: “why, what’s become of old Sniggs?”</p> <p>“The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble,” said Mr. Tulrumble sharply, for he by no means approved of the notion of unceremoniously designating a gentleman who had filled the high office of Mayor, as “old Sniggs,”—“The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble, is dead.”</p> <p>The communication was very unexpected; but Mrs. Tulrumble only ejaculated “Lor-a-mussy!” once again, as if a Mayor were a mere ordinary Christian, at which Mr. Tulrumble frowned gloomily.</p> <p>“What a pity ’tan’t in London, ain’t it?” said Mrs. Tulrumble, after a short pause; “what a pity ’tan’t in London, where you might have had a show.”</p> <p>“I <em>might</em> have a show in Mudfog, if I thought proper, I apprehend,” said Mr. Tulrumble mysteriously.</p> <p>“Lor! so you might, I declare,” replied Mrs. Tulrumble.“And a good one, too,” said Mr. Tulrumble.</p> <p>“Delightful!” exclaimed Mrs. Tulrumble.</p> <p>“One which would rather astonish the ignorant people down there,” said Mr. Tulrumble.</p> <p>“It would kill them with envy,” said Mrs. Tulrumble.</p> <p>So it was agreed that his Majesty’s lieges in Mudfog should be astonished with splendour, and slaughtered with envy, and that such a show should take place as had never been seen in that town, or in any other town before,—no, not even in London itself.</p> <p>On the very next day after the receipt of the letter, down came the tall postilion in a post-chaise,—not upon one of the horses, but inside—actually inside the chaise,—and, driving up to the very door of the town-hall, where the corporation were assembled, delivered a letter, written by the Lord knows who, and signed by Nicholas Tulrumble, in which Nicholas said, all through four sides of closely-written, gilt-edged, hot-pressed, Bath post letter-paper, that he responded to the call of his fellow-townsmen with feelings of heartfelt delight; that he accepted the arduous office which their confidence had imposed upon him; that they would never find him shrinking from the discharge of his duty; that he would endeavour to execute his functions with all that dignity which their magnitude and importance demanded; and a great deal more to the same effect. But even this was not all. The tall postilion produced from his right-hand top-boot, a damp copy of that afternoon’s number of the county paper; and there, in large type, running the whole length of the very first column, was a long address from Nicholas Tulrumble to the inhabitants of Mudfog, in which he said that he cheerfully complied with their requisition, and, in short, as if to prevent any mistake about the matter, told them over again what a grand fellow he meant to be, in very much the same terms as those in which he had already told them all about the matter in his letter.</p> <p>The corporation stared at one another very hard at all this, and then looked as if for explanation to the tall postilion, but as the tall postilion was intently contemplating the gold tassel on the top of his yellow cap, and could have afforded no explanation whatever, even if his thoughts had been entirely disengaged, they contented themselves with coughing very dubiously, and looking very grave. The tall postilion then delivered another letter, in which Nicholas Tulrumble informed the corporation, that he intended repairing to the town-hall, in grand state and gorgeous procession, on the Monday afternoon then next ensuing. At this, the corporation looked still more solemn; but, as the epistle wound up with a formal invitation to the whole body to dine with the Mayor on that day, at Mudfog Hall, Mudfog Hill, Mudfog, they began to see the fun of the thing directly, and sent back their compliments, and they’d be sure to come.</p> <p>Now there happened to be in Mudfog, as somehow or other there does happen to be, in almost every town in the British dominions, and perhaps in foreign dominions too—we think it very likely, but, being no great traveller, cannot distinctly say—there happened to be, in Mudfog a merry-tempered, pleasant-faced, good-for-nothing sort of vagabond, with an invincible dislike to manual labour, and an unconquerable attachment to strong beer and spirits, whom everybody knew, and nobody, except his wife, took the trouble to quarrel with, who inherited from his ancestors the appellation of Edward Twigger, and rejoiced in the<span>&nbsp;</span><em>sobriquet</em><span>&nbsp;</span>of Bottle-nosed Ned.<span>&nbsp;</span>He was drunk upon the average once a day, and penitent upon an equally fair calculation once a month; and when he was penitent, he was invariably in the very last stage of maudlin intoxication. He was a ragged, roving, roaring kind of fellow, with a burly form, a sharp wit, and a ready head, and could turn his hand to anything when he chose to do it. He was by no means opposed to hard labour on principle, for he would work away at a cricket-match by the day together,—running, and catching, and batting, and bowling, and revelling in toil which would exhaust a galley-slave. He would have been invaluable to a fire-office; never was a man with such a natural taste for pumping engines, running up ladders, and throwing furniture out of two-pair-of-stairs’ windows: nor was this the only element in which he was at home; he was a humane society in himself, a portable drag, an animated life-preserver, and had saved more people, in his time, from drowning, than the Plymouth life-boat, or Captain Manby’s apparatus.<span>&nbsp;</span>With all these qualifications, notwithstanding his dissipation, Bottle-nosed Ned was a general favourite; and the authorities of Mudfog, remembering his numerous services to the population, allowed him in return to get drunk in his own way, without the fear of stocks, fine, or imprisonment. He had a general licence, and he showed his sense of the compliment by making the most of it.</p> <p>We have been thus particular in describing the character and avocations of Bottle-nosed Ned, because it enables us to introduce a fact politely, without hauling it into the reader’s presence with indecent haste by the head and shoulders, and brings us very naturally to relate, that on the very same evening on which Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble and family returned to Mudfog, Mr. Tulrumble’s new secretary, just imported from London, with a pale face and light whiskers, thrust his head down to the very bottom of his neckcloth-tie, in at the tap-room door of the Lighterman’s Arms, and enquiring whether one Ned Twigger was luxuriating within, announced himself as the bearer of a message from Nicholas Tulrumble, Esquire, requiring Mr. Twigger’s immediate attendance at the hall, on private and particular business. It being by no means Mr. Twigger’s interest to affront the Mayor, he rose from the fire-place with a slight sigh, and followed the light-whiskered secretary through the dirt and wet of Mudfog streets, up to Mudfog Hall, without further ado.</p> <p>Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was seated in a small cavern with a skylight, which he called his library, sketching out a plan of the procession on a large sheet of paper; and into the cavern the secretary ushered Ned Twigger.</p> <p>“Well, Twigger!” said Nicholas Tulrumble, condescendingly.</p> <p>There was a time when Twigger would have replied, “Well, Nick!” but that was in the days of the truck, and a couple of years before the donkey; so, he only bowed.</p> <p>“I want you to go into training, Twigger,” said Mr. Tulrumble.</p> <p>“What for, sir?” enquired Ned, with a stare.</p> <p>“Hush, hush, Twigger!” said the Mayor. “Shut the door, Mr. Jennings. Look here, Twigger.”</p> <p>As the Mayor said this, he unlocked a high closet, and disclosed a complete suit of brass armour, of gigantic dimensions.</p> <p>“I want you to wear this, next Monday, Twigger,” said the Mayor.</p> <p>“Bless your heart and soul, sir!” replied Ned, “you might as well ask me to wear a seventy-four pounder, or a cast-iron boiler.”</p> <p>“Nonsense, Twigger! nonsense!” said the Mayor.</p> <p>“I couldn’t stand under it, sir,” said Twigger; “it would make mashed potatoes of me, if I attempted it.”</p> <p>“Pooh, pooh, Twigger!” returned the Mayor. “I tell you I have seen it done with my own eyes, in London, and the man wasn’t half such a man as you are, either.”</p> <p>“I should as soon have thought of a man’s wearing the case of an eight-day clock to save his linen,” said Twigger, casting a look of apprehension at the brass suit.</p> <p>“It’s the easiest thing in the world,” rejoined the Mayor.</p> <p>“It’s nothing,” said Mr. Jennings.</p> <p>“When you’re used to it,” added Ned.</p> <p>“You do it by degrees,” said the Mayor. “You would begin with one piece to-morrow, and two the next day, and so on, till you had got it all on. Mr. Jennings, give Twigger a glass of rum. Just try the breast-plate, Twigger. Stay; take another glass of rum first. Help me to lift it, Mr. Jennings. Stand firm, Twigger! There!—it isn’t half as heavy as it looks, is it?”</p> <p>Twigger was a good strong, stout fellow; so, after a great deal of staggering, he managed to keep himself up, under the breast-plate, and even contrived, with the aid of another glass of rum, to walk about in it, and the gauntlets into the bargain. He made a trial of the helmet, but was not equally successful, inasmuch as he tipped over instantly,—an accident which Mr. Tulrumble clearly demonstrated to be occasioned by his not having a counteracting weight of brass on his legs.</p> <p>“Now, wear that with grace and propriety on Monday next,” said Tulrumble, “and I’ll make your fortune.”</p> <p>“I’ll try what I can do, sir,” said Twigger.</p> <p>“It must be kept a profound secret,” said Tulrumble.</p> <p>“Of course, sir,” replied Twigger.</p> <p>“And you must be sober,” said Tulrumble; “perfectly sober.”</p> <p>Mr. Twigger at once solemnly pledged himself to be as sober as a judge, and Nicholas Tulrumble was satisfied, although, had we been Nicholas, we should certainly have exacted some promise of a more specific nature; inasmuch as, having attended the Mudfog assizes in the evening more than once, we can solemnly testify to having seen judges with very strong symptoms of dinner under their wigs. However, that’s neither here nor there.</p> <p>The next day, and the day following, and the day after that, Ned Twigger was securely locked up in the small cavern with the skylight, hard at work at the armour. With every additional piece he could manage to stand upright in, he had an additional glass of rum; and at last, after many partial suffocations, he contrived to get on the whole suit, and to stagger up and down the room in it, like an intoxicated effigy from Westminster Abbey.</p> <p>Never was man so delighted as Nicholas Tulrumble; never was woman so charmed as Nicholas Tulrumble’s wife. Here was a sight for the common people of Mudfog! A live man in brass armour! Why, they would go wild with wonder!</p> <p>The day—<em>the</em><span>&nbsp;</span>Monday—arrived.</p> <p>If the morning had been made to order, it couldn’t have been better adapted to the purpose. They never showed a better fog in London on Lord Mayor’s day, than enwrapped the town of Mudfog on that eventful occasion. It had risen slowly and surely from the green and stagnant water with the first light of morning, until it reached a little above the lamp-post tops; and there it had stopped, with a sleepy, sluggish obstinacy, which bade defiance to the sun, who had got up very blood-shot about the eyes, as if he had been at a drinking-party over night, and was doing his day’s work with the worst possible grace. The thick damp mist hung over the town like a huge gauze curtain. All was dim and dismal. The church-steeples had bidden a temporary adieu to the world below; and every object of lesser importance—houses, barns, hedges, trees, and barges—had all taken the veil.</p> <p>The church-clock struck one. A cracked trumpet from the front-garden of Mudfog Hall produced a feeble flourish, as if some asthmatic person had coughed into it accidentally; the gate flew open, and out came a gentleman, on a moist-sugar coloured charger, intended to represent a herald, but bearing a much stronger resemblance to a court-card on horseback.<span>&nbsp;</span>This was one of the Circus people, who always came down to Mudfog at that time of the year, and who had been engaged by Nicholas Tulrumble expressly for the occasion. There was the horse, whisking his tail about, balancing himself on his hind-legs, and flourishing away with his fore-feet, in a manner which would have gone to the hearts and souls of any reasonable crowd. But a Mudfog crowd never was a reasonable one, and in all probability never will be. Instead of scattering the very fog with their shouts, as they ought most indubitably to have done, and were fully intended to do, by Nicholas Tulrumble, they no sooner recognised the herald, than they began to growl forth the most unqualified disapprobation at the bare notion of his riding like any other man. If he had come out on his head indeed, or jumping through a hoop, or flying through a red-hot drum, or even standing on one leg with his other foot in his mouth, they might have had something to say to him; but for a professional gentleman to sit astride in the saddle, with his feet in the stirrups, was rather too good a joke. So, the herald was a decided failure, and the crowd hooted with great energy, as he pranced ingloriously away.</p> <p>On the procession came. We are afraid to say how many supernumeraries there were, in striped shirts and black velvet caps, to imitate the London watermen, or how many base imitations of running-footmen, or how many banners, which, owing to the heaviness of the atmosphere, could by no means be prevailed on to display their inscriptions: still less do we feel disposed to relate how the men who played the wind instruments, looking up into the sky (we mean the fog) with musical fervour, walked through pools of water and hillocks of mud, till they covered the powdered heads of the running-footmen aforesaid with splashes, that looked curious, but not ornamental; or how the barrel-organ performer put on the wrong stop, and played one tune while the band played another; or how the horses, being used to the arena, and not to the streets, would stand still and dance, instead of going on and prancing;—all of which are matters which might be dilated upon to great advantage, but which we have not the least intention of dilating upon, notwithstanding.</p> <p>Oh! it was a grand and beautiful sight to behold the corporation in glass coaches, provided at the sole cost and charge of Nicholas Tulrumble, coming rolling along, like a funeral out of mourning, and to watch the attempts the corporation made to look great and solemn, when Nicholas Tulrumble himself, in the four-wheel chaise, with the tall postilion, rolled out after them, with Mr. Jennings on one side to look like the chaplain, and a supernumerary on the other, with an old life-guardsman’s sabre, to imitate the sword-bearer; and to see the tears rolling down the faces of the mob as they screamed with merriment. This was beautiful! and so was the appearance of Mrs. Tulrumble and son, as they bowed with grave dignity out of their coach-window to all the dirty faces that were laughing around them: but it is not even with this that we have to do, but with the sudden stopping of the procession at another blast of the trumpet, whereat, and whereupon, a profound silence ensued, and all eyes were turned towards Mudfog Hall, in the confident anticipation of some new wonder.</p> <p>“They won’t laugh now, Mr. Jennings,” said Nicholas Tulrumble.</p> <p>“I think not, sir,” said Mr. Jennings.</p> <p>“See how eager they look,” said Nicholas Tulrumble. “Aha! the laugh will be on our side now; eh, Mr. Jennings?”</p> <p>“No doubt of that, sir,” replied Mr. Jennings; and Nicholas Tulrumble, in a state of pleasurable excitement, stood up in the four-wheel chaise, and telegraphed gratification to the Mayoress behind.</p> <p>While all this was going forward, Ned Twigger had descended into the kitchen of Mudfog Hall for the purpose of indulging the servants with a private view of the curiosity that was to burst upon the town; and, somehow or other, the footman was so companionable, and the housemaid so kind, and the cook so friendly, that he could not resist the offer of the first-mentioned to sit down and take something—just to drink success to master in.</p> <p>So, down Ned Twigger sat himself in his brass livery on the top of the kitchen-table; and in a mug of something strong, paid for the by unconscious Nicholas Tulrumble, and provided by the companionable footman, drank success to the Mayor and his procession; and, as Ned laid by his helmet to imbibe the something strong, the companionable footman put it on his own head, to the immeasurable and unrecordable delight of the cook and housemaid. The companionable footman was very facetious to Ned, and Ned was very gallant to the cook and housemaid by turns. They were all very cosy and comfortable; and the something strong went briskly round.</p> <p>At last Ned Twigger was loudly called for, by the procession people: and, having had his helmet fixed on, in a very complicated manner, by the companionable footman, and the kind housemaid, and the friendly cook, he walked gravely forth, and appeared before the multitude.</p> <p>The crowd roared—it was not with wonder, it was not with surprise; it was most decidedly and unquestionably with laughter.</p> <p>“What!” said Mr. Tulrumble, starting up in the four-wheel chaise. “Laughing? If they laugh at a man in real brass armour, they’d laugh when their own fathers were dying. Why doesn’t he go into his place, Mr. Jennings? What’s he rolling down towards us for?—he has no business here!”</p> <p>“I am afraid, sir —” faltered Mr. Jennings.</p> <p>“Afraid of what, sir?” said Nicholas Tulrumble, looking up into the secretary’s face.</p> <p>“I am afraid he’s drunk, sir;” replied Mr. Jennings.</p> <p>Nicholas Tulrumble took one look at the extraordinary figure that was bearing down upon them; and then, clasping his secretary by the arm, uttered an audible groan in anguish of spirit.</p> <p>It is a melancholy fact that Mr. Twigger having full licence to demand a single glass of rum on the putting on of every piece of the armour, got, by some means or other, rather out in his calculation in the hurry and confusion of preparation, and drank about four glasses to a piece instead of one, not to mention the something strong which went on the top of it. Whether the brass armour checked the natural flow of perspiration, and thus prevented the spirit from evaporating, we are not scientific enough to know; but, whatever the cause was, Mr. Twigger no sooner found himself outside the gate of Mudfog Hall, than he also found himself in a very considerable state of intoxication; and hence his extraordinary style of progressing. This was bad enough, but, as if fate and fortune had conspired against Nicholas Tulrumble, Mr. Twigger, not having been penitent for a good calendar month, took it into his head to be most especially and particularly sentimental, just when his repentance could have been most conveniently dispensed with. Immense tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he was vainly endeavouring to conceal his grief by applying to his eyes a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief with white spots,— an article not strictly in keeping with a suit of armour some three hundred years old, or thereabouts.</p> <p>“Twigger, you villain!” said Nicholas Tulrumble, quite forgetting his dignity, “go back!”</p> <p>“Never,” said Ned. “I’m a miserable wretch. I’ll never leave you.”</p> <p>The by-standers of course received this declaration with acclamations of “That’s right, Ned; don’t!”</p> <p>“I don’t intend it,” said Ned, with all the obstinacy of a very tipsy man. “I’m very unhappy. I’m the wretched father of an unfortunate family; but I am very faithful, sir. I’ll never leave you.” Having reiterated this obliging promise, Ned proceeded in broken words to harangue the crowd upon the number of years he had lived in Mudfog, the excessive respectability of his character, and other topics of the like nature.</p> <p>“Here! will anybody lead him away?” said Nicholas: “if they’ll call on me afterwards, I’ll reward them well.”</p> <p>Two or three men stepped forward, with the view of bearing Ned off, when the secretary interposed.</p> <p>“Take care! take care!” said Mr. Jennings. “I beg your pardon, sir; but they’d better not go too near him, because, if he falls over, he’ll certainly crush somebody.”</p> <p>At this hint the crowd retired on all sides to a very respectful distance, and left Ned, like the Duke of Devonshire, in a little circle of his own.</p> <p>“But, Mr. Jennings,” said Nicholas Tulrumble, “he’ll be suffocated.”</p> <p>“I’m very sorry for it, sir,” replied Mr. Jennings; “but nobody can get that armour off, without his own assistance. I’m quite certain of it, from the way he put it on.”</p> <p>Here Ned wept dolefully, and shook his helmeted head, in a manner that might have touched a heart of stone; but the crowd had not hearts of stone, and they laughed heartily.</p> <p>“Dear me, Mr. Jennings,” said Nicholas, turning pale at the possibility of Ned’s being smothered in his antique costume—“Dear me, Mr. Jennings, can nothing be done with him?”</p> <p>“Nothing at all,” replied Ned, “nothing at all. Gentlemen, I’m an unhappy wretch. I’m a body, gentlemen, in a brass coffin.” At this poetical idea of his own conjuring up, Ned cried so much that the people began to get sympathetic, and to ask what Nicholas Tulrumble meant by putting a man into such a machine as that; and one individual in a hairy waistcoat like the top of a trunk, who had previously expressed his opinion that if Ned hadn’t been a poor man, Nicholas wouldn’t have dared to do it, hinted at the propriety of breaking the four-wheel chaise, or Nicholas’s head, or both, which last compound proposition the crowd seemed to consider a very good notion.</p> <p>It was not acted upon, however, for it had hardly been broached, when Ned Twigger’s wife made her appearance abruptly in the little circle before noticed, and Ned no sooner caught a glimpse of her face and form, than from the mere force of habit he set off towards his home just as fast as his legs would carry him; and that was not very quick in the present instance either, for, however ready they might have been to carry ''him'', they couldn’t get on very well under the brass armour. So, Mrs. Twigger had plenty of time to denounce Nicholas Tulrumble to his face: to express her opinion that he was a decided monster; and to intimate that, if her ill-used husband sustained any personal damage from the brass armour, she would have the law of Nicholas Tulrumble for manslaughter. When she had said all this with due vehemence, she posted after Ned, who was dragging himself along as best he could, and deploring his unhappiness in most dismal tones.</p> <p>What a wailing and screaming Ned’s children raised when he got home at last! Mrs. Twigger tried to undo the armour, first in one place, and then in another, but she couldn’t manage it; so she tumbled Ned into bed, helmet, armour, gauntlets, and all. Such a creaking as the bedstead made, under Ned’s weight in his new suit! It didn’t break down though; and there Ned lay, like the anonymous vessel in the Bay of Biscay, till next day, drinking barley-water, and looking miserable: and every time he groaned, his good lady said it served him right, which was all the consolation Ned Twigger got.</p> <p>Nicholas Tulrumble and the gorgeous procession went on together to the town-hall, amid the hisses and groans of all the spectators, who had suddenly taken it into their heads to consider poor Ned a martyr. Nicholas was formally installed in his new office, in acknowledgment of which ceremony he delivered himself of a speech, composed by the secretary, which was very long, and no doubt very good, only the noise of the people outside prevented anybody from hearing it, but Nicholas Tulrumble himself. After which, the procession got back to Mudfog Hall any how it could; and Nicholas and the corporation sat down to dinner.</p> <p>But the dinner was flat, and Nicholas was disappointed. They were such dull sleepy old fellows, that corporation. Nicholas made quite as long speeches as the Lord Mayor of London had done, nay, he said the very same things that the Lord Mayor of London had said, and the deuce a cheer the corporation gave him. There was only one man in the party who was thoroughly awake; and he was insolent, and called him Nick. Nick! What would be the consequence, thought Nicholas, of anybody presuming to call the Lord Mayor of London “Nick!” He should like to know what the sword-bearer would say to that; or the recorder, or the toast-master, or any other of the great officers of the city. They’d nick him.</p> <p>But these were not the worst of Nicholas Tulrumble’s doings; If they had been, he might have remained a Mayor to this day, and have talked till he lost his voice. He contracted a relish for statistics, and got philosophical; and the statistics and the philosophy together, led him into an act which increased his unpopularity and hastened his downfall.</p> <p>At the very end of the Mudfog High-street, and abutting on the river-side, stands the Jolly Boatmen, an old-fashioned, low-roofed, bay-windowed house, with a bar, kitchen, and tap-room all in one, and a large fire-place with a kettle to correspond, round which the working men have congregated time out of mind on a winter’s night, refreshed by draughts of good strong beer, and cheered by the sounds of a fiddle and tambourine: the Jolly Boatmen having been duly licensed by the Mayor and corporation, to scrape the fiddle and thumb the tambourine from time, whereof the memory of the oldest inhabitants goeth not to the contrary. Now Nicholas Tulrumble had been reading pamphlets on crime, and parliamentary reports,— or had made the secretary read them to him, which is the same thing in effect,—and he at once perceived that this fiddle and tambourine must have done more to demoralize Mudfog, than any other operating causes that ingenuity could imagine. So he read up for the subject, and determined to come out on the corporation with a burst, the very next time the licence was applied for.</p> <p>The licensing day came, and the red-faced landlord of the Jolly Boatmen, walked into the town-hall, looking as jolly as need be, having actually put on an extra fiddle for that night, to commemorate the anniversary of the Jolly Boatmen’s music licence. It was applied for in due form, and was just about to be granted as a matter of course, when up rose Nicholas Tulrumble, and drowned the astonished corporation in a torrent of eloquence. He descanted in glowing terms upon the increasing depravity of his native town of Mudfog, and the excesses committed by its population. Then, he related how shocked he had been, to see barrels of beer sliding down into the cellar of the Jolly Boatmen week after week; and how he had sat at a window opposite the Jolly Boatmen for two days together, to count the people who went in for beer between the hours of twelve and one o’clock alone—which, by-the-bye, was the time at which the great majority of the Mudfog people dined. Then, he went on to state, how the number of people who came out with beer-jugs, averaged twenty-one in five minutes, which, being multiplied by twelve, gave two hundred and fifty-two people with beer-jugs in an hour, and multiplied again by fifteen (the number of hours during which the house was open daily) yielded three thousand seven hundred and eighty people with beer-jugs per day, or twenty-six thousand four hundred and sixty people with beer-jugs, per week. Then he proceeded to show that a tambourine and moral degradation were synonymous terms, and a fiddle and vicious propensities wholly inseparable. All these arguments he strengthened and demonstrated by frequent references to a large book with a blue cover, and sundry quotations from the Middlesex magistrates; and in the end, the corporation, who were posed with the figures, and sleepy with the speech, and sadly in want of dinner into the bargain, yielded the palm to Nicholas Tulrumble, and refused the music licence to the Jolly Boatmen.</p> <p>But although Nicholas triumphed, his triumph was short. He carried on the war against beer-jugs and fiddles, forgetting the time when he was glad to drink out of the one, and to dance to the other, till the people hated, and his old friends shunned him. He grew tired of the lonely magnificence of Mudfog Hall, and his heart yearned towards the Lighterman’s Arms. He wished he had never set up as a public man, and sighed for the good old times of the coal-shop, and the chimney-corner.</p> <p>At length old Nicholas, being thoroughly miserable, took heart of grace, paid the secretary a quarter’s wages in advance, and packed him off to London by the next coach. Having taken this step, he put his hat on his head, and his pride in his pocket, and walked down to the old room at the Lighterman’s Arms. There were only two of the old fellows there, and they looked coldly on Nicholas as he proffered his hand.</p> <p>“Are you going to put down pipes, Mr. Tulrumble?” said one.</p> <p>“Or trace the progress of crime to ’baccer?”<span>&nbsp;</span>growled the other.</p> <p>“Neither,” replied Nicholas Tulrumble, shaking hands with them both, whether they would or not. “I’ve come down to say that I’m very sorry for having made a fool of myself, and that I hope you’ll give me up, the old chair, again.”</p> <p>The old fellows opened their eyes, and three or four more old fellows opened the door, to whom Nicholas, with tears in his eyes, thrust out his hand too, and told the same story. They raised a shout of joy, that made the bells in the ancient church-tower vibrate again, and wheeling the old chair into the warm corner, thrust old Nicholas down into it, and ordered in the very largest-sized bowl of hot punch, with an unlimited number of pipes, directly.</p> <p>The next day, the Jolly Boatmen got the licence, and the next night, old Nicholas and Ned Twigger’s wife led off a dance to the music of the fiddle and tambourine, the tone of which seemed mightily improved by a little rest, for they never had played so merrily before. Ned Twigger was in the very height of his glory, and he danced hornpipes, and balanced chairs on his chin, and straws on his nose, till the whole company, including the corporation, were in raptures of admiration at the brilliancy of his acquirements.</p> <p>Mr. Tulrumble, junior, couldn’t make up his mind to be anything but magnificent, so he went up to London and drew bills on his father; and when he had overdrawn, and got into debt, he grew penitent and came home again.</p> <p>As to old Nicholas, he kept his word, and having had six weeks of public life, never tried it any more. He went to sleep in the town-hall at the very next meeting; and, in full proof of his sincerity, has requested us to write this faithful narrative. We wish it could have the effect of reminding the Tulrumbles of another sphere, that puffed-up conceit is not dignity, and that snarling at the little pleasures they were once glad to enjoy, because they would rather forget the times when they were of lower station, renders them objects of contempt and ridicule.</p> <p>This is the first time we have published any of our gleanings from this particular source. Perhaps, at some future period, we may venture to open the chronicles of Mudfog.</p> </div> https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/Quartette/1836-The_Village_Coquettes_Quartette.pdf d35cbb30fb1c40a523e6cd3a0b968931 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Verse Description An account of the resource <h4>This collection brings together the most complete set of Dickens's verse to date, supplementing the work of existing editions with previously uncollected poems Dickens contributed to albums, or wrote anonymously.</h4> Though such productions receive scant attention from scholars interested in his fiction and journalism, Dickens composed a surprising amount of verse. It was a genre in which he evidently felt much less at home (and financially rewarded) than when writing in prose. However, several poems gained popular favour during his lifetime; that so many were <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Song">written to be set to music</a> indicates the permeable boundary between metered verse functioning as poem or song in the nineteenth century, and may explain why some of Dickens’s poems were more enduringly popular than others. Notably, <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-05_Pickwick_Papers_The_Ivy_Green">'The Ivy Green'</a> from <em>Pickwick Papers</em> (1837), a story of time’s inexorable passing, was frequently republished in newspapers.<br /><br />Several poems written to young ladies of Dickens’s acquaintance are released on <em>Dickens Search</em> as part of the author’s poetic output for the first time, testifying to the author’s ability to write impromptu poetry and gallantly turn a phrase. Since keeping <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album&amp;collection=&amp;type=&amp;tags=&amp;date_search_term=&amp;submit_search=Search+For+Items">autograph albums</a> was a popular pastime for women in the Victorian era, it is possible that further examples of such activity remain to be discovered in various archives and private collections.<br /><br />When writing <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter&amp;collection=3&amp;type=&amp;tags=&amp;date_search_term=&amp;submit_search=Search+For+Items">letters</a> to friends, Dickens occasionally included comedic poems for the recipient. Several of these are included.&nbsp;Considering the enormity of Dickens’s correspondence, likely more instances of this sort of poetic humour will result over time.<br /><br /><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Epitaph">Epitaphs</a> Dickens wrote for friends and family, whether used or not, are included with Dickens's other verse for the first time. Users can also browse <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Play">verse from Dickens's plays</a>, including songs removed from&nbsp;<em>The Strange Gentleman&nbsp;</em>and&nbsp;<em>Is She His Wife? Or, Something Singular!&nbsp;</em>before performance.<br /><br />Care is necessary when verifying the accuracy of these poems, as some are misattributed to Dickens. Widespread reprintings of 'Dickens poems' in nineteenth-century newspapers are insufficient evidence for authorial attribution, owing to the mistakes intentionally or inadvertently made in ascribing authorship.<br /><br />An unusual example of a poem that is and is not by Dickens, the lines of 'Little Nell’s Funeral' are taken, with minimal alterations, from Chapter 72 of <em>The Old Curiosity Shop</em>. An instance of the strikingly lyrical quality of Dickens’s sentimental prose, they were divided into metered, unrhymed verse by M.A.H. for the 1849 collection <em>Echoes of Infant Voices</em>. Because Dickens did not intend for this passage to be structured in verse form, the poem is not included in the poetry collection of <em>Dickens Search</em>. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/poetry-dickens-didnt-write">Read our blog post for more on poetry Dickens <em>didn't </em>write.</a><br /><br />Occasionally, Dickens will quote a poem by another author, as in his burlesque <em>Is She his Wife? Or, Something Singular!</em>&nbsp;(1836). The character Mr Felix Tapkins launches into a short hunting song beginning 'The wife around her husband throws/Her arms to make him stay'. As William Chappell noted in 1840, this is a well-known variant of 'A Hunting We Will Go' (1777), by Thomas Arne, though he misattributes its composition to Henry Fielding.<br /><br />Previous notable collections of some of Dickens's poetry include <em>The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens</em> (1882) edited by Richard Herne Shepherd and <em>The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens</em> (1903) edited by Frederic G. Kitton. In 2025, we published <em><a href="https://edinburghuniversitypress.com/book-the-verse-of-charles-dickens.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Verse of Charles Dickens</a> </em>(Edinburgh University Press), which includes an introduction and editorial apparatus for this verse.&nbsp;<br /><br />Caution has been taken when ascertaining that each poem is indeed by Dickens. Please <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/contact">contact us</a> with any errors, corrections, suggestions, or other poems written by Dickens.<br /><br />1. <em>The Verse of Charles Dickens.</em> Edited by Lydia Craig and Emily Middleton. Edinburgh University Press, 2025; Robert Butterworth. 'The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers.' <em>The Dickensian</em> 516.118.1 (Spring 2022): pp. 43-56; Eva-Charlotta Mebius. 'Dreams of Dying Girls: The Poetry of Thomas J. Ouseley and Charles Dickens.' <em>Dickens Quarterly</em> 34.3 (September 2017): pp. 256-261; Robert C. Hanna. 'Before Boz; The Juvenilia and Early Writings of Charles Dickens, 1820-1833'. <em>Dickens Studies Annual</em> 40 (2009): pp. 231-364. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context verse Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Lydia Craig; Emily Middleton Poem Ngram Date Hidden from users and search. All items in a collection need to have the same data in the same format in order to show up in Ngram (either YYYY, YYYYMMDD, or YYYYMMDD). No combinations will work. For journalism, letters and poetry, if there is no month or day, default to the first of the month or January. So a poem with a date of March 1843 would be 18430301. A poem published in 1856 with no month or date information would be 18560101. 18360101 Ngram Text Hidden from users and search. Copy and paste from the Scripto transcription. Then check and uncheck HTML to strip out all formatting. Finally, search and remove any &nbsp; (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. Squire. Hear me, when I swear that the farm is your own Through all changes Fortune may make; The base charge of falsehood I never have known; This promise I never will break. Rose and Lucy. Hear him, when he swears that the farm is our own Through all changes Fortune may make; The base charge of falsehood he never has known; This promise he never will break. Enter YOUNG BENSON. Young Benson. My sister here! Lucy! begone, I command. Squire. To your home I restore you again. Young Benson. No boon I’ll accept from that treacherous hand As the price of my fair sister’s fame. Squire. To your home! Young B. (To Lucy.) Hence away! Lucy. Brother dear, I obey. Squire. I restore. Young B. Hence away! Young B. Rose and Lucy. Let us leave. Lucy. He swears it, dear brother. Squire. I swear it. Young B. Away! Squire. I swear it. Young B. You swear to deceive. Squire. Hear me, when I swear that the farm is your own Through all the changes Fortune may make. Lucy and Rose. Hear him, when he swears that the farm is our own Through all changes Fortune may make. Young B. Hear him swear, hear him swear, that the farm is our own Through all changes Fortune may make. Squire. The base charge of falsehood I never have known, This promise I never will break. Lucy and Rose. The base charge of falsehood he never has known, This promise he never will break. Young B. The base charge of falsehood he often has known, This promise he surely will break. Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Play Publication The title of the newspaper/serial (if applicable) The Village Coquettes, An Operatic Burletta in Two Acts TEI File Link to TEI file <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1836_The_Village_Coquettes_Quartette.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Quartette.' <em>The Village Coquettes, An Operatic Burletta in Two Acts</em> (1836).</a> Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 'Quartette' Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <p class="p1"><i>The Village Coquettes, An Operatic Burletta in Two Acts </i>(1836). London: John Dicks.<span class="Apple-converted-space">&nbsp;</span></p> Internet Archive, <a href="https://archive.org/details/villagecoquettes00dickuoft/page/12/mode/2up?view=theater" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://archive.org/details/villagecoquettes00dickuoft/page/12/mode/2up?view=theater</a>. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1836 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Hullah, John Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <p class="p1"><i>Internet</i><span>&nbsp;<em>Archive</em>: Access to the Archive’s Collections is provided at no cost and is granted for scholarship and research purposes only (</span><span class="s1"><a href="https://archive.org/about/terms.php" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://archive.org/about/terms.php</a>).</span></p> Type The nature or genre of the resource Song Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1836-The_Village_Coquettes_Quartette Bibliographic Citation A bibliographic reference for the resource. Recommended practice is to include sufficient bibliographic detail to identify the resource as unambiguously as possible. <p class="p1">Dickens, Charles. 'Quartette.' <i>The Village Coquettes </i>(1836): p.12. <i>Dickens Search. </i>Eds. Emily <span>Middleton</span> and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-The_Village_Coquettes_Quartette">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-The_Village_Coquettes_Quartette</a>.</p> Description An account of the resource From <em>The Village Coquettes, An Operatic Burletta in Two Acts </em>(1836). Music by John Hullah, p.12. Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Squire</em>. Hear me, when I swear that the farm is your own</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Through all changes Fortune may make;&nbsp;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">The base charge of falsehood I never have known;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">This promise I never will break.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Rose</em> and <em>Lucy</em>. Hear him, when he swears that the farm is our own</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Through all changes Fortune may make;<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: 400;">The base charge of falsehood he never has known;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">This promise he never will break.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Enter</em> YOUNG BENSON.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Young Benson.</em> My sister here! Lucy! begone, I command.&nbsp;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Squire.</em> To your home I restore you again.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Young Benson.</em> No boon I’ll accept from that treacherous hand</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">As the price of my fair sister’s fame.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Squire.</em> To your home!</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Young B.</em> (To <em>Lucy</em>.)&nbsp;Hence away!<br /><br /><em>Lucy.</em> Brother dear, I obey.<br /><br /><em>Squire.</em> I restore.<br /><br /><em>Young B.</em> Hence away!<br /><br /><em>Young B. Rose </em>and <em>Lucy.</em> Let us leave.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Lucy.</em> He swears it, dear brother.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Squire.</em> I swear it.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Young B.</em> Away!</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Squire.</em> I swear it.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Young B.</em> You swear to deceive.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Squire.</em> Hear me, when I swear that the farm is your own</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Through all the changes Fortune may make.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Lucy</em> and <em>Rose</em>. Hear him, when he swears that the farm is our own</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Through all changes Fortune may make.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Young B.</em> Hear him swear, hear him swear, that the farm is our own</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Through all changes Fortune may make.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Squire.</em> The base charge of falsehood I never have known,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">This promise I never will break.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Lucy</em> and <em>Rose.</em> The base charge of falsehood he never has known,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">This promise he never will break.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;"><em>Young B.</em> The base charge of falsehood he often has known,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">This promise he surely will break. </span></p> https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/Romance/1837-06-Pickwick_Papers_Romance.pdf 10e1359e5231ffc8cff0778693dfb78b Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Verse Description An account of the resource <h4>This collection brings together the most complete set of Dickens's verse to date, supplementing the work of existing editions with previously uncollected poems Dickens contributed to albums, or wrote anonymously.</h4> Though such productions receive scant attention from scholars interested in his fiction and journalism, Dickens composed a surprising amount of verse. It was a genre in which he evidently felt much less at home (and financially rewarded) than when writing in prose. However, several poems gained popular favour during his lifetime; that so many were <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Song">written to be set to music</a> indicates the permeable boundary between metered verse functioning as poem or song in the nineteenth century, and may explain why some of Dickens’s poems were more enduringly popular than others. Notably, <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-05_Pickwick_Papers_The_Ivy_Green">'The Ivy Green'</a> from <em>Pickwick Papers</em> (1837), a story of time’s inexorable passing, was frequently republished in newspapers.<br /><br />Several poems written to young ladies of Dickens’s acquaintance are released on <em>Dickens Search</em> as part of the author’s poetic output for the first time, testifying to the author’s ability to write impromptu poetry and gallantly turn a phrase. Since keeping <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album&amp;collection=&amp;type=&amp;tags=&amp;date_search_term=&amp;submit_search=Search+For+Items">autograph albums</a> was a popular pastime for women in the Victorian era, it is possible that further examples of such activity remain to be discovered in various archives and private collections.<br /><br />When writing <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter&amp;collection=3&amp;type=&amp;tags=&amp;date_search_term=&amp;submit_search=Search+For+Items">letters</a> to friends, Dickens occasionally included comedic poems for the recipient. Several of these are included.&nbsp;Considering the enormity of Dickens’s correspondence, likely more instances of this sort of poetic humour will result over time.<br /><br /><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Epitaph">Epitaphs</a> Dickens wrote for friends and family, whether used or not, are included with Dickens's other verse for the first time. Users can also browse <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Play">verse from Dickens's plays</a>, including songs removed from&nbsp;<em>The Strange Gentleman&nbsp;</em>and&nbsp;<em>Is She His Wife? Or, Something Singular!&nbsp;</em>before performance.<br /><br />Care is necessary when verifying the accuracy of these poems, as some are misattributed to Dickens. Widespread reprintings of 'Dickens poems' in nineteenth-century newspapers are insufficient evidence for authorial attribution, owing to the mistakes intentionally or inadvertently made in ascribing authorship.<br /><br />An unusual example of a poem that is and is not by Dickens, the lines of 'Little Nell’s Funeral' are taken, with minimal alterations, from Chapter 72 of <em>The Old Curiosity Shop</em>. An instance of the strikingly lyrical quality of Dickens’s sentimental prose, they were divided into metered, unrhymed verse by M.A.H. for the 1849 collection <em>Echoes of Infant Voices</em>. Because Dickens did not intend for this passage to be structured in verse form, the poem is not included in the poetry collection of <em>Dickens Search</em>. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/poetry-dickens-didnt-write">Read our blog post for more on poetry Dickens <em>didn't </em>write.</a><br /><br />Occasionally, Dickens will quote a poem by another author, as in his burlesque <em>Is She his Wife? Or, Something Singular!</em>&nbsp;(1836). The character Mr Felix Tapkins launches into a short hunting song beginning 'The wife around her husband throws/Her arms to make him stay'. As William Chappell noted in 1840, this is a well-known variant of 'A Hunting We Will Go' (1777), by Thomas Arne, though he misattributes its composition to Henry Fielding.<br /><br />Previous notable collections of some of Dickens's poetry include <em>The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens</em> (1882) edited by Richard Herne Shepherd and <em>The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens</em> (1903) edited by Frederic G. Kitton. In 2025, we published <em><a href="https://edinburghuniversitypress.com/book-the-verse-of-charles-dickens.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Verse of Charles Dickens</a> </em>(Edinburgh University Press), which includes an introduction and editorial apparatus for this verse.&nbsp;<br /><br />Caution has been taken when ascertaining that each poem is indeed by Dickens. Please <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/contact">contact us</a> with any errors, corrections, suggestions, or other poems written by Dickens.<br /><br />1. <em>The Verse of Charles Dickens.</em> Edited by Lydia Craig and Emily Middleton. Edinburgh University Press, 2025; Robert Butterworth. 'The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers.' <em>The Dickensian</em> 516.118.1 (Spring 2022): pp. 43-56; Eva-Charlotta Mebius. 'Dreams of Dying Girls: The Poetry of Thomas J. Ouseley and Charles Dickens.' <em>Dickens Quarterly</em> 34.3 (September 2017): pp. 256-261; Robert C. Hanna. 'Before Boz; The Juvenilia and Early Writings of Charles Dickens, 1820-1833'. <em>Dickens Studies Annual</em> 40 (2009): pp. 231-364. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context verse Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Lydia Craig; Emily Middleton Poem Ngram Date Hidden from users and search. All items in a collection need to have the same data in the same format in order to show up in Ngram (either YYYY, YYYYMMDD, or YYYYMMDD). No combinations will work. For journalism, letters and poetry, if there is no month or day, default to the first of the month or January. So a poem with a date of March 1843 would be 18430301. A poem published in 1856 with no month or date information would be 18560101. 18370601 Ngram Text Hidden from users and search. Copy and paste from the Scripto transcription. Then check and uncheck HTML to strip out all formatting. Finally, search and remove any &nbsp; (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. Bold Turpin vunce, on Hounslow Heath, His bold mare Bess bestrode – er; Ven there he see’d the Bishop’s coach A-comin’ along the road – er.  So he gallops close to the ‘orse’s legs, And he claps his head vithin; And the Bishop says, "Sure as eggs is eggs, This here’s the bold Turpin!” (CHORUS.) And the Bishop says, "Sure as eggs is eggs, This here’s the bold Turpin!" Says Turpin, "You shall eat your words, With a sarse of leaden bul’let;" So he puts a pistol to his mouth, And he fires it down his gul-let. The coachman, he not likin’ the job, Set off at a full gal-lop, But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob, And perwailed on him to stop. (CHORUS sarcastically.) But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob, And perwailed on him to stop. Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Serial Publication The title of the newspaper/serial (if applicable) <em>The Pickwick Papers</em> TEI File Link to TEI file <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1837-06_Pickwick_Papers_Romance.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Romance.' <em>The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club</em>. Issue 15, Chapter 43 (June 1837): p. 464.</a> Pseudonym The name under which the item was published BOZ Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 'Romance' Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <p class="p1"><i>The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. </i>Issue 15, Chapter 43 (June 1837), p. 464. <i>UVic Libraries, </i><a href="https://vault.library.uvic.ca/concern/file_sets/93a0e9d2-e383-4c75-88eb-a6cdb9d29cac?locale=en" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://vault.library.uvic.ca/concern/file_sets/93a0e9d2-e383-4c75-88eb-a6cdb9d29cac?locale=en</a>.</p> Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Chapman and Hall Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1837-06 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <p class="p1"><i>UVic Libraries, </i>Creative Commons Attribution NonCommercial, <span class="s1"><a href="https://creativecommons.org/lice%20nses/by-nc/4.0/&nbsp;" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/lice nses/by-nc/4.0/</a><span class="Apple-converted-space">.</span></span></p> Type The nature or genre of the resource Poem Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1837-06-Pickwick_Papers_Romance Bibliographic Citation A bibliographic reference for the resource. Recommended practice is to include sufficient bibliographic detail to identify the resource as unambiguously as possible. <p class="p1">Dickens, Charles. 'Romance' from <i>The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club. </i>Chapter 43, Number 15 (June 1837), p. 464. <i>Dickens Search. </i>Eds. Emily <span>Middleton</span> and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1837-06-Pickwick_Papers_Romance">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1837-06-Pickwick_Papers_Romance</a>.</p> Description An account of the resource From <em>The Pickwick Papers,</em> Chapter 43, Number 15 (June 1837). Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Bold Turpin vunce, on Hounslow Heath,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">His bold mare Bess bestrode – er;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Ven there he see’d the Bishop’s coach</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">A-comin’ along the road – er.&nbsp;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">So he gallops close to the ‘orse’s legs,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">And he claps his head vithin;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">And the Bishop says, "Sure as eggs is eggs,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">This here’s the bold Turpin!”</span></p> <br /> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">(CHORUS.) <em>And the Bishop says, "Sure as eggs is eggs,</em></span></p> <p><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">This here’s the bold Turpin!"</span></em></p> <br /> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Says Turpin, "You shall eat your words,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">With a sarse of leaden bul’let;"</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">So he puts a pistol to his mouth,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">And he fires it down his gul-let.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">The coachman, he not likin’ the job,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Set off at a full gal-lop,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">And perwailed on him to stop.</span></p> <br /> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">(CHORUS <em>sarcastically.) But Dick put a couple of balls in his nob,</em></span></p> <p><em><span style="font-weight: 400;">And perwailed on him to stop.</span></em></p> https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/Rose_s_Song/1836-The_Village_Coquettes_Roses_Song.pdf c04f535a8cb7debcdf57b64cc8508b6a Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Verse Description An account of the resource <h4>This collection brings together the most complete set of Dickens's verse to date, supplementing the work of existing editions with previously uncollected poems Dickens contributed to albums, or wrote anonymously.</h4> Though such productions receive scant attention from scholars interested in his fiction and journalism, Dickens composed a surprising amount of verse. It was a genre in which he evidently felt much less at home (and financially rewarded) than when writing in prose. However, several poems gained popular favour during his lifetime; that so many were <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Song">written to be set to music</a> indicates the permeable boundary between metered verse functioning as poem or song in the nineteenth century, and may explain why some of Dickens’s poems were more enduringly popular than others. Notably, <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-05_Pickwick_Papers_The_Ivy_Green">'The Ivy Green'</a> from <em>Pickwick Papers</em> (1837), a story of time’s inexorable passing, was frequently republished in newspapers.<br /><br />Several poems written to young ladies of Dickens’s acquaintance are released on <em>Dickens Search</em> as part of the author’s poetic output for the first time, testifying to the author’s ability to write impromptu poetry and gallantly turn a phrase. Since keeping <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album&amp;collection=&amp;type=&amp;tags=&amp;date_search_term=&amp;submit_search=Search+For+Items">autograph albums</a> was a popular pastime for women in the Victorian era, it is possible that further examples of such activity remain to be discovered in various archives and private collections.<br /><br />When writing <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter&amp;collection=3&amp;type=&amp;tags=&amp;date_search_term=&amp;submit_search=Search+For+Items">letters</a> to friends, Dickens occasionally included comedic poems for the recipient. Several of these are included.&nbsp;Considering the enormity of Dickens’s correspondence, likely more instances of this sort of poetic humour will result over time.<br /><br /><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Epitaph">Epitaphs</a> Dickens wrote for friends and family, whether used or not, are included with Dickens's other verse for the first time. Users can also browse <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Play">verse from Dickens's plays</a>, including songs removed from&nbsp;<em>The Strange Gentleman&nbsp;</em>and&nbsp;<em>Is She His Wife? Or, Something Singular!&nbsp;</em>before performance.<br /><br />Care is necessary when verifying the accuracy of these poems, as some are misattributed to Dickens. Widespread reprintings of 'Dickens poems' in nineteenth-century newspapers are insufficient evidence for authorial attribution, owing to the mistakes intentionally or inadvertently made in ascribing authorship.<br /><br />An unusual example of a poem that is and is not by Dickens, the lines of 'Little Nell’s Funeral' are taken, with minimal alterations, from Chapter 72 of <em>The Old Curiosity Shop</em>. An instance of the strikingly lyrical quality of Dickens’s sentimental prose, they were divided into metered, unrhymed verse by M.A.H. for the 1849 collection <em>Echoes of Infant Voices</em>. Because Dickens did not intend for this passage to be structured in verse form, the poem is not included in the poetry collection of <em>Dickens Search</em>. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/poetry-dickens-didnt-write">Read our blog post for more on poetry Dickens <em>didn't </em>write.</a><br /><br />Occasionally, Dickens will quote a poem by another author, as in his burlesque <em>Is She his Wife? Or, Something Singular!</em>&nbsp;(1836). The character Mr Felix Tapkins launches into a short hunting song beginning 'The wife around her husband throws/Her arms to make him stay'. As William Chappell noted in 1840, this is a well-known variant of 'A Hunting We Will Go' (1777), by Thomas Arne, though he misattributes its composition to Henry Fielding.<br /><br />Previous notable collections of some of Dickens's poetry include <em>The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens</em> (1882) edited by Richard Herne Shepherd and <em>The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens</em> (1903) edited by Frederic G. Kitton. In 2025, we published <em><a href="https://edinburghuniversitypress.com/book-the-verse-of-charles-dickens.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Verse of Charles Dickens</a> </em>(Edinburgh University Press), which includes an introduction and editorial apparatus for this verse.&nbsp;<br /><br />Caution has been taken when ascertaining that each poem is indeed by Dickens. Please <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/contact">contact us</a> with any errors, corrections, suggestions, or other poems written by Dickens.<br /><br />1. <em>The Verse of Charles Dickens.</em> Edited by Lydia Craig and Emily Middleton. Edinburgh University Press, 2025; Robert Butterworth. 'The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers.' <em>The Dickensian</em> 516.118.1 (Spring 2022): pp. 43-56; Eva-Charlotta Mebius. 'Dreams of Dying Girls: The Poetry of Thomas J. Ouseley and Charles Dickens.' <em>Dickens Quarterly</em> 34.3 (September 2017): pp. 256-261; Robert C. Hanna. 'Before Boz; The Juvenilia and Early Writings of Charles Dickens, 1820-1833'. <em>Dickens Studies Annual</em> 40 (2009): pp. 231-364. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context verse Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Lydia Craig; Emily Middleton Poem Ngram Date Hidden from users and search. All items in a collection need to have the same data in the same format in order to show up in Ngram (either YYYY, YYYYMMDD, or YYYYMMDD). No combinations will work. For journalism, letters and poetry, if there is no month or day, default to the first of the month or January. So a poem with a date of March 1843 would be 18430301. A poem published in 1856 with no month or date information would be 18560101. 18360101 Ngram Text Hidden from users and search. Copy and paste from the Scripto transcription. Then check and uncheck HTML to strip out all formatting. Finally, search and remove any &nbsp; (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. Some folks who have grown old and sour, Say love does nothing but annoy. The fact is, they have had their hour, So envy what they can’t enjoy. I like the glance – I like the sigh – That does of ardent passion tell! If some folks were as young as I, I’m sure they’d like it quite as well. Old maiden aunts so hate the men, So well know how wives are harried, It makes them sad – not jealous – when They see their poor dear nieces married. All men are fair and false, they know, And with deep sighs they assail ‘em, It’s so long since they tried men, though, I rather think their mem’ries fail ‘em. Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Play Publication The title of the newspaper/serial (if applicable) <em>The Village Coquettes, An Operatic Burletta in Two Acts</em> TEI File Link to TEI file <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1836_The_Village_Coquettes_Roses_Song.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Rose's Song.' <em>The Village Coquettes, An Operatic Burletta in Two Acts</em> (1836).</a> Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 'Rose's Song' Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <i>The Village Coquettes, An Operatic Burletta in Two Acts </i>(1836). London: John Dicks.<span class="Apple-converted-space">&nbsp;</span> Internet Archive, <a href="https://archive.org/details/villagecoquettes00dickuoft/page/12/mode/2up?view=theater" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://archive.org/details/villagecoquettes00dickuoft/page/12/mode/2up?view=theater</a>. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1836 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Hullah, John Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <p class="p1"><i>Internet</i><span>&nbsp;<em>Archive</em>: Access to the Archive’s Collections is provided at no cost and is granted for scholarship and research purposes only (</span><span class="s1"><a href="https://archive.org/about/terms.php" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://archive.org/about/terms.php</a>).</span></p> Type The nature or genre of the resource Song Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1836-The_Village_Coquettes_Roses_Song Bibliographic Citation A bibliographic reference for the resource. Recommended practice is to include sufficient bibliographic detail to identify the resource as unambiguously as possible. <p class="p1">Dickens, Charles. 'Rose's Song.' <i>The Village Coquettes </i>(1836): p.6. <i>Dickens Search. </i>Eds. Emily <span>Middleton</span> and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-The_Village_Coquettes_Roses_Song">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-The_Village_Coquettes_Roses_Song</a>.</p> Description An account of the resource From <em>The Village Coquettes, An Operatic Burletta in Two Acts </em>(1836). Music by John Hullah, p.6. Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Some folks who have grown old and sour,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Say love does nothing but annoy.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">The fact is, they have had their hour,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">So envy what they can’t enjoy.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">I like the glance – I like the sigh –&nbsp;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">That does of ardent passion tell!&nbsp;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">If some folks were as young as I,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">I’m sure they’d like it quite as well.</span></p> <br /> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Old maiden aunts so hate the men,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">So well know how wives are harried,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">It makes them sad – not jealous – when</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">They see their poor dear nieces married.</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">All men are fair and false, they know,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">And with deep sighs they assail ‘em,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">It’s so long since they tried men, though,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">I rather think their mem’ries fail ‘em. </span></p> https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/Round/1836-The_Village_Coquettes_Round.pdf 68476ffa087933c8466deee0ac57eb6c Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Verse Description An account of the resource <h4>This collection brings together the most complete set of Dickens's verse to date, supplementing the work of existing editions with previously uncollected poems Dickens contributed to albums, or wrote anonymously.</h4> Though such productions receive scant attention from scholars interested in his fiction and journalism, Dickens composed a surprising amount of verse. It was a genre in which he evidently felt much less at home (and financially rewarded) than when writing in prose. However, several poems gained popular favour during his lifetime; that so many were <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Song">written to be set to music</a> indicates the permeable boundary between metered verse functioning as poem or song in the nineteenth century, and may explain why some of Dickens’s poems were more enduringly popular than others. Notably, <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-05_Pickwick_Papers_The_Ivy_Green">'The Ivy Green'</a> from <em>Pickwick Papers</em> (1837), a story of time’s inexorable passing, was frequently republished in newspapers.<br /><br />Several poems written to young ladies of Dickens’s acquaintance are released on <em>Dickens Search</em> as part of the author’s poetic output for the first time, testifying to the author’s ability to write impromptu poetry and gallantly turn a phrase. Since keeping <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album&amp;collection=&amp;type=&amp;tags=&amp;date_search_term=&amp;submit_search=Search+For+Items">autograph albums</a> was a popular pastime for women in the Victorian era, it is possible that further examples of such activity remain to be discovered in various archives and private collections.<br /><br />When writing <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter&amp;collection=3&amp;type=&amp;tags=&amp;date_search_term=&amp;submit_search=Search+For+Items">letters</a> to friends, Dickens occasionally included comedic poems for the recipient. Several of these are included.&nbsp;Considering the enormity of Dickens’s correspondence, likely more instances of this sort of poetic humour will result over time.<br /><br /><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Epitaph">Epitaphs</a> Dickens wrote for friends and family, whether used or not, are included with Dickens's other verse for the first time. Users can also browse <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&amp;advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Play">verse from Dickens's plays</a>, including songs removed from&nbsp;<em>The Strange Gentleman&nbsp;</em>and&nbsp;<em>Is She His Wife? Or, Something Singular!&nbsp;</em>before performance.<br /><br />Care is necessary when verifying the accuracy of these poems, as some are misattributed to Dickens. Widespread reprintings of 'Dickens poems' in nineteenth-century newspapers are insufficient evidence for authorial attribution, owing to the mistakes intentionally or inadvertently made in ascribing authorship.<br /><br />An unusual example of a poem that is and is not by Dickens, the lines of 'Little Nell’s Funeral' are taken, with minimal alterations, from Chapter 72 of <em>The Old Curiosity Shop</em>. An instance of the strikingly lyrical quality of Dickens’s sentimental prose, they were divided into metered, unrhymed verse by M.A.H. for the 1849 collection <em>Echoes of Infant Voices</em>. Because Dickens did not intend for this passage to be structured in verse form, the poem is not included in the poetry collection of <em>Dickens Search</em>. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/poetry-dickens-didnt-write">Read our blog post for more on poetry Dickens <em>didn't </em>write.</a><br /><br />Occasionally, Dickens will quote a poem by another author, as in his burlesque <em>Is She his Wife? Or, Something Singular!</em>&nbsp;(1836). The character Mr Felix Tapkins launches into a short hunting song beginning 'The wife around her husband throws/Her arms to make him stay'. As William Chappell noted in 1840, this is a well-known variant of 'A Hunting We Will Go' (1777), by Thomas Arne, though he misattributes its composition to Henry Fielding.<br /><br />Previous notable collections of some of Dickens's poetry include <em>The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens</em> (1882) edited by Richard Herne Shepherd and <em>The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens</em> (1903) edited by Frederic G. Kitton. In 2025, we published <em><a href="https://edinburghuniversitypress.com/book-the-verse-of-charles-dickens.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Verse of Charles Dickens</a> </em>(Edinburgh University Press), which includes an introduction and editorial apparatus for this verse.&nbsp;<br /><br />Caution has been taken when ascertaining that each poem is indeed by Dickens. Please <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/contact">contact us</a> with any errors, corrections, suggestions, or other poems written by Dickens.<br /><br />1. <em>The Verse of Charles Dickens.</em> Edited by Lydia Craig and Emily Middleton. Edinburgh University Press, 2025; Robert Butterworth. 'The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers.' <em>The Dickensian</em> 516.118.1 (Spring 2022): pp. 43-56; Eva-Charlotta Mebius. 'Dreams of Dying Girls: The Poetry of Thomas J. Ouseley and Charles Dickens.' <em>Dickens Quarterly</em> 34.3 (September 2017): pp. 256-261; Robert C. Hanna. 'Before Boz; The Juvenilia and Early Writings of Charles Dickens, 1820-1833'. <em>Dickens Studies Annual</em> 40 (2009): pp. 231-364. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context verse Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Lydia Craig; Emily Middleton Poem Ngram Date Hidden from users and search. All items in a collection need to have the same data in the same format in order to show up in Ngram (either YYYY, YYYYMMDD, or YYYYMMDD). No combinations will work. For journalism, letters and poetry, if there is no month or day, default to the first of the month or January. So a poem with a date of March 1843 would be 18430301. A poem published in 1856 with no month or date information would be 18560101. 18360101 Ngram Text Hidden from users and search. Copy and paste from the Scripto transcription. Then check and uncheck HTML to strip out all formatting. Finally, search and remove any &nbsp; (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. Hail to the merry Autumn days, when yellow corn-fields shine, Far brighter than the costly cup, that holds the monarch’s wine! Hail to the merry harvest time, the gayest of the year, The time of rich and bounteous crops, rejoicing, and good cheer! ‘Tis pleasant on a fine Spring morn, to see the buds expand, ‘Tis pleasant in the Summer time, to view the teeming land; ‘Tis pleasant on a Winter’s night, to crouch around the blaze, But what are joys like these, my boys, to Autumn’s merry days! Then hail to merry Autumn days, when yellow corn-fields shine, Far brighter than the costly cup that holds the monarch’s wine! And hail to merry harvest time, the gayest of the year, The time of rich and bounteous crops, rejoicing, and good cheer! Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Play Publication The title of the newspaper/serial (if applicable) <em>The Village Coquettes, An Operatic Burletta in Two Acts</em> TEI File Link to TEI file <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1836_The_Village_Coquettes_Round.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Round.' <em>The Village Coquettes, An Operatic Burletta in Two Acts</em> (1836): p. 3.</a> Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 'Round' Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <em>The Village Coquettes, An Operatic Burletta in Two Acts</em> (1836). London: John Dicks. Internet Archive, <a href="https://archive.org/details/villagecoquettes00dickuoft/page/12/mode/2up?view=theater" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://archive.org/details/villagecoquettes00dickuoft/page/12/mode/2up?view=theater</a>. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1836 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Hullah, John Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <i>Internet</i><span>&nbsp;<em>Archive</em>: Access to the Archive’s Collections is provided at no cost and is granted for scholarship and research purposes only (</span><span class="s1"><a href="https://archive.org/about/terms.php" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://archive.org/about/terms.php</a>).</span> Type The nature or genre of the resource Song Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1836-The_Village_Coquettes_Round Bibliographic Citation A bibliographic reference for the resource. Recommended practice is to include sufficient bibliographic detail to identify the resource as unambiguously as possible. <p class="p1">Dickens, Charles. 'Round.' <i>The Village Coquettes </i>(1836): p. 3. <i>Dickens Search. </i>Eds. Emily <span>Middleton</span> and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-The_Village_Coquettes_Round">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1836-The_Village_Coquettes_Round</a>.</p> Description An account of the resource From <em>The Village Coquettes, An Operatic Burletta in Two Acts </em>(1836). Music by John Hullah, p.3. Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Hail to the merry Autumn days, when yellow corn-fields shine,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Far brighter than the costly cup, that holds the monarch’s wine!</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Hail to the merry harvest time, the gayest of the year,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">The time of rich and bounteous crops, rejoicing, and good cheer!</span></p> <br /> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">‘Tis pleasant on a fine Spring morn, to see the buds expand,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">‘Tis pleasant in the Summer time, to view the teeming land;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">‘Tis pleasant on a Winter’s night, to crouch around the blaze,&nbsp;</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">But what are joys like these, my boys, to Autumn’s merry days!</span></p> <br /> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Then hail to merry Autumn days, when yellow corn-fields shine,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">Far brighter than the costly cup that holds the monarch’s wine!</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">And hail to merry harvest time, the gayest of the year,</span></p> <p><span style="font-weight: 400;">The time of rich and bounteous crops, rejoicing, and good cheer!</span></p> https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/Sentiment/1836-09-01_The_Magazine_of_the_Beau_Monde_Sentiment.pdf 0627766a4d354af157c94a4ffa5824c5 Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Short Fiction Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context short-stories Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Lydia Craig Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. <p><strong>This collection (still in development) unites various short stories that Dickens wrote throughout his career for various publications, including newspapers and periodicals, and for inclusion in short story collections.</strong></p> <p>Between 1833, when he tentatively submitted “A Dinner at Poplar Walk” for publication in <em>The Monthly Magazine,</em> and his death in 1870, Dickens as ‘BOZ,’ briefly, as ‘TIBBS,’ and as “Charles Dickens” wrote dozens of short stories and ‘sketches,’ which often moved easily between journalism and story. It was as Boz, the late Georgian literary persona, that he first endeared himself to the British reading public in the pages of such newspapers and periodicals as <em>The Evening Chronicle</em>, <em>Bell’s Life in London, </em>and <em>Bentley's Miscellany</em> with a unique blend of comedy and pathos. By turns scathing of observed social and personal injustices, and appreciative of London’s colourful, vibrant culture and the oddities of human nature, Boz followed in the literary footsteps of other recent metropolitan commentators like Charles Lamb (‘ELIA’), Leigh Hunt, Theodore Hook, Robert Surtees, Thomas Hood, and John Poole, and eighteenth-century Picaresque novelists, Tobias Smollett and Henry Fielding. Soon, Dickens established his own unique voice. Prior to and following the ascension of the young Queen Victoria in 1837, Boz became a prescient spectator of both the rising empire’s rapidly developing culture in public spaces and of the domestic dramas enacted in British homes.</p> <p>Global fame arrived with the serial publication of <em>The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club</em> (1837), marking Dickens’s shift to writing novels. In tone, this rambling comedic travelogue owed much to Boz’s voice and incidentally featured several tales unrelated to the main narrative. Dickens would sporadically publish the Mudfog stories in 1836 and 1837, enlarging on them in <em>Sketches by Boz</em>, a collection of many of the sketches and stories first published by John Macrone in two volumes in 1836 and 1837 and illustrated by George Cruikshank. According to Robert L. Patten, ‘When Dickens gathered up previously published writing, anonymous and pseudonymous, for republication, he identified authorship with a particular subset of his journalistic pieces, the ‘sketches’ rather than the tales or portraits of characters, and with his pseudonym. Hence, after mooting several other titles, Dickens settled on <em>Sketches by Boz</em>’ (44). <em>Sketches of Young Gentlemen</em> (1838), a joking response to Rev. Edward Caswell, or “QUIZ’s” recent effort <em>Sketches of Young Ladies</em> (1838), and <em>Sketches of Couples</em> (1840) were published by Chapman and Hall and illustrated by Hablot Knight Browne, better known as ‘PHIZ’.</p> <p>After this point, Dickens’s short stories were published in his periodicals <em>Household Words</em> and <em>All the Year Round</em>, though after 1837 he never published them with any regularity, preferring instead to focus on writing and serialising novels. Occasionally, he contributed several chapters to a jointly authored short story, collection, or series; Christmas numbers of his periodicals provided the opportunity to feature multiple famous writers uniting to weave a Yule-tide yarn, such as <em>The Haunted House</em> (1859). Notably, his collaboration with Wilkie Collins resulted in such works as <em>The Perils of Certain English Prisoners</em> (1857) and <em>No Thoroughfare</em> (1867). Towards the end of his life, Dickens began to publish short stories again in American publications such as <em>The New York Ledger, The Atlantic Monthly, </em>and <em>Our Young Folks</em>.</p> <p>Until now, first printings of Dickens’s earliest short stories published between 1833 and 1836 have been difficult to find for those unable to visit the periodicals and newspaper holdings at eminent institutions such as The British Library. Similarly, the last ones written by Dickens have remained understudied due in part to their obscurity. Twentieth-century editions of the <em>Sketches </em>are generally based on the text of Chapman and Hall’s later 1839 single volume edition, which relies on the reissue serialised between 1837 and 1839, or the 1868 Charles Dickens Edition, which is based on the 1850 cheap (and further revised) edition.</p> <p>Other anthologies, for instance <em>Selected Short Fiction</em> (Penguin, 2005), edited by Deborah A. Thomas, choose excerpts from Dickens’s entire <em>oeuvre </em>in the short fiction genre. Several scholars have explored the drafting, publication, and impact of the early sketches and short stories, with notable studies including&nbsp;<em>Dickens and the Short Story</em>. (University of Philadelphia Press, 1982) by Deborah A. Thomas and <em>Charles Dickens and ‘Boz’: The Birth of the Industrial-Age Author</em> (Cambridge, 2012) by Patten.1 To date, the most comprehensive overview of the sketches is provided by<em> The Oxford Edition of Charles Dickens’s Sketches by Boz</em> (2021) edited by Paul Schlicke with David Hewitt. Others include <em>Dickens's Uncollected Magazine and Newspaper Sketches as Originally Composed and Published 1833–1836</em> (2012), edited by Robert C. Hanna, and <em>Sketches by Boz and Other Early Papers</em> (1994), edited by Michael Slater.</p> <p>Because Dickens made many alterations, whether significant or incidental, between the first printing of a sketch and successive editions, these changes open up a window into his editorial process and developing intentions for the ‘Boz’ legacy. Now, with this <em>Dickens Search</em> collection, these emendations can be studied with greater ease than ever before. Our transcription field contains text Dickens is believed to have solely authored, though our pdfs of the short story collaborations will be provided in their entirety to facilitate easier engagement and comprehension of how his narrative might interact with those constructed by other writers. Ngram search and other text analysis tools will be applied to Dickens’s words only, to avoid skewing the results.<br /><br />While building this collection, we have consulted, and transcribed scans found on databases such as <em>British Newspaper Archive (BNA),</em> digital archives, and such open-access sites as<em> Hathi Trust, Internet Archive,</em> and <em>Google Books</em>; all items are linked to their original location on the internet.</p> <p>Please contact us with any errors, corrections, and suggestions, or to mention other short stories by Dickens that might have been overlooked.</p> 1. See Dominic Rainsford. ‘“Luller-li-e-te”! Language, Personhood, and Sympathy in <em>Sketches by Boz.’</em> In <em>Some Keywords in Dickens</em>. Edited by Michael Hollington, Francesca Orestano, and Nathalie Vanfasse. Vandenhoeck &amp; Ruprecht, 2021, pp. 117-130; William F. Long. ‘“Our Space is Limited”: Fitting Sketches by Boz into the <em>Morning Chronicle</em>”. <em>Dickens Quarterly </em>4 (December 2020): pp. 325-348; William F. Long. 'Dickens before <em>Sketches by Boz</em>: Earliest Reactions to his Earliest Works'. <em>Dickensian</em> (2018), 114.505, pp.170-176; Christina Jen. '"Drop the Curtain": Astonishment and the Anxieties of Authorship in Charles Dickens's <em>Sketches by Boz. Dickens Studies Annual</em> 49.2 (2018): pp. 249-278; Dianne F. Sadoff. ‘Boz and Beyond: “Oliver Twist” and the Dickens Legacy’. <em>Dickens Studies Annual</em> 45 (2014): pp. 23-44; <em>Dickens's Uncollected Magazine and Newspaper Sketches, as Originally Composed and Published, 1833–1836, </em>No. 46. Ed. Robert C. Hanna (2012): New York, AMS Press; Danielle Coriale. ‘Sketches by Boz, “So Frail a Machine”. <em>SEL: Studies in English Literature </em>48.4 (2008): pp. 801-812; Paul Schlicke. ‘“Risen Like a Rocket”: The Impact of <em>Sketches by Boz’</em>. <em>Dickens Quarterly</em> 22.1 (2005): pp. 3-18; Ellen Miller Casey. ‘“Boz has got the Town by the ear”: Dickens and the “Athenæum Critics”’. <em>Dickens Studies Annual</em> 33 (2003): pp. 159-190; Richard Maxwell. ‘Dickens, the Two “Chronicles”, and the Publication of “Sketches by Boz”’. <em>Dickens Studies Annual</em> 9 (1981): pp. 21–32; Angus Easson. “Who is Boz? Dickens and His Sketches”. <em>The Dickensian</em> 18.1.405 (Spring 1985): pp. 13-22; Julian W. Breslow. 'The Narrator in <em>Sketches by Boz</em>.' <em>ELH</em> 44.1 (1977): pp. 127–49. Short Story Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Periodical Publication The title of the newspaper/serial (if applicable) <em>The Magazine of the Beau Monde</em> Ngram Date Hidden from users and search. All items in a collection need to have the same data in the same format in order to show up in Ngram (either YYYY, YYYYMMDD, or YYYYMMDD). No combinations will work. For journalism, letters and poetry, if there is no month or day, default to the first of the month or January. So a poem with a date of March 1843 would be 18430301. A poem published in 1856 with no month or date information would be 18560101. 18360901 Ngram Text Hidden from users and search. Copy and paste from the Scripto transcription. Then check and uncheck HTML to strip out all formatting. Finally, search and remove any &nbsp; (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. The Miss Crumptons, or to quote the authority of the inscription on the garden-gate of Minerva House, Hammersmith—"The Misses Crumpton" were two unusually tall, particularly thin, and exceedingly skinny personages— very upright and very yellow. Miss Amelia Crumpton owned to thirty-eight, and Miss Maria Crumpton admitted she was forty—an admission which was rendered perfectly unnecessary by the self-evident fact of her being fifty at least. They dressed in the most interesting manner—like twins, and looks about as happy and comfortable as a couple of marigolds run to seed. They were very precise, had the strictest possible ideas of propriety, wore false hair, and always smelt very strongly of lavender. Minerva House, conducted under the auspices of the two sisters, was a "finishing establishment for young ladies," where some twenty girls of the ages of from thirteen to nineteen inclusive, acquired a smattering of everything, and a knowledge of nothing; instruction in French and Italian, dancing lessons twice a week, and other necessaries of life. The house was a white one, a little removed from the road side, with close palings in front. The bed-room windows were always left partly open to afford a bird's eye view of numerous little bedsteads, with very white dimity furniture, and thereby impress the passer-by with a due sense of the luxuries of the establishment; and there was a front parlour hung round with highly varnished maps, which nobody ever looked at, and filled with books which no one ever read, appropriated exclusively to the reception of parents, who whenever they called, could not fail to be struck with the very knowledge-imparting appearance of the place. "Amelia, my dear," said Miss Maria Crumpton, entering the school room, with her false hair in papers, as she occasionally did, in order to impress the young ladies with a conviction of its reality—"Amelia, my dear, here's a most gratifying note I have just received. You needn't mind reading it aloud." Miss Amelia thus advised, proceeded to read the following note, with an air of great triumph. "Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq. M.P. presents his compliments to Miss Crumpton, and will feel much obliged by Miss Crumpton's calling on him, if she conveniently can, to morrow morning at one o'clock, as Cornelius Brook Dingall, Esq. M.P. is anxious to see Miss Crumpton on the subject of placing Miss Brook Dingwall under her charge. "Adelphi. "Monday morning." "A Member of Parliament's daughter!" ejaculated Amelia in an ecstatic tone. "A Member of Parliament's daughter!" repeated Miss Maria with a smile of delight, which of course, forthwith elicited a concurrent titter of pleasure from all the young ladies. "Its exceedingly delightful," said Miss Amelia, whereupon all the young ladies murmured their admiration again. Courtiers are but schoolboys multiplied by fifty. So important an announcement at once superseded the business of the day. A holiday was declared in commemoration of the greatevent: the Miss Crumptons retired to their private apartment to talk it over; the smaller girls discussed the probable manners and customs of the daughter of a Member of Parliament, and the young ladies verging on eighteen, wondered whether she was engaged, whether she was pretty, whether she wore much bustle, and many other whethers of equal importance. The two Miss Crumptons proceeded to the Adelphi at the appointed time next day, dressed, of course, in their best style, and looking as amiable as they possibly could—which, by-the-bye, is not saying much for them. Having sent in their cards through the medium of a red-hot looking footman in bright livery, they were ushered into the august presence of the profound Dingwall. Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P. was very haughty, solemn, and portentous. He had naturally a somewhat spasmodic expression of countenance, which was not rendered the less remarkable by his wearing an extremely stiff cravat. He was wonderfully proud of the "M.P.," attached to his name, and never lost an opportunity of reminding people of his dignity. He had a great idea of his own abilities, which must have been a great comfort to him, as no one else had; and in diplomacy, on a small scale in his own family arrangements, he considered himself unrivalled. He was a country magistrate, and discharged the duties of his station with all due justice and impartiality, frequently committing poachers, and occasionally committing himself. Miss Brook Dingwall was one of that numerous class of young ladies, who, like adverbs may be known by their answering to a common-place question, and doing nothing else. On the present occasion this talented individual was seated in a small library at a table covered with papers, doing nothing; but trying to look busy—playing at shop. Acts of Parliament, and letters directed to "Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq. M.P.," were ostentatiously scattered over the table, at a little distance from which, Mrs. Brook Dingwall was seated at work. One of those public nuisances, a spoiled child, was playing about the room, dressed after the most approved fashion, in a blue tunic with a black belt a quarter of a yard wide, fastened with an immense buckle, and looking like a robber in a Melo-Drama, seen through a diminishing glass. After a little pleasantry from the sweet child, who amused himself by running away with Miss Maria Crumpton's chair as fast as it was placed for her, the visitors were seated, and Cornelius Brook Dingwall Esq. opened the conversation. He had sent for Miss Crumpton, he said, in consequence of the high character he had received of her establishment from his friend Sir Alfred Muggs. Miss Crumpton murmured her acknowledgments to him (Muggs) and Cornelius proceeded. "One of my principal reasons Miss Crumpton for parting with my daughter is, that she has lately acquired some false sentimental sort of ideas which it is most desirable to eradicate from her young mind." (Here the little innocent before-noticed, fell out of an arm chair with an awful crash.) "Naughty boy," said his mamma, who appeared more surprised at his taking the liberty of falling down, than at anything else, "I'll ring the bell for James to take him away." "Pray don't check him, my love," said the diplomatist, as soon as he could make himself heard amidst the unearthly howling, consequent upon the threat and the tumble. "It all arises from his great flow of spirits." This last explanation was addressed to Miss Crumpton. "Certainly, Sir," replied the antique Maria, not exactly seeing, however, the connection between a flow of animal spirits, and a fall from an arm chair. Silence was restored, and the M.P. resumed: "Now I know nothing so likely to effect this object, Miss Crumpton, as her mixing constantly in the society of girls of her own age; and as I know that in your establishment she will meet such as are not likely to contaminate her young mind, I propose to send her to you." The youngest Miss Crumpton expressed the acknowledgements of the establishment generally. Maria was rendered perfectly speechless by bodily pain—the dear little fellow having recovered his spirits, was standing upon her most tender foot, by way of getting his face (which looked like a capital O in a red-lettered play-bill) on a level with the writing-table. "Of course Lavinia will be a parlour boarder," continued the enviable father; "and on one point I wish my directions to be strictly observed. The fact is, that some ridiculous love affair with a person much her inferior in life has been the case of her present state of mind. Knowing that of course under your care she can have no opportunity of meeting this person, I do not object to—indeed, I should rather prefer—her joining in such society as you see yourself," The important statement was again interrupted by the high-spirited little creature, in the excess of his joyousness, breaking a pane of glass, and nearly precipitating himself into an adjacent area. James was rung for; considerable confusion and screaming succeeded, two little blue legs, about the size of hoopsticks, were seen to kick violently in the air, as the man left the room, and the child was gone. "Mr. Brook Dingwall would like Miss Brook Dingwall to learn everything," said Mrs. Brook Dingwall, who hardly ever said any thing at all. "Certainly." said both the Miss Crumptons together. "And as I trust the plan I have devised will be effectual in weaning my daughter from this absurd idea, Miss Crumpton," continued the legislator, "I hope you will have the goodness to comply in all respects with any request I may forward to you." The promise was of course made, and after a lengthened discussion, conducted on behalf of the Dingwall's with the most becoming diplomatic gravity, and on that of the Crumpton's with profound respect, it was finally arranged that Miss Lavinia should be forwarded to Hammersmith on the next day but one; on which occasion the half-yearly ball given at the establishment was to take place. It might divert the dear girl's mind. This, by the way, was another bit of diplomacy. Miss Lavinia was forthwith introduced to her future governesses, and both the Miss Crumpton's pronounced her "a most charming girl," an opinion which, by a singular coincidence, they always entertained of any new pupil. Curtsies were made, acknowledgements expressed, condescension exhibited; and the interview terminated. Preparations, to make use of theatrical phraseology, "on a scale of magnitude never before attempted," were incessantly made at Minerva House, to give every effect to the forthcoming ball. The largest room in the house was pleasingly ornamented with blue calico roses, plaid tulips, and other equally natural-looking artificial flowers, the work of the young ladies themselves. The carpet was taken up; the folding-doors were taken door; the furniture was taken out, and rout seats taken in. The linen-drapers of Hammersmith were astounded at the sudden demand for blue sarsnet ribbon, and long white gloves. Dozens of geraniums were purchased for bouquets, and a harp and two violins were bespoke from town, in addition to the grand-piano already on the premises. The young ladies who were selected to show off "on the occasion," and do credit to the establishment, practised unceasingly, much to their own satisfaction, and greatly to the annoyance of the lame old gentleman over the way; and a constant correspondence was kept up with the Misses Crumpton and the Hammersmith pastry cook. The evening came: and then there was such a lacing of stays, and tying of sandals, and dressing of hair, as never can take place with a proper degree of bustle out of a boarding-school. The smaller girls managed to be in everybody's way, and were pushed about accordingly, and the elder ones dressed, and tied, and flattered, and envied one another as earnestly and sincerely as if they had actually come out. "How do I look, dear?" enquired Miss Emily Smithers, the belle of the house, of Miss Caroline Wilson, who was her bosom friend because she was the ugliest girl in Hammersmith, or out of it. "Oh, charming dear. How do I?" "Delightful—you never looked so handsome," returned the belle, adjusting her own dress, and not bestowing a glance on her poor companion. "I hope young Hilton will come early," said another young lady to Miss somebody else, in a fever of expectation. "I'm sure he'd be highly flattered if he knew it," returned the other, who was practicing l'eté for effect. "Oh! he's so handsome," said the first. "Such a charming person," added a second. "Such a distingue air," said a third. "Oh what do you think?" said another girl running into the room; Miss Crumpton says that her cousin's coming." "What! Theodosius Butler?" said everybody, in raptures. "Is he handsome," enquired a novice. "No, not particularly handsome," was the general reply; but oh, so clever!" Mr. Theodosius Butler was one of those immortal geniuses who are to be met with in almost every circle. They have usually very deep monotonous voices. They always persuade themselves that they are wonderful persons, and that they ought to be very miserable. They dont exactly know why. They are very conceited, and usually possess exactly half an idea: but with enthusiastic young ladies and silly young gentlemen, they are something wonderfully superior. The individual in question, Mr. Theodosius, had written a phamphlet containing some very weighty considerations on the expediency of doing something or other; and as every sentence contained at least fifty words of four syllables, his admirers took it for granted that he meant a good deal. "Perhaps that's he," exclaimed several young ladies, as the first pull of the evening threatened destruction to the bell at the gate. An awful pause ensued. Some boxes arrived, and a young lady—it was Miss Brook Dingwall, in full ball costumes, with an immense gold chain round her neck, and her dress looped up with a single rose. An ivory fan in her hand, and a most interesting expression of despair in her face. The Miss Crumptons enquired after the family with the most excruciating anxiety, and Miss Brook Dingwall was formally introduced to her future companions. The Miss Crumptons conversed with the young ladies in the most mellifluous tones, in order that Miss Brook Dingwall might be properly impressed with their amiable treatment. Another pull at the bell. Mr. Dadson, the writing master and his wife. The wife in green silk, with shoes and cap trimmings to correspond, and the writing master in a white waistcoat, black knee shorts, and ditto silk stockings, displaying a leg large enough for two writing masters, at least. The young ladies whispered one another, and the writing master and his wife flattered the Miss Crumptons who were dressed in amber, with long sashes, like dolls. Repeated pulls at the bell, and arrivals too numerous to particularize: Papas and Mammas, and aunts and uncles, the owners and guardians of the different pupils; the singing master Signor Lobskini, in a black wig; the pianoforte player and the violins, the harp in a state of intoxication, and some twenty young men who stood near the door, and talked to one another, occasionally bursting into a giggle. A general hum of conversation.—Coffee handed round, and plentifully partaken of by fat mamma's, looking like the stout people who come on in pantomimes for the sole purpose of being knocked down. The popular Mr. Hilton was the next arrival, and having, at the request of the Miss Crumptons, undertaken the office of Master of Ceremonies, the quadrilles commenced with considerable spirit. The young men by the door gradually advanced into the middle of the room, and in time became sufficiently at ease to consent to be introduced to partners. The writing master danced every set, springing about with the most fearful agility, and his wife played a rubber in the back parlour—a little room with five book shelves dignified by the name of the study. Setting her down to whist was a half-yearly piece of generalship on the part of the Miss Crumptons, as it was necessary to hide her somewhere on account of her being a fright. The interesting Lavinia Brook Dingwall was the only girl present who appeared to take no interest in the proceedings of the evening. In vain was she solicited to dance, in vain was the universal homage paid to her as the daughter of a member of parliament. She was equally unmoved by the splendid tenor of the inimitable Lobskini, and the brilliant execution of Miss Letitia Parsons, who performance of "The Recollections of Ireland," was universally declared to be almost equal to Moscheles himself. Not even the announcement of the arrival of Mr. Theodosius Butler could induce her to leave the corner of the back drawing room in which she was seated. "Now, Theodosius," said Miss Maria Crumpton, after that enlightened pamphleteer had nearly run the gauntlet of he whole company, "I must introduce you to our new pupil." Theodosius looked as if he cared for nothing earthly. "She's the daughter of a member of parliament," said Maria - Theodosius started. "And her name is—?" he enquired. "Miss Brook Dingwall." "Great Heaven!" poetically exclaimed Theodosius in a low tone. Miss Crumpton commenced the introduction in due form. Miss Brook Dingwall languidly raised her head. "Edward!" she exclaimed with a half shriek, on seeing the well known nankeen legs. Fortunately, as Miss Maria Crumpton possessed no remarkable share of penetration, and as it was one of the diplomatic arrangements that no attention was to be paid to Miss Lavinia's incoherent exclamations, she was perfectly unconscious of the mutual agitation of the parties; and therefore, seeing that the offer of his hand for the next quadrille was accepted, she left him by the side of Miss Brook Dingwall. "Oh, Edward," exclaimed that most romantic of all romantic young ladies, as that light of science seated himself beside her, "Oh, Edward is it you?" Mr. Theodosius assured the dear creature in the most impassioned manner that he was not conscious of being anybody but himself. "Then why—why—this disguise? oh, Edward McNeville Walter, what have I not suffered on your account." "Lavinia, hear me," replied the hero in his most poetic strain "Do not condemn me unheard. If anything that emanates from the soul of such a wretch as I, can occupy a place in your recollection—if any being so vile deserve your notice—you may remember that I once published a pamphlet (and paid for its publication) entitled "Considerations on the policy of removing the duty on bee's wax." "I do—I do—" sobbed Lavinia. "That," continued the lover "was a subject to which your father was devoted heart and soul." "He was—he was," reiterated the sentimentalist. "I knew it" continued Theodosius tragically, "I knew it—I forwarded him a copy. He wished to know me. Could I disclose my real name? Never! no, I assumed that name which you have so often pronounced in tones of endearment. As McNeville Walter I devoted myself to the stirring cause; as McNeville Walter I gained your heart; in the same character i was ejected from your house by your father's domestics, and in no character at all, have I since been enabled to see you. We now meet again, and I proudly own that I am—Theodosius Butler. The young lady appeared perfectly satisfied with this very argumentative address, and bestowed a look of the most ardent affection on the immortal advocate of bees wax. "May I hope," said he, "that the promise, your father's violent behaviour interrupted, may be renewed?" "Let us join this set," replied Lavinia coquetishly—for girls of nineteen can coquette. "No," ejaculated he of the nankeens. "I stir not from this spot writhing under this torture of suspense. May I—may I hope?" "You may." "The promise is renewed?" "It is." "I have your permission?" "You have." "To the fullest extent?" "You know it," returned Lavinia, affecting to blush. The contortions of the interesting Butler's visage expressed his raptures. We could dilate upon the occurrences of the evening. How Mr. Theodosius and Miss Lavinia danced and talked, and sighed for the remainder of the evening. How the Miss Crumpton's were delighted thereat. How the writing master continued to frisk about with one-horse power, and how his wife, from some unaccountable freak, left the whist table in the little back parlour, and persisted in displaying her green head dress in the most conspicuous part of the drawing-room. How the supper consisted of small triangular sandwiches in trays, with a tart here and there, by way of variety, and how the visitors consumed warm water disguised with lemon, and dotted with nutmeg, under the denomination of negus. These, and other matters of as much interest, however, we pass over, for the purpose of describing a scene of even more importance. A fortnight after the date of the ball, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq. M.P. was seated at the same library table, and in the same room as we have before described. He was alone, and his face bore an expression of deep thought and solemn gravity—he was drawing up a bill for the better observance of Easter Monday. The footman tapped at the door. The legislator started from his reverie, and "Miss Crumpton" was announced. Permission was given for Miss Crumption to enter the sanctum; Maria came sidling in, and having taken her seat with a due portion of affectation, the footman retired, and the governess was left alone with the M.P. Oh! how she longed for the presence of a third party—even the facetious young gentleman would have been a relief. Miss Crumpton began the duet. She hoped Mrs. Brook Dingwall, and the handsome little boy were in good health. They were. Mrs. Brook Dingwall and little Frederick were at Brighton. "Much obliged to you Miss Crumpton," said Cornelius in his dignified manner, "for your attention to calling this morning. I should have driven down to Hammersmith to see Lavinia, but your account was so very satisfactory, and my duties in the House occupy me so much that I determined to postpone it for a week. How has she gone on." "Very well, indeed, Sir," returned Maria, dreading to inform the father she had gone off. "Ah, I thought the plan on which I proceeded would be a match for her." "Here was a favourable opportunity to say that somebody else had been a match for her. The unfortunate governess was unequal to the task. "You have persevered strictly in the line of conduct I prescribed Miss Crumpton?" "Strictly, Sir." "You tell me in your note that her spirits gradually improved." "Very much, indeed, sir." "To be sure, I was convinced they would." "But I fear, sir," said Miss Crumpton, with visible emotion. "I fear the plan has not succeeded so well as we could have wished." "No!" exclaimed the prophet, "God bless me, Miss Crumpton, you look alarmed. What has happened?" "Miss Brook Dingwall, Sir—" "Yes, Ma'am." "Has gone, Sir"—said Maria, exhibiting a strong inclination to faint. "Gone!" "Eloped, Sir." "Eloped!—Who wish—when—where—how?" almost shrieked the agitated diplomatist. The natural yellow of the unfortunate Maria's face, changed to all the hues of the rainbow, as she laid a small packet upon the member's table. He hurriedly opened it. A letter from his daughter and another from Theodosius. He glanced over their contents - "ere this reaches you, far distant—appeal to feelings—love to distraction—bee's wax—slavery," &amp;c., &amp;c. He dashed his hand to his forehead, and paced the room with fearfully long strides, to the great alarm of the precise Maria. "Now mind; from this time forward," said the Brook Dingwall, suddenly stopping at the table, and beating time upon it with his hand "from this time forward, I never will, under any circumstances whatever, allow a man who writes pamphlets to enter any room of this house but the kitchen—I'll allow my daughter and her husband one hundred and fifty pounds a year, and never see their faces again—and damme, ma'am, I'll bring in a bill for abolition of finishing schools!" Some time has elapsed since this passionate declaration. Mr. and Mrs. Butler are at present rusticating in a small cottage at Ball's Pond, pleasantly situated in the immediate vicinity of a brick-field. They have no family. Mr. Theodosius looks very important and writes incessantly, but in consequence of some gross combination on the part of publishers, none of his productions appear in print. His young wife begins to think that ideal misery is preferable to real unhappiness; and that a marriage contracted in haste, and repented at leisure, is the cause of more substantial wretchedness, than she ever anticipated. On cool reflection, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq. M.P., was reluctantly compelled to admit that the untoward result of his admirable arrangements, was attributable, not to the Miss Crumptons', but his own diplomacy. He, however, consoles himself, like some other small diplomatists, by satisfactorily proving that if his plans did not succeed, they ought to have done so. Minerva House is in statu quo, and "The Misses Crumpton" remain in the peaceable and undisturbed enjoyment of all the advantages resulting from their Finishing-school. TEI File Link to TEI file <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1836-09-01_The_Magazine_of_the_Beau_Monde_Sentiment.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'Sentiment.' <em>The Magazine of the Beau Monde</em> (1 September 1836).</a> Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource 'Sentiment' Description An account of the resource Published in <em>The Magazine of the Beau Monde</em> (1 September 1836), pp. 122-126. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived <em>The Magazine of the Beau Monde,</em> <a href="https://www.google.com/books/edition/The_Magazine_of_the_beau_monde_or_Monthl/piYGAAAAQAAJ" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.google.com/books/edition/The_Magazine_of_the_beau_monde_or_Monthl/piYGAAAAQAAJ.</a> Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1836-09-01 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <p>Digitised materials on <em>Google Books</em> published before 1922 are in the public domain.</p> Type The nature or genre of the resource Short Story Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1836-09-01_The_Magazine_of_the_Beau_Monde_Sentiment Bibliographic Citation A bibliographic reference for the resource. Recommended practice is to include sufficient bibliographic detail to identify the resource as unambiguously as possible. Dickens, Charles. 'Sentiment' (1 September 1836). <em>Dickens Search.</em> Eds. Emily <span>Middleton</span> and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1836-09-01_The_Magazine_of_the_Beau_Monde_Sentiment">https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1836-09-01_The_Magazine_of_the_Beau_Monde_Sentiment</a>. Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. The Miss Crumptons, or to quote the authority of the inscription on the garden-gate of Minerva House, Hammersmith<span>—</span>"The Misses Crumpton" were two unusually tall, particularly thin, and exceedingly skinny personages<span>—</span> very upright and very yellow. Miss Amelia Crumpton owned to thirty-eight, and Miss Maria Crumpton admitted she was forty<span>—</span>an admission which was rendered perfectly unnecessary by the self-evident fact of her being fifty at least. They dressed in the most interesting manner<span>—l</span>ike twins, and looks about as happy and comfortable as a couple of marigolds run to seed. They were very precise, had the strictest possible ideas of propriety, wore false hair, and always smelt very strongly of lavender.&nbsp;<br /><br />Minerva House, conducted under the auspices of the two sisters, was a "finishing establishment for young ladies," where some twenty girls of the ages of from thirteen to nineteen inclusive, acquired a smattering of everything, and a knowledge of nothing; instruction in French and Italian, dancing lessons twice a week, and other necessaries of life. The house was a white one, a little removed from the road side, with close palings in front. The bed-room windows were always left partly open to afford a bird's eye view of numerous little bedsteads, with very white dimity furniture, and thereby impress the passer-by with a due sense of the luxuries of the establishment; and there was a front parlour hung round with highly varnished maps, which nobody ever looked at, and filled with books which no one ever read, appropriated exclusively to the reception of parents, who whenever they called, could not fail to be struck with the very knowledge-imparting appearance of the place.&nbsp;<br /><br />"Amelia, my dear," said Miss Maria Crumpton, entering the school room, with her false hair in papers, as she occasionally did, in order to impress the young ladies with a conviction of its reality<span>—</span>"Amelia, my dear, here's a most gratifying note I have just received. You needn't mind reading it aloud."<br /><br />Miss Amelia thus advised, proceeded to read the following note, with an air of great triumph.<br /><br />"Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq. M.P. presents his compliments to Miss Crumpton, and will feel much obliged by Miss Crumpton's calling on him, if she conveniently can, to morrow morning at one o'clock, as Cornelius Brook Dingall, Esq. M.P. is anxious to see Miss Crumpton on the subject of placing Miss Brook Dingwall under her charge.&nbsp;<br /><br />"Adelphi.<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; "Monday morning."<br /><br />"A Member of Parliament's daughter!" ejaculated Amelia in an ecstatic tone.<br /><br />"A Member of Parliament's daughter!" repeated Miss Maria with a smile of delight, which of course, forthwith elicited a concurrent titter of pleasure from all the young ladies.<br /><br />"Its exceedingly delightful," said Miss Amelia, whereupon all the young ladies murmured their admiration again. Courtiers are but schoolboys multiplied by fifty.<br /><br />So important an announcement at once superseded the business of the day. A holiday was declared in commemoration of the greatevent: the Miss Crumptons retired to their private apartment to talk it over; the smaller girls discussed the probable manners and customs of the daughter of a Member of Parliament, and the young ladies verging on eighteen, wondered whether she was engaged, whether she was pretty, whether she wore much bustle, and many other whethers of <em>equal</em> importance.&nbsp;<br /><br />The two Miss Crumptons proceeded to the Adelphi at the appointed time next day, dressed, of course, in their best style, and looking as amiable as they possibly could<span>—</span>which, by-the-bye, is not saying much for them. Having sent in their cards through the medium of a red-hot looking footman in bright livery, they were ushered into the august presence of the profound Dingwall. Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P. was very haughty, solemn, and portentous. He had naturally a somewhat spasmodic expression of countenance, which was not rendered the less remarkable by his wearing an extremely stiff cravat. He was wonderfully proud of the "M.P.," attached to his name, and never lost an opportunity of reminding people of his dignity. He had a great idea of his own abilities, which must have been a great comfort to him, as no one else had; and in diplomacy, on a small scale in his own family <em>arrangements,</em> he considered himself unrivalled. He was a country magistrate, and discharged the duties of his station with all due justice and impartiality, frequently committing poachers, and occasionally committing himself. Miss Brook Dingwall was one of that numerous class of young ladies, who, like adverbs may be known by their answering to a common-place question, and doing nothing else.&nbsp;<br /><br />On the present occasion this talented individual was seated in a small library at a table covered with papers, doing nothing; but trying to look busy<span>—</span>playing at shop. Acts of Parliament, and letters directed to "Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq. M.P.," were ostentatiously scattered over the table, at a little distance from which, Mrs. Brook Dingwall was seated at work. One of those public nuisances, a spoiled child, was playing about the room, dressed after the most approved fashion, in a blue tunic with a black belt a quarter of a yard wide, fastened with an immense buckle, and looking like a robber in a Melo-Drama, seen through a diminishing glass.&nbsp;<br /><br />After a little pleasantry from the sweet child, who amused himself by running away with Miss Maria Crumpton's chair as fast as it was placed for her, the visitors were seated, and Cornelius Brook Dingwall Esq. opened the conversation.<br /><br />He had sent for Miss Crumpton, he said, in consequence of the high character he had received of her establishment from his friend Sir Alfred Muggs.&nbsp;<br /><br />Miss Crumpton murmured her acknowledgments to him (Muggs) and Cornelius proceeded.<br /><br />"One of my principal reasons Miss Crumpton for parting with my daughter is, that she has lately acquired some false sentimental sort of ideas which it is most desirable to eradicate from her young mind." (Here the little innocent before-noticed, fell out of an arm chair with an awful crash.)<br /><br />"Naughty boy," said his mamma, who appeared more surprised at his taking the liberty of falling down, than at anything else, "I'll ring the bell for James to take him away."<br /><br />"Pray don't check him, my love," said the diplomatist, as soon as he could make himself heard amidst the unearthly howling, consequent upon the threat and the tumble. "It all arises from his great flow of spirits." This last explanation was addressed to Miss Crumpton.&nbsp;<br /><br />"Certainly, Sir," replied the antique Maria, not exactly seeing, however, the connection between a flow of animal spirits, and a fall from an arm chair.&nbsp;<br /><br />Silence was restored, and the M.P. resumed: "Now I know nothing so likely to effect this object, Miss Crumpton, as her mixing constantly in the society of girls of her own age; and as I know that in your establishment she will meet such as are not likely to contaminate her young mind, I propose to send her to you."<br /><br />The youngest Miss Crumpton expressed the acknowledgements of the establishment generally. Maria was rendered perfectly speechless by bodily pain<span>—</span>the dear little fellow having recovered his spirits, was standing upon her most tender foot, by way of getting his face (which looked like a capital O in a red-lettered play-bill) on a level with the writing-table.&nbsp;<br /><br />"Of course Lavinia will be a parlour boarder," continued the enviable father; "and on one point I wish my directions to be strictly observed. The fact is, that some ridiculous love affair with a person much her inferior in life has been the case of her present state of mind. Knowing that of course under your care she can have no opportunity of meeting this person, I do not object to<span>—</span>indeed, I should rather prefer<span>—</span>her joining in such society as you see yourself,"<br /><br />The important statement was again interrupted by the high-spirited little creature, in the excess of his joyousness, breaking a pane of glass, and nearly precipitating himself into an adjacent area. James was rung for; considerable confusion and screaming succeeded, two little blue legs, about the size of hoopsticks, were seen to kick violently in the air, as the man left the room, and the child was gone.&nbsp;<br /><br />"Mr. Brook Dingwall would like Miss Brook Dingwall to learn everything," said Mrs. Brook Dingwall, who hardly ever said any thing at all.<br /><br />"Certainly." said both the Miss Crumptons together.<br /><br />"And as I trust the plan I have devised will be effectual in weaning my daughter from this absurd idea, Miss Crumpton," continued the legislator, "I hope you will have the goodness to comply in all respects with any request I may forward to you."<br /><br />The promise was of course made, and after a lengthened discussion, conducted on behalf of the Dingwall's with the most becoming diplomatic gravity, and on that of the Crumpton's with profound respect, it was finally arranged that Miss Lavinia should be forwarded to Hammersmith on the next day but one; on which occasion the half-yearly ball given at the establishment was to take place. It might divert the dear girl's mind. This, by the way, was another bit of diplomacy. Miss Lavinia was forthwith introduced to her future governesses, and both the Miss Crumpton's pronounced her "a most charming girl," an opinion which, by a singular coincidence, they always entertained of any new pupil.&nbsp;<br /><br />Curtsies were made, acknowledgements expressed, condescension exhibited; and the interview terminated.<br /><br />Preparations, to make use of theatrical phraseology, "on a scale of magnitude never before attempted," were incessantly made at Minerva House, to give every effect to the forthcoming ball. The largest room in the house was pleasingly ornamented with blue calico roses, plaid tulips, and other equally natural-looking artificial flowers, the work of the young ladies themselves. The carpet was taken up; the folding-doors were taken door; the furniture was taken out, and rout seats taken in. The linen-drapers of Hammersmith were astounded at the sudden demand for blue sarsnet ribbon, and long white gloves. Dozens of geraniums were purchased for bouquets, and a harp and two violins were bespoke from town, in addition to the grand-piano already on the premises. The young ladies who were selected to show off "on the occasion," and do credit to the establishment, practised unceasingly, much to their own satisfaction, and greatly to the annoyance of the lame old gentleman over the way; and a constant correspondence was kept up with the Misses Crumpton and the Hammersmith pastry cook.<br /><br />The evening came: and then there was such a lacing of stays, and tying of sandals, and dressing of hair, as never can take place with a proper degree of bustle out of a boarding-school. The smaller girls managed to be in everybody's way, and were pushed about accordingly, and the elder ones dressed, and tied, and flattered, and envied one another as earnestly and sincerely as if they had actually<em> come out.&nbsp;<br /><br /></em>"How do I look, dear?" enquired Miss Emily Smithers, the belle of the house, of Miss Caroline Wilson, who was her bosom friend because she was the ugliest girl in Hammersmith, or out of it.<br /><br />"Oh, charming dear. How do I?"<br /><br />"Delightful—you never looked so handsome," returned the belle, adjusting her own dress, and not bestowing a glance on her poor companion.&nbsp;<br /><br />"I hope young Hilton will come early," said another young lady to Miss somebody else, in a fever of expectation.<br /><br />"I'm sure he'd be highly flattered if he knew it," returned the other, who was practicing <em>l'eté</em> for effect.<br /><br />"Oh! he's so handsome," said the first.<br /><br />"Such a charming person," added a second.&nbsp;<br /><br />"Such a <em>distingue</em> air," said a third.&nbsp;<br /><br />"Oh what <em>do</em> you think?" said another girl running into the room; Miss Crumpton says that her cousin's coming."<br /><br />"What! Theodosius Butler?" said everybody, in raptures.<br /><br />"Is <em>he</em> handsome," enquired a novice.<br /><br />"No, not particularly handsome," was the general reply; but oh, <em>so</em> clever!" Mr. Theodosius Butler was one of those immortal geniuses who are to be met with in almost every circle. They have usually very deep monotonous voices. They always persuade themselves that they are wonderful persons, and that they ought to be very miserable. They dont exactly know why. They are very conceited, and usually possess exactly half an idea: but with enthusiastic young ladies and silly young gentlemen, they are something wonderfully superior. The individual in question, Mr. Theodosius, had written a phamphlet containing some very <em>weighty</em> considerations on the expediency of doing something or other; and as every sentence contained at least fifty words of four syllables, his admirers took it for granted that he meant a good deal.&nbsp;<br /><br />"Perhaps that's he," exclaimed several young ladies, as the first pull of the evening threatened destruction to the bell at the gate.&nbsp;<br /><br />An awful pause ensued. Some boxes arrived, and a young lady<span>—</span>it was Miss Brook Dingwall, in full ball costumes, with an immense gold chain round her neck, and her dress looped up with a single rose. An ivory fan in her hand, and a most interesting expression of despair in her face.<br /><br />The Miss Crumptons enquired after the family with the most excruciating anxiety, and Miss Brook Dingwall was formally introduced to her future companions. The Miss Crumptons conversed with the young ladies in the most mellifluous tones, in order that Miss Brook Dingwall might be properly impressed with their amiable treatment.&nbsp;<br /><br />Another pull at the bell. Mr. Dadson, the writing master and his wife. The wife in green silk, with shoes and cap trimmings to correspond, and the writing master in a white waistcoat, black knee shorts, and ditto silk stockings, displaying a leg large enough for two writing masters, at least. The young ladies whispered one another, and the writing master and his wife flattered the Miss Crumptons who were dressed in amber, with long sashes, like dolls.&nbsp;<br /><br />Repeated pulls at the bell, and arrivals too numerous to particularize: Papas and Mammas, and aunts and uncles, the owners and guardians of the different pupils; the singing master Signor Lobskini, in a black wig; the pianoforte player and the violins, the harp in a state of intoxication, and some twenty young men who stood near the door, and talked to one another, occasionally bursting into a giggle. A general hum of conversation.<span>—</span>Coffee handed round, and plentifully partaken of by fat mamma's, looking like the stout people who come on in pantomimes for the sole purpose of being knocked down.&nbsp;<br /><br />The popular Mr. Hilton was the next arrival, and having, at the request of the Miss Crumptons, undertaken the office of Master of Ceremonies, the quadrilles commenced with considerable spirit. The young men by the door gradually advanced into the middle of the room, and in time became sufficiently at ease to consent to be introduced to partners. The writing master danced every set, springing about with the most fearful agility, and his wife played a rubber in the back parlour<span>—</span>a little room with five book shelves dignified by the name of the study. Setting her down to whist was a half-yearly piece of generalship on the part of the Miss Crumptons, as it was necessary to hide her somewhere on account of her being a fright.&nbsp;<br /><br />The interesting Lavinia Brook Dingwall was the only girl present who appeared to take no interest in the proceedings of the evening. In vain was she solicited to dance, in vain was the universal homage paid to her as the daughter of a member of parliament. She was equally unmoved by the splendid tenor of the inimitable Lobskini, and the brilliant execution of Miss Letitia Parsons, who performance of "The Recollections of Ireland," was universally declared to be almost equal to Moscheles himself. Not even the announcement of the arrival of Mr. Theodosius Butler could induce her to leave the corner of the back drawing room in which she was seated.<br /><br />"Now, Theodosius," said Miss Maria Crumpton, after that enlightened pamphleteer had nearly run the gauntlet of he whole company, "I must introduce you to our new pupil."<br /><br />Theodosius looked as if he cared for nothing earthly.&nbsp;<br /><br />"She's the daughter of a member of parliament," said Maria - Theodosius started.<br /><br />"And her name is<span>—</span>?" he enquired.<br /><br />"Miss Brook Dingwall."<br /><br />"Great Heaven!" poetically exclaimed Theodosius in a low tone.<br /><br />Miss Crumpton commenced the introduction in due form. Miss Brook Dingwall languidly raised her head.&nbsp;<br /><br />"Edward!" she exclaimed with a half shriek, on seeing the well known nankeen legs.&nbsp;<br /><br />Fortunately, as Miss Maria Crumpton possessed no remarkable share of penetration, and as it was one of the diplomatic arrangements that no attention was to be paid to Miss Lavinia's incoherent exclamations, she was perfectly unconscious of the mutual agitation of the parties; and therefore, seeing that the offer of his hand for the next quadrille was accepted, she left him by the side of Miss Brook Dingwall.<br /><br />"Oh, Edward," exclaimed that most romantic of all romantic young ladies, as that light of science seated himself beside her, "Oh, Edward is it you?"<br /><br />Mr. Theodosius assured the dear creature in the most impassioned manner that he was not conscious of being anybody but himself.&nbsp;<br /><br />"Then why<span>—</span>why<span>—</span>this disguise? oh, Edward McNeville Walter, what have I not suffered on your account."<br /><br />"Lavinia, hear me," replied the hero in his most poetic strain "Do not condemn me unheard. If anything that emanates from the soul of such a wretch as I, can occupy a place in your recollection<span>—</span>if any being so vile deserve your notice<span>—</span>you may remember that I once published a pamphlet (and paid for its publication) entitled "Considerations on the policy of removing the duty on bee's wax."&nbsp;<br /><br />"I do<span>—</span>I do<span>—</span>" sobbed Lavinia.<br /><br />"That," continued the lover "was a subject to which your father was devoted heart and soul."<br /><br />"He was<span>—</span>he was," reiterated the sentimentalist.<br /><br />"I knew it" continued Theodosius tragically, "I knew it<span>—</span>I forwarded him a copy. He wished to know me. Could I disclose my real name? Never! no, I assumed that name which you have so often pronounced in tones of endearment. As McNeville Walter I devoted myself to the stirring cause; as McNeville Walter I gained your heart; in the same character i was ejected from your house by your father's domestics, and in no character at all, have I since been enabled to see you. We now meet again, and I proudly own that I am<span>—</span>Theodosius Butler.<br /><br />The young lady appeared perfectly satisfied with this very argumentative address, and bestowed a look of the most ardent affection on the immortal advocate of bees wax.&nbsp;<br /><br />"May I hope," said he, "that the promise, your father's violent behaviour interrupted, may be renewed?"<br /><br />"Let us join this set," replied Lavinia coquetishly<span>—</span>for girls of nineteen can coquette.<br /><br />"No," ejaculated he of the nankeens. "I stir not from this spot writhing under this torture of suspense. May I<span>—</span>may I hope?"&nbsp;<br /><br />"You may."<br /><br />"The promise is renewed?"<br /><br />"It is."<br /><br />"I have your permission?"<br /><br />"You have."<br /><br />"To the fullest extent?"<br /><br />"You know it," returned Lavinia, affecting to blush. The contortions of the interesting Butler's visage expressed his raptures.<br /><br />We could dilate upon the occurrences of the evening. How Mr. Theodosius and Miss Lavinia danced and talked, and sighed for the remainder of the evening. How the Miss Crumpton's were delighted thereat. How the writing master continued to frisk about with one-horse power, and how his wife, from some unaccountable freak, left the whist table in the little back parlour, and persisted in displaying her green head dress in the most conspicuous part of the drawing-room. How the supper consisted of small triangular sandwiches in trays, with a tart here and there, by way of variety, and how the visitors consumed warm water disguised with lemon, and dotted with nutmeg, under the denomination of negus. These, and other matters of as much interest, however, we pass over, for the purpose of describing a scene of even more importance.&nbsp;<br /><br />A fortnight after the date of the ball, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq. M.P. was seated at the same library table, and in the same room as we have before described. He was alone, and his face bore an expression of deep thought and solemn gravity<span>—</span>he was drawing up a bill for the better observance of Easter Monday.<br /><br />The footman tapped at the door. The legislator started from his reverie, and "Miss Crumpton" was announced. Permission was given for Miss Crumption to enter the <em>sanctum;</em> Maria came sidling in, and having taken her seat with a due portion of affectation, the footman retired, and the governess was left alone with the M.P. Oh! how she longed for the presence of a third party<span>—</span>even the facetious young gentleman would have been a relief. Miss Crumpton began the duet. She hoped Mrs. Brook Dingwall, and the handsome little boy were in good health.&nbsp;<br /><br />They were. Mrs. Brook Dingwall and little Frederick were at Brighton.&nbsp;<br /><br />"Much obliged to you Miss Crumpton," said Cornelius in his dignified manner, "for your attention to calling this morning. I should have driven down to Hammersmith to see Lavinia, but your account was so very satisfactory, and my duties in the House occupy me so much that I determined to postpone it for a week. How has she gone on."&nbsp;<br /><br />"Very well, indeed, Sir," returned Maria, dreading to inform the father she had gone off.<br /><br />"Ah, I thought the plan on which I proceeded would be a match for her."<br /><br />"Here was a favourable opportunity to say that somebody else had been a match for her. The unfortunate governess was unequal to the task.<br /><br />"You have persevered strictly in the line of conduct I prescribed Miss Crumpton?"<br /><br />"Strictly, Sir."<br /><br />"You tell me in your note that her spirits gradually improved."<br /><br />"Very much, indeed, sir."<br /><br />"To be sure, I was convinced they would."<br /><br />"But I fear, sir," said Miss Crumpton, with visible emotion. "I fear the plan has not succeeded so well as we could have wished."<br /><br />"No!" exclaimed the prophet, "God bless me, Miss Crumpton, you look alarmed. What has happened?"<br /><br />"Miss Brook Dingwall, Sir<span>—</span>"<br /><br />"Yes, Ma'am."<br /><br />"Has gone, Sir"<span>—</span>said Maria, exhibiting a strong inclination to faint.<br /><br />"Gone!"&nbsp;<br /><br />"Eloped, Sir."<br /><br />"Eloped!<span>—</span>Who wish<span>—</span>when<span>—</span>where<span>—</span>how?" almost shrieked the agitated diplomatist.&nbsp;<br /><br />The natural yellow of the unfortunate Maria's face, changed to all the hues of the rainbow, as she laid a small packet upon the member's table.<br /><br />He hurriedly opened it. A letter from his daughter and another from Theodosius. He glanced over their contents - "ere this reaches you, far distant<span>—</span>appeal to feelings<span>—</span>love to distraction<span>—</span>bee's wax<span>—</span>slavery," &amp;c., &amp;c. He dashed his hand to his forehead, and paced the room with fearfully long strides, to the great alarm of the precise Maria.<br /><br />"Now mind; from this time forward," said the Brook Dingwall, suddenly stopping at the table, and beating time upon it with his hand "from this time forward, I never will, under any circumstances whatever, allow a man who writes pamphlets to enter any room of this house but the kitchen<span>—</span>I'll allow my daughter and her husband one hundred and fifty pounds a year, and never see their faces again<span>—</span>and damme, ma'am, I'll bring in a bill for abolition of finishing schools!"<br /><br />Some time has elapsed since this passionate declaration. Mr. and Mrs. Butler are at present rusticating in a small cottage at Ball's Pond, pleasantly situated in the immediate vicinity of a brick-field. They have no family. Mr. Theodosius looks very important and writes incessantly, but in consequence of some gross combination on the part of publishers, none of his productions appear in print. His young wife begins to think that ideal misery is preferable to real unhappiness; and that a marriage contracted in haste, and repented at leisure, is the cause of more substantial wretchedness, than she ever anticipated.<br /><br />On cool reflection, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq. M.P., was reluctantly compelled to admit that the untoward result of his admirable arrangements, was attributable, not to the Miss Crumptons', but his own diplomacy. He, however, consoles himself, like some other small diplomatists, by satisfactorily proving that if his plans did not succeed, they ought to have done so. Minerva House is in <em>statu quo</em>, and "The Misses Crumpton" remain in the peaceable and undisturbed enjoyment of all the advantages resulting from their Finishing-school.