14 10 361 https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/12/The_Begging_Letter-Writer/1850-05-18-The_BeggingLetter_Writer.pdf c0840b007095f936f3070c7398212218 Journalism 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. 18500518 Publication The title of the newspaper/serial (if applicable) Household Words Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Weekly newspaper 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   (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. He is a ‘Household Word.’ We all know something of him. The amount of money he annually diverts from wholesome and useful purposes in the United Kingdom, would be a set-off against the Window Tax. He is one of the most shameless frauds and impositions of this time. In his idleness, his mendacity, and the immeasurable harm he does to the deserving, - dirtying the stream of true benevolence, and muddling the brains of foolish justices, with inability to distinguish between the base coin of distress, and the true currency we have always among us, - he is more worthy of Norfolk Island than three-fourths of the worst characters who are sent there. Under any rational system, he would have been sent there long ago. I, the writer of this paper, have been, for some time, a chosen receiver of Begging Letters. For fourteen years, my house has been made as regular a Receiving House for such communications as any one of the great branch Post-Offices is for general correspondence. I ought to know something of the Begging-Letter Writer. He has besieged my door, at all hours of the day and night; he has fought my servant; he has lain in ambush for me, going out and coming in; he has followed me out of town into the country; he has appeared at provincial hotels, where I have been staying for only a few hours; he has written to me from immense distances, when I have been out of England. He has fallen sick; he has died, and been buried; he has come to life again, and again departed from this transitory scene; he has been his own son, his own mother, his own baby, his idiot brother, his uncle, his aunt, his aged grandfather. He has wanted a great coat, to go to India in; a pound, to set him up in life for ever; a pair of boots, to take him to the coast of China; a hat, to get him into a permanent situation under Government. He has frequently been exactly seven-and-sixpence short of independence. He has had such openings at Liverpool posts of great trust and confidence in merchants’ houses, which nothing but seven and-sixpence was wanting to him to secure that I wonder he is not Mayor of that flourishing town at the present moment. The natural phenomena of which he has been the victim, are of a most astounding nature. He has had two children, who have never grown up; who have never had anything to cover them at night; who have been continually driving him mad, by asking in vain for food; who have never come out of fevers and measles (which, I suppose, has accounted for his fuming his letters with tobacco smoke, as a disinfectant); who have never changed in the least degree, through fourteen long revolving years. As to his wife, what that suffering woman has undergone, nobody knows. She has always been in an interesting situation through the same long period, and has never been confined yet. His devotion to her has been unceasing. He has never cared for himself; he could have perished – he would rather, in short – but was it not his Christian duty as a man, a husband, and a father, to write begging letters when he looked at her? (He has usually remarked that he would call in the evening for an answer to this question.) He has been the sport of the strangest misfortunes. What his brother has done to him would have broken anybody else’s heart. His brother went into business with him, and ran away with the money; his brother got him to be security for an immense sum, and left him to pay it; his brother would have given him employment to the tune of hundreds a-year, if he would have consented to write letters on a Sunday; his brother enunciated principles incompatible with his religious views, and he could not (in consequence) permit his brother to provide for him. His landlord has never shown a spark of human feeling. When he put in that execution I don’t know, but he has never taken it out. The broker’s man has grown grey in possession. They will have to bury him some day. He has been attached to every conceivable pursuit. He has been in the army, in the navy, in the church, in the law; connected with the press, the fine arts, public institutions, every description and grade of business. He has been brought up as a gentleman; he has been at every college in Oxford and Cambridge; he can quote Latin in his letters (but generally misspells some minor English word); he can tell you what Shakespeare says about begging, better than you know it. It is to be observed, that in the midst of his afflictions he always reads the newspapers; and rounds off his appeals with some allusion, that may be supposed to be in my way, to the popular subject of the hour. His life presents a series of inconsistencies. Sometimes he has never written such a letter before. He blushes with shame. That is the first time; that shall be the last. Don’t answer it, and let it be understood that, then, he will kill himself quietly. Sometimes (and more frequently) he has written a few such letters. Then he encloses the answers, with an intimation that they are of inestimable value to him, and a request that they may be carefully returned. He is fond of enclosing something – verses, letters, pawnbrokers’ duplicates, anything to necessitate an answer. He is very severe upon ‘the pampered minion of fortune,’ who refused him the half-sovereign referred to in the enclosure number two – but he knows me better. He writes in a variety of styles; sometimes in low spirits; sometimes quite jocosely. When he is in low spirits, he writes down-hill, and repeats words – these little indications being expressive of the perturbation of his mind. When he is more vivacious, he is frank with me; he is quite the agreeable rattle. I know what human nature is, - who better? Well! He had a little money once, and he ran through it – as many men have done before him. He finds his old friends turn away from him now – many men have done that before him, too! Shall he tell me why he writes to me? Because he has no kind of claim upon me. He put sit on that ground, plainly; and begs to ask for the loan (as I know human nature) of two sovereigns, to be repaid next Tuesday six weeks, before twelve at noon. Sometimes, when he is sure that I have found him out, and that there is no chance of money, he writes to inform me that I have got rid of him at last. He has enlisted into the Company’s service, and is off directly – but he wants a cheese. He is informed by the serjeant that it is essential to his prospects in the regiment that he should take out a single-Gloucester cheese, weighing from twelve to fifteen pounds. Eight or nine shillings would buy it. He does not ask for money, after what has passed; but if he calls at nine to-morrow morning, may he hope to find a cheese? And is there anything he can do to show his gratitude in Bengal? Once, he wrote me rather a special letter proposing relief in kind. He had got into a little trouble by leaving parcels of mud done up in brown paper, at people’s houses, on pretence of being a Railway-Porter, in which character he received carriage money. This sportive fancy he expiated in the House of Correction. Not long after his release, and on a Sunday morning, he called with a letter (having first dusted himself all over), in which he gave me to understand that, being resolved to earn an honest livelihood, he had been travelling about the country with a cart of crockery. That he had been doing pretty well, until the day before, when his horse had dropped down dead near Chatham, in Kent. That this had reduced him to the unpleasant necessity of getting into the shafts himself, and drawing the cart of crockery to London a somewhat exhausting pull of thirty miles. That he did not venture to ask again for money; but that if I would have the goodness to leave him out a donkey, he would call for the animal before breakfast! At another time, my friend (I am describing actual experiences) introduced himself as a literary gentleman in the last extremity of distress. He had had a play accepted at a certain Theatre – which was really open; its representation was delayed by the indisposition of a leading actor – who was really ill; and he and his were in a state of absolute starvation. If he made his necessities known to the Manager of the Theatre, he put it to me to say what kind of treatment he might expect? Well! we got over that difficulty to our mutual satisfaction. A little while afterwards he was in some other strait – I think Mrs. Southcote, his wife, was in extremity – and we adjusted that point too. A little while afterwards, he had taken a new house, and was going headlong to ruin for want of a water-butt. I had my misgivings about the water-butt, and did not reply to that epistle. But, a little while afterwards, I had reason to feel penitent for my neglect. He wrote me a few broken-hearted lines, informing me that the dear partner of his sorrows died in his arms last night at nine o’clock! I dispatched a trusty messenger to comfort the bereaved mourner and his poor children: but the messenger went so soon, that the play was not ready to be played out; my friend was not at home, and his wife was in a most delightful state of health. He was taken up by the Mendicity Society (informally it afterwards appeared), and I presented myself at a London Police-Office with my testimony against him. The Magistrate was wonderfully struck by his educational acquirements, deeply impressed by the excellence of his letters, exceedingly sorry to see a man of his attainments there, complimented him highly on his powers of composition, and was quite charmed to have the agreeable duty of discharging him. A collection was made for the ‘poor fellow,’ as he was called in the reports, and I left the court with a comfortable sense of being universally regarded as a sort of monster. Next day, comes to me a friend of mine, the governor of a large prison, ‘Why did you ever go to the Police-Office against that man,’ says he, ‘without coming to me first? I know all about him and his frauds. He lodged in the house of one of my warders, at the very time when he first wrote to you; and then he was eating spring-lamb at eighteen-pence a pound, and early asparagus at I don’t know how much a bundle!’ On that very same day, and in that very same hour, my injured gentleman wrote a solemn address to me, demanding to know what compensation I proposed to make him for his having passed the night in a ‘loathsome dungeon.’ And next morning, an Irish gentleman, a member of the same fraternity, who had read the case, and was very well persuaded I should be chary of going to that Police-Office again, positively refused to leave my door for less than a sovereign, and, resolved to besiege me into compliance, literally ‘sat down’ before it for ten mortal hours. The garrison being well provisioned, I remained within the walls; and he raised the siege at midnight, with a prodigious alarum on the bell. The Begging-Letter Writer often has an extensive circle of acquaintance. Whole pages of the Court Guide are ready to be references for him. Noblemen and gentlemen write to say there never was such a man for probity and virtue. They have known him, time out of mind, and there is nothing they wouldn’t do for him. Somehow, they don’t give him that one pound ten he stands in need of; but perhaps it is not enough – they want to do more, and his modesty will not allow it. It is to be remarked of his trade that it is a very fascinating one. He never leaves it; and those who are near to him become smitten with a love of it, too, and sooner or later set up for themselves. He employs a messenger – man, woman, or child. That messenger is certain ultimately to become an independent Begging-Letter Writer. His sons and daughters succeed to his calling, and write begging-letters when he is no more. He throws off the infection of begging-letter writing, like the contagion of disease. What Sydney Smith so happily called ‘the dangerous luxury of dishonesty’ is more tempting, and more catching, it would seem, in this instance than in any other. He always belongs to a Corresponding-Society of Begging-Letter Writers. Any one who will, may ascertain this fact. Give money to day, in recognition of a begging-letter, - no matter how unlike a common begging-letter, - and for the next fortnight you will have a rush of such communications. Steadily refuse to give; and the begging-letters become Angels’ visits, until the Society is from some cause or other in a dull way of business, and may as well try you as anybody else. It is of little use enquiring into the Begging-Letter Writer’s circumstances. He may be sometimes accidentally found out, as in the case already mentioned (though that was not the first enquiry made); but apparent misery is always a part of his trade, and real misery very often is, in the intervals of spring-lamb and early asparagus. It is naturally an incident of his dissipated and dishonest life. That the calling is a successful one, and that large sums of money are gained by it, must be evident to anybody who reads the Police Reports of such cases. But, prosecutions are of rare occurrence, relatively to the extent to which the trade is carried on. The cause of this, is to be found (as no one knows better than the Begging-Letter Writer, for it is a part of his speculation) in the aversion people feel to exhibit themselves as having been imposed upon, or as having weakly gratified their consciences with a lazy, flimsy substitute for the noblest of all virtues. There is a man at large, at the moment when this paper is preparing for the press (on the 29th of April), and never once taken up yet, who, within these twelvemonths, has been probably the most audacious and the most successful swindler that even this trade has ever known. There has been something singularly base in this fellow’s proceedings: it has been his business to write to all sorts and conditions of people, in the names of persons of high reputation and unblemished honor, professing to be in distress – the general admiration and respect for whom, has ensured a ready and generous reply. Now, in the hope that the results of the real experience of a real person may do something more to induce reflection on this subject than any abstract treatise – and with a personal knowledge of the extent to which the Begging-Letter Trade has been carried on for some time, and has been for some time constantly increasing – the writer of this paper entreats the attention of his readers to a few concluding words. His experience is a type of the experience of many; some on a smaller; some on an infinitely larger scale. All may judge of the soundness or unsoundness of his conclusions from it. Long doubtful of the efficacy of such assistance in any case whatever, and able to recal but one, within his whole individual knowledge, in which he had the least after-reason to suppose that any good was done by it, he was led, last autumn, into some serious considerations. The begging-letters flying about by every post, made it perfectly manifest, That a set of lazy vagabonds were interposed between the general desire to do something to relieve the sickness and misery under which the poor were suffering; and the suffering poor themselves. That many who sought to do some little to repair the social wrongs, inflicted in the way of preventible sickness and death upon the poor, were strengthening those wrongs, however innocently, by wasting money on pestilent knaves cumbering society. That imagination, - soberly following one of these knaves into his life of punishment in jail, and comparing it with the life of one of these poor in a cholera-stricken alley, or one of the children of one of these poor, soothed in its dying hour by the late lamented Mr. Drouet, - contemplated a grim farce, impossible to be presented very much longer before God or man. That the crowning miracle of all the miracles summed up in the New Testament, after the miracle of the blind seeing, and the lame walking, and the restoration of the dead to life, was the miracle that the poor had the Gospel preached to them. That while the poor were unnaturally and unnecessarily cut off by the thousand, in the prematurity of their age, or in the rottenness of their youth for of flower or blossom such youth has none the Gospel was NOT preached to them, saving in hollow and unmeaning voices. That of all wrongs, this was the first mighty wrong the Pestilence warned us to set right. And that no Post-Office Order to any amount, given to a Begging-Letter Writer for the quieting of an uneasy breast, would be presentable on the Last Great Day as anything towards it. The poor never write these letters. Nothing could be more unlike their habits. The writers are public robbers; and we who support them are parties to their depredations. They trade upon every circumstance within their knowledge that affects us, public or private, joyful or sorrowful; they pervert the lessons of our lives; they change what ought to be our strength and virtue, into weakness, and encouragement of vice. There is a plain remedy, and it is in our own hands. We must resolve, at any sacrifice of feeling, to be deaf to such appeals, and crush the trade. There are degrees in murder. Life must be held sacred among us in more ways than one sacred, not merely from the murderous weapon, or the subtle poison, or the cruel blow, but sacred from preventible diseases, distortions, and pains. That is the first great end we have to set against this miserable imposition. Physical life respected, moral life comes next. What will not content a Begging-Letter Writer for a week, would educate a score of children for a year. Let us give all we can; let us give more than ever. But let us give, and do, with a high purpose; not to endow the scum of the earth, to its own greater corruption, with the offals of our duty. 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 'The Begging Letter-Writer' 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 1850-05-18 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Lydia Craig Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Dickens Journals Online, used by permission Type The nature or genre of the resource Journalism article Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1850-05-18-The_BeggingLetter_Writer Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Household Words, vol. 1, no. 8, 18 May 1850, pp. 169-172. Dickens Journals Online, <a href="https://www.djo.org.uk/household-words/volume-i/page-169.html">https://www.djo.org.uk/household-words/volume-i/page-169.html</a>. 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. 'The Begging-Letter Writer'. Dickens Search. Eds. Emily Middleton and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/journalism/1850-05-18-The_BeggingLetter_Writer">https://dickenssearch.com/journalism/1850-05-18-The_BeggingLetter_Writer</a>. Description An account of the resource Published in Household Words (18 May 1850) Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. He is a ‘Household Word.’ We all know something of him. The amount of money he annually diverts from wholesome and useful purposes in the United Kingdom, would be a set-off against the Window Tax. He is one of the most shameless frauds and impositions of this time. In his idleness, his mendacity, and the immeasurable harm he does to the deserving, - dirtying the stream of true benevolence, and muddling the brains of foolish justices, with inability to distinguish between the base coin of distress, and the true currency we have always among us, - he is more worthy of Norfolk Island than three-fourths of the worst characters who are sent there. Under any rational system, he would have been sent there long ago. I, the writer of this paper, have been, for some time, a chosen receiver of Begging Letters. For fourteen years, my house has been made as regular a Receiving House for such communications as any one of the great branch Post-Offices is for general correspondence. I ought to know something of the Begging-Letter Writer. He has besieged my door, at all hours of the day and night; he has fought my servant; he has lain in ambush for me, going out and coming in; he has followed me out of town into the country; he has appeared at provincial hotels, where I have been staying for only a few hours; he has written to me from immense distances, when I have been out of England. He has fallen sick; he has died, and been buried; he has come to life again, and again departed from this transitory scene; he has been his own son, his own mother, his own baby, his idiot brother, his uncle, his aunt, his aged grandfather. He has wanted a great coat, to go to India in; a pound, to set him up in life for ever; a pair of boots, to take him to the coast of China; a hat, to get him into a permanent situation under Government. He has frequently been exactly seven-and-sixpence short of independence. He has had such openings at Liverpool posts of great trust and confidence in merchants’ houses, which nothing but seven and-sixpence was wanting to him to secure that I wonder he is not Mayor of that flourishing town at the present moment. The natural phenomena of which he has been the victim, are of a most astounding nature. He has had two children, who have never grown up; who have never had anything to cover them at night; who have been continually driving him mad, by asking in vain for food; who have never come out of fevers and measles (which, I suppose, has accounted for his fuming his letters with tobacco smoke, as a disinfectant); who have never changed in the least degree, through fourteen long revolving years. As to his wife, what that suffering woman has undergone, nobody knows. She has always been in an interesting situation through the same long period, and has never been confined yet. His devotion to her has been unceasing. He has never cared for himself; he could have perished – he would rather, in short – but was it not his Christian duty as a man, a husband, and a father, to write begging letters when he looked at her? (He has usually remarked that he would call in the evening for an answer to this question.) He has been the sport of the strangest misfortunes. What his brother has done to him would have broken anybody else’s heart. His brother went into business with him, and ran away with the money; his brother got him to be security for an immense sum, and left him to pay it; his brother would have given him employment to the tune of hundreds a-year, if he would have consented to write letters on a Sunday; his brother enunciated principles incompatible with his religious views, and he could not (in consequence) permit his brother to provide for him. His landlord has never shown a spark of human feeling. When he put in that execution I don’t know, but he has never taken it out. The broker’s man has grown grey in possession. They will have to bury him some day. He has been attached to every conceivable pursuit. He has been in the army, in the navy, in the church, in the law; connected with the press, the fine arts, public institutions, every description and grade of business. He has been brought up as a gentleman; he has been at every college in Oxford and Cambridge; he can quote Latin in his letters (but generally misspells some minor English word); he can tell you what Shakespeare says about begging, better than you know it. It is to be observed, that in the midst of his afflictions he always reads the newspapers; and rounds off his appeals with some allusion, that may be supposed to be in my way, to the popular subject of the hour. His life presents a series of inconsistencies. Sometimes he has never written such a letter before. He blushes with shame. That is the first time; that shall be the last. Don’t answer it, and let it be understood that, then, he will kill himself quietly. Sometimes (and more frequently) he has written a few such letters. Then he encloses the answers, with an intimation that they are of inestimable value to him, and a request that they may be carefully returned. He is fond of enclosing something – verses, letters, pawnbrokers’ duplicates, anything to necessitate an answer. He is very severe upon ‘the pampered minion of fortune,’ who refused him the half-sovereign referred to in the enclosure number two – but he knows me better. He writes in a variety of styles; sometimes in low spirits; sometimes quite jocosely. When he is in low spirits, he writes down-hill, and repeats words – these little indications being expressive of the perturbation of his mind. When he is more vivacious, he is frank with me; he is quite the agreeable rattle. I know what human nature is, - who better? Well! He had a little money once, and he ran through it – as many men have done before him. He finds his old friends turn away from him now – many men have done that before him, too! Shall he tell me why he writes to me? Because he has no kind of claim upon me. He put sit on that ground, plainly; and begs to ask for the loan (as I know human nature) of two sovereigns, to be repaid next Tuesday six weeks, before twelve at noon. Sometimes, when he is sure that I have found him out, and that there is no chance of money, he writes to inform me that I have got rid of him at last. He has enlisted into the Company’s service, and is off directly – but he wants a cheese. He is informed by the serjeant that it is essential to his prospects in the regiment that he should take out a single-Gloucester cheese, weighing from twelve to fifteen pounds. Eight or nine shillings would buy it. He does not ask for money, after what has passed; but if he calls at nine to-morrow morning, may he hope to find a cheese? And is there anything he can do to show his gratitude in Bengal? Once, he wrote me rather a special letter proposing relief in kind. He had got into a little trouble by leaving parcels of mud done up in brown paper, at people’s houses, on pretence of being a Railway-Porter, in which character he received carriage money. This sportive fancy he expiated in the House of Correction. Not long after his release, and on a Sunday morning, he called with a letter (having first dusted himself all over), in which he gave me to understand that, being resolved to earn an honest livelihood, he had been travelling about the country with a cart of crockery. That he had been doing pretty well, until the day before, when his horse had dropped down dead near Chatham, in Kent. That this had reduced him to the unpleasant necessity of getting into the shafts himself, and drawing the cart of crockery to London a somewhat exhausting pull of thirty miles. That he did not venture to ask again for money; but that if I would have the goodness to leave him out a donkey, he would call for the animal before breakfast! At another time, my friend (I am describing actual experiences) introduced himself as a literary gentleman in the last extremity of distress. He had had a play accepted at a certain Theatre – which was really open; its representation was delayed by the indisposition of a leading actor – who was really ill; and he and his were in a state of absolute starvation. If he made his necessities known to the Manager of the Theatre, he put it to me to say what kind of treatment he might expect? Well! we got over that difficulty to our mutual satisfaction. A little while afterwards he was in some other strait – I think Mrs. Southcote, his wife, was in extremity – and we adjusted that point too. A little while afterwards, he had taken a new house, and was going headlong to ruin for want of a water-butt. I had my misgivings about the water-butt, and did not reply to that epistle. But, a little while afterwards, I had reason to feel penitent for my neglect. He wrote me a few broken-hearted lines, informing me that the dear partner of his sorrows died in his arms last night at nine o’clock! I dispatched a trusty messenger to comfort the bereaved mourner and his poor children: but the messenger went so soon, that the play was not ready to be played out; my friend was not at home, and his wife was in a most delightful state of health. He was taken up by the Mendicity Society (informally it afterwards appeared), and I presented myself at a London Police-Office with my testimony against him. The Magistrate was wonderfully struck by his educational acquirements, deeply impressed by the excellence of his letters, exceedingly sorry to see a man of his attainments there, complimented him highly on his powers of composition, and was quite charmed to have the agreeable duty of discharging him. A collection was made for the ‘poor fellow,’ as he was called in the reports, and I left the court with a comfortable sense of being universally regarded as a sort of monster. Next day, comes to me a friend of mine, the governor of a large prison, ‘Why did you ever go to the Police-Office against that man,’ says he, ‘without coming to me first? I know all about him and his frauds. He lodged in the house of one of my warders, at the very time when he first wrote to you; and then he was eating spring-lamb at eighteen-pence a pound, and early asparagus at I don’t know how much a bundle!’ On that very same day, and in that very same hour, my injured gentleman wrote a solemn address to me, demanding to know what compensation I proposed to make him for his having passed the night in a ‘loathsome dungeon.’ And next morning, an Irish gentleman, a member of the same fraternity, who had read the case, and was very well persuaded I should be chary of going to that Police-Office again, positively refused to leave my door for less than a sovereign, and, resolved to besiege me into compliance, literally ‘sat down’ before it for ten mortal hours. The garrison being well provisioned, I remained within the walls; and he raised the siege at midnight, with a prodigious alarum on the bell. The Begging-Letter Writer often has an extensive circle of acquaintance. Whole pages of the Court Guide are ready to be references for him. Noblemen and gentlemen write to say there never was such a man for probity and virtue. They have known him, time out of mind, and there is nothing they wouldn’t do for him. Somehow, they don’t give him that one pound ten he stands in need of; but perhaps it is not enough – they want to do more, and his modesty will not allow it. It is to be remarked of his trade that it is a very fascinating one. He never leaves it; and those who are near to him become smitten with a love of it, too, and sooner or later set up for themselves. He employs a messenger – man, woman, or child. That messenger is certain ultimately to become an independent Begging-Letter Writer. His sons and daughters succeed to his calling, and write begging-letters when he is no more. He throws off the infection of begging-letter writing, like the contagion of disease. What Sydney Smith so happily called ‘the dangerous luxury of dishonesty’ is more tempting, and more catching, it would seem, in this instance than in any other. He always belongs to a Corresponding-Society of Begging-Letter Writers. Any one who will, may ascertain this fact. Give money to day, in recognition of a begging-letter, - no matter how unlike a common begging-letter, - and for the next fortnight you will have a rush of such communications. Steadily refuse to give; and the begging-letters become Angels’ visits, until the Society is from some cause or other in a dull way of business, and may as well try you as anybody else. It is of little use enquiring into the Begging-Letter Writer’s circumstances. He may be sometimes accidentally found out, as in the case already mentioned (though that was not the first enquiry made); but apparent misery is always a part of his trade, and real misery very often is, in the intervals of spring-lamb and early asparagus. It is naturally an incident of his dissipated and dishonest life. That the calling is a successful one, and that large sums of money are gained by it, must be evident to anybody who reads the Police Reports of such cases. But, prosecutions are of rare occurrence, relatively to the extent to which the trade is carried on. The cause of this, is to be found (as no one knows better than the Begging-Letter Writer, for it is a part of his speculation) in the aversion people feel to exhibit themselves as having been imposed upon, or as having weakly gratified their consciences with a lazy, flimsy substitute for the noblest of all virtues. There is a man at large, at the moment when this paper is preparing for the press (on the 29th of April), and never once taken up yet, who, within these twelvemonths, has been probably the most audacious and the most successful swindler that even this trade has ever known. There has been something singularly base in this fellow’s proceedings: it has been his business to write to all sorts and conditions of people, in the names of persons of high reputation and unblemished honor, professing to be in distress – the general admiration and respect for whom, has ensured a ready and generous reply. Now, in the hope that the results of the real experience of a real person may do something more to induce reflection on this subject than any abstract treatise – and with a personal knowledge of the extent to which the Begging-Letter Trade has been carried on for some time, and has been for some time constantly increasing – the writer of this paper entreats the attention of his readers to a few concluding words. His experience is a type of the experience of many; some on a smaller; some on an infinitely larger scale. All may judge of the soundness or unsoundness of his conclusions from it. Long doubtful of the efficacy of such assistance in any case whatever, and able to recal but one, within his whole individual knowledge, in which he had the least after-reason to suppose that any good was done by it, he was led, last autumn, into some serious considerations. The begging-letters flying about by every post, made it perfectly manifest, That a set of lazy vagabonds were interposed between the general desire to do something to relieve the sickness and misery under which the poor were suffering; and the suffering poor themselves. That many who sought to do some little to repair the social wrongs, inflicted in the way of preventible sickness and death upon the poor, were strengthening those wrongs, however innocently, by wasting money on pestilent knaves cumbering society. That imagination, - soberly following one of these knaves into his life of punishment in jail, and comparing it with the life of one of these poor in a cholera-stricken alley, or one of the children of one of these poor, soothed in its dying hour by the late lamented Mr. Drouet, - contemplated a grim farce, impossible to be presented very much longer before God or man. That the crowning miracle of all the miracles summed up in the New Testament, after the miracle of the blind seeing, and the lame walking, and the restoration of the dead to life, was the miracle that the poor had the Gospel preached to them. That while the poor were unnaturally and unnecessarily cut off by the thousand, in the prematurity of their age, or in the rottenness of their youth for of flower or blossom such youth has none the Gospel was NOT preached to them, saving in hollow and unmeaning voices. That of all wrongs, this was the first mighty wrong the Pestilence warned us to set right. And that no Post-Office Order to any amount, given to a Begging-Letter Writer for the quieting of an uneasy breast, would be presentable on the Last Great Day as anything towards it. The poor never write these letters. Nothing could be more unlike their habits. The writers are public robbers; and we who support them are parties to their depredations. They trade upon every circumstance within their knowledge that affects us, public or private, joyful or sorrowful; they pervert the lessons of our lives; they change what ought to be our strength and virtue, into weakness, and encouragement of vice. There is a plain remedy, and it is in our own hands. We must resolve, at any sacrifice of feeling, to be deaf to such appeals, and crush the trade. There are degrees in murder. Life must be held sacred among us in more ways than one sacred, not merely from the murderous weapon, or the subtle poison, or the cruel blow, but sacred from preventible diseases, distortions, and pains. That is the first great end we have to set against this miserable imposition. Physical life respected, moral life comes next. What will not content a Begging-Letter Writer for a week, would educate a score of children for a year. Let us give all we can; let us give more than ever. But let us give, and do, with a high purpose; not to endow the scum of the earth, to its own greater corruption, with the offals of our duty. 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&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&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 Pickwick Papers (1837), a story of time’s inexorable passing, was frequently republished in newspapers. Several poems written to young ladies of Dickens’s acquaintance are released on Dickens Search 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=&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album&collection=&type=&tags=&date_search_term=&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. When writing <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter&collection=3&type=&tags=&date_search_term=&submit_search=Search+For+Items">letters</a> to friends, Dickens occasionally included comedic poems for the recipient. Several of these are included. Considering the enormity of Dickens’s correspondence, likely more instances of this sort of poetic humour will result over time. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&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&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Play">verse from Dickens's plays</a>, including songs removed from The Strange Gentleman and Is She His Wife? Or, Something Singular! before performance. 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. 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 The Old Curiosity Shop. 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 Echoes of Infant Voices. Because Dickens did not intend for this passage to be structured in verse form, the poem is not included in the poetry collection of Dickens Search. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/poetry-dickens-didnt-write">Read our blog post for more on poetry Dickens didn't write.</a> Occasionally, Dickens will quote a poem by another author, as in his burlesque Is She his Wife? Or, Something Singular! (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. Previous notable collections of some of Dickens's poetry include The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens (1882) edited by Richard Herne Shepherd and The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens (1903) edited by Frederic G. Kitton. In 2025, we published <a href="https://edinburghuniversitypress.com/book-the-verse-of-charles-dickens.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Verse of Charles Dickens</a> (Edinburgh University Press), which includes an introduction and editorial apparatus for this verse.  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. 1. The Verse of Charles Dickens. Edited by Lydia Craig and Emily Middleton. Edinburgh University Press, 2025; Robert Butterworth. 'The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers.' The Dickensian 516.118.1 (Spring 2022): pp. 43-56; Eva-Charlotta Mebius. 'Dreams of Dying Girls: The Poetry of Thomas J. Ouseley and Charles Dickens.' Dickens Quarterly 34.3 (September 2017): pp. 256-261; Robert C. Hanna. 'Before Boz; The Juvenilia and Early Writings of Charles Dickens, 1820-1833'. Dickens Studies Annual 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 Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Manuscript TEI File Link to TEI file <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1831_The_Bill_of_Fare.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Dickens, Charles. 'The Bill of Fare.' Manuscript (1831).</a> 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. 18310101 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   (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. As the great rage just now is imitation, 'Mong high-born and low, throughout the whole Nation, I trust 'twill excuse the few following lines, Of which I'll say nothing, but that these poor rhymes, As you might expect, in degenerate days Like these, are entitled to no share of praise Because they are novel, – the ground work at least, Is a copy from Goldsmith's ever famed Feast. "And a bad one it is too," – you'll say, I fear, But let me entreat you, don't be too severe. – If, in a fair face, 'twill elicit a smile, If one single moment 'twill serve to beguile, – I shall think on it with great satisfaction, Et cet'ra, – and so forth: – now then to action! Without further preface to waste the time in We'll set to at once, – If you please we'll begin. We'll say a small party to Dinner are met, And the guests are themselves about to be eat; Without saying Grace, – (I own I'm a sinner, –) We'll endeavor to see what we've for dinner. Mr. Beadnell's a good fine sirloin of beef, Though to see him cut up would cause no small grief; And then Mrs. Beadnell, I think I may name, As being an excellent Rib of the same. The Miss B's are next, who it must be confessed Are two nice little Ducks; and very well dressed. William Moule's of a trifle, a trifling dish; Mr. Leigh we all know is a very great fish; Mrs. Leigh a Curry, smart, hot and biting, Although a dish that is always inviting. For cooking our meat we utensils won't lack So Miss Leigh shall be called a fine roasting Jack, A thing of great use, when we dine or we sup, A patent one too – never wants winding up. Mr Moule's a bottle of excellent Port; Mrs. Moule of Champagne, – good humor's her forte; The Miss M's of Snipe are a brace, if you please, And Joe is a very fine flavored Dutch-Cheese; Mrs. Lloyd and her spouse are a nice side dish, – (Some type of their most happy state I must wish To produce; – let me see, I've found out one soon) Of Honey and sweets in the form of a Moon; Arthur Beetham, – this dish has cost me some pains, Is a tongue with a well made garnish of brains; M'Namara, I think must by the same rule Be a dish of excellent gooseberry-fool; And Charles Dickens, who in our Feast plays a part, Is a young Summer Cabbage, without any heart; – Not that he's heartless, but because, as folks say, He lost his a twelve month ago from last May. Now let us suppose that the dinner is done, And the guests have roll'd on the floor one by one: – I don't mean to say that they're at the completion, Trying the fam'd city cure for repletion. Nor do I by any means raise up the question Whether they owe their deaths to indigestion. We'll say they're all dead; it's a terrible sight But I'll dry my tears, and their Epitaphs write. Here lies Mr. Beadnell, beyond contradiction, An excellent man, and a good politician; His opinions were always sound and sincere, Come here! ye Reformers, o'er him drop a tear: Come here, and with me weep at his sudden end, Ye who're to ballot and freedom a friend. Come here, all of ye who to him ever listened, Praise on rare quality – he was consistent; And if any one can say so much for you We'll try to write on you an epitaph too. He was most hospitable, friendly and kind; An enemy, I'm sure, he's not left behind; And if he be fairly, and all in all ta'en, "We never shall look upon his like again." Here lies Mrs. Beadnell, whose conduct through life, As a mother, a woman, a friend, a wife, I shall think, while I possess recollection, Can be summ'd up in one word – PERFECTION. Her faults I'd tell you beyond any doubt, But for this plain reason, – I ne'er found them out: Her character from my own knowledge I tell, For when she was living she was, I then knew her well. It chances to've been by the fates brought about, That she was the means of first bringing me out: – All my thanks for that and her kindness since then I'd vainly endeavor to tell with my pen: I think what I'd say, – I feel it, that's better, Or I'd scorn to write of these lines one letter. Excuse me, dear reader, for pause now I must; Here two charming Sisters lie low in the dust. – But why should I pause? do they want my poor aid To tell of their virtues while with us they stayed? Can a few words from me add a hundredth part To the regret felt for them in every heart? No, no! 't is impossible; still I must try, To speak of them here, for I can't pass them by. And first then for Anne I'll my banner unfurl – A truly delightful and sweet-tempered girl, And, what's very odd, and will add to her fame, Is this one plain fact, – she was always the same. She was witty, clever, – you liked what she said; Without being blue, she was very well read. Her favourite Author, or else I'm a fibber, And have been deceived, was the famed Colley Cibber. I don't think dear reader 'twill interest you, But still, if you please, keep that quite entre nous. I grow tedious, so of her I'll not din more, – Oh! – She sometimes drest her hair a la Chinois. Ladies, if you want this fashion to follow, And don't know where you the pattern can borrow, Don't look in "the fashions" 'mong bows and wreathings, You'll find it on any antique China Tea things. But who have we here? alas what sight is this? Has her spirit flown back to regions of bliss? Has Maria left this World of trouble and care Because for us she was too good and too fair? Has Heaven in its jealousy ta'en her away As a blessing too great for us children of clay? All ye fair and beautiful, sadly come here, And Springs early flowers strew over her bier; Fit emblems are they of life's short fleeting day, Fit tributes are they to her mem'ry to pay; For though blooming now, they will soon be decayed, They blossom one moment, then wither and fade. I linger here now, and I hardly know why, I've no wish, no hope now, but this one – to die. My bright hopes and fond wishes were all centered here Their brightness has vanished, they're now dark and drear. The impression that Mem'ry engraves in my heart Is all I have left, and with that I ne'er part. I might tell you much, and I say't with a sigh, Of the grace of her form, and the glance of her eye; I might tell of happy days now pass'd away, Which I fondly hoped then would never decay, But 'twere useless – I should only those times deplore, I know that again I can see them no more. But what's this small form that she folds to her breast, As if it had only laid down there to rest? Poor thing is it living? – Ah no! it's dead quite; It is a small dog, liver-colored and white. Dear me, now I see – 'tis the little dog that Would eat mutton chops if you cut off the fat! So very happy was its situation An object it was of such admiration, That I'd resign all my natural graces, E'en now, if I could with "Daphne" change places. William Moule next alas with the dead lieth here, And his loss we shall ne'er recover I fear; No more shall the young men, among whom am I, Regard with great envy his elegant tie; No more shall the girls, with anxiety wait, At a party, and mourn that he came in late; Though it was not his fault, it must be confess'd We knew very well that he lived "in the West" The purlieus of Tottenham Court Road!!! And men of great fashion now never go out, Till long after twelve when engaged to a rout. No more shall he waltz an hour with one lady, To the delight of tut'ress, Miss A. B. Who no more shall turn to me, and whispering low, Say "Doesn't he waltz well? I taught him, you know." No more shall he curse all the City Folks' Balls, And vow that he never will honor their halls; No more from "the London", will he be turned back Because of his wearing a Kerchief of black; No more when we sit round the blithe supper table Shall he hush to silence the prattling Babel, By, – When a lady, a speech made upon her – Rising to return us her thanks for the honor. No more – but I think I'll use that phrase no more, I feel that I can't this loss enough deplore. Momus and Bacchus, both be merry no more, Your friend Mr. Leigh lies dead on the floor. Weep both of ye, each hide your sorrowful head, For he isn't dead drunk, but he's really dead. We shall never again see his good humored face, We shall never again much admire the grace With which he would drink off his bottle of wine, Or with which he'd ask you next Sunday to dine. We shall never again laugh aloud at his fun, We shall never in turn amuse him with a pun. In his Will I hope as a Legacy that He's left me that elegant, pretty dress hat, The shape, make, and color of which were so rare; And which on all extra occasions he'd wear. I really do his loss most deeply regret, As the kindest best temper'd man, I e'er met. I'm as hale and as hearty as any one here So I'll help to carry him to his new bier. Mrs. Leigh's life, alas, has come to an end: – But I can't speak of her, I fear to offend; I don't think the truth need her feelings much gall, But if I can't tell it I won't write at all. If 'twere not for the lesson that I've been taught I'd have painted her as in justice I ought; I'd have said she was friendly, good hearted, kind, Her wit I'd have praised and intelligent mind; 'Bout scandal, or spreading reports without heed, Of course I'd say nothing, how could I indeed? Because if I did I should certainly lie, And my remarks here, doubtless, would not apply. So as I fear either to praise or to blame, I will not her faults or her virtues here name. And Mary Anne Leigh's death I much regret too, Though the greatest tormentor that I e'er knew; Whenever she met you, at morn, noon or night To tease and torment you, was her chief delight; To each glance or smile she'd a meaning apply, On every flirtation she kept a sharp eye. Though – tender feelings I trust I'm not hurting – She ne'er herself much objected to flirting. A singular fact. She to each little secret always held the candle, And I think she liked a small bit of scandal. I think, too, that she used to dress her hair well, Although Arthur said, – but that tale I won't tell. In short though she was so terribly teasing So pretty she looked, her ways were so pleasing, That when she had finished I used to remain Half fearing, half hoping, to be teased again. Here lies – Mr. Moule, at whose plentiful board We often have sat, and where, with one accord, Mirth, pleasure, good humor and capital Wine, Seem'd always to meet when one went there to dine. To his friends he was always good-humored and kind And a much better host 'twould be hard to find. If he for an instant his good humor missed I've heard it would be at a rubber of whist; At least I've sometimes heard his Partners say so; Though of course I myself this fact cannot know. His hospitality deserved great credit; Indeed I much wish all men did inherit That merit from him; I'm sure it is needed, That some should prize it as highly as he did. I think his opinions were not always quite So kind, or so just as they should be of right. However that question I'll not travel though, 'Twould not I think become me so to do. Some others in this point like him we may see, So I will say requiescat in pace. Mrs. Moule alas lieth here with the dead, Her good temper vanish'd, her light spirits fled; I'd say much of her but all knew her too well, To leave any thing new for me here to tell, So I'll only say, – in thus speaking of her I'm sure all she e'er knew will concur – If kindness and temper as virtues are held She never by any one yet was excelled. Louisa Moule's next, – I can't better call her Than the same pattern, – N.B. a size smaller. Here lies Fanny Moule, of whom't may be said, That romance or sentiment quite turned her head. Her chief pleasure was, but I cannot tell why To sit by herself in a corner and sigh. You might talk for an hour to her thinking she heard, And find out at last she had not heard a word; She'd start turn her head, – the case was a hard one, – And say with a sigh, "Dear! I beg your pardon." Whether this arose from love, doubt, hesitation, Or whether indeed, 'twas all affectation, I will not by my own decision abide, I'll leave it to others the point to decide; Thus much though, I will say, – I think it is droll, That one who so pleasing might be on the whole, Should take so much trouble, – it must be a toil, – All her charms and graces entirely to spoil. Here lies honest Joe, and I'm sure when I say That he'd a good heart, there's no one will say nay, The themes, of all others, on which he would doat Were splendid gold lace and a flaming red Coat; His mind always ran on battles and slaughters, Guards, Bands, Kettle-drums and splendid Head Quarters. I've heard that the best bate to catch a young girl Is a red coat and a mustachio's curl; Bait your hook with but this, and Joe would soon bite Hint at it, he'd talk on from morning to night. In portraits of Soldiers he spent all his hoard; You talked of a penknife – he thought of a sword. Inspecting accounts he ne'er could get through His mind would revert to some former review. He ne'er made a bill out, smaller or larger But he thought he was then mounting his charger. He ne'er to the counting house trudged in a heat But he thought of forced marches and a retreat And ne'er from the play to his home went again But trembling he thought of the roll call at TEN. But fallen at last is this "gay young deceiver," A prey to Death and a bad Scarlet fever. Here lies Mrs. Lloyd, I'm sorry to say That she too from us is so soon snatched away; That her fate is most hard it can't be denied, When we think how recently she was a bride. That she became one is no source of surprise, For if all that's charming in critical eyes Is likely to finish a dull single life, I'm sure she ought t’ve been long since a wife Though we lament one so pleasing, so witty, And though her death we may think a great pitty I really myself do quite envy her fate, And I wish when with Death I've my tête à tête, He'd do me the favor to take me away When my prospects here were bright, blooming and gay, When I'm quite happy, ere with sorrows jaded, I wish for my grave, when my hopes are faded, – When I might be certain of leaving behind Those who would ne'er cease to bear me in mind She's gone and who shall now those sweet ballads sing Which still in my ears so delightfully ring? "We met," "Friends depart" – I those sweet sounds retain, And I feel I shall never forget them again. And down here Mr. Lloyd's remains lie beside Those of his so recently blooming young bride, I'm sorry he's dead, for I knew him to be, Good humored, most honest, kind hearted and free. That he was consistent, I ne'er had a doubt, Although scandal said, and 'twas whisper'd about, That when he last Summer from Paris came home (I think 'twas his marriage induced him to roam) He his principles changed, – so runs the story, Threw off the Whigs, and became a staunch Tory. But be that as it may, I think it's but fair, To say that I know he enjoyed the fresh air. And is Arthur Beetham for the first time hush'd? And has he returned to his original dust? Has he gone the way of all flesh with the rest In spite of the great care he took of his Chest! The reason assigned by Mr. A. B. for constantly wearing his coat buttoned up to his chin, was his extreme anxiety to preserve his chest from cold. At our snug coteries will he never make one? Will he never again gladden us with his fun? Poor fellow! I fear, now he's laid in the earth, That of our amusements we'll all find a dearth; And yet he'd his faults, – to speak without joking, He had a knack of being very provoking; So much so that several times t' other day I devoutly, heartily, wished him away; But after I'd done so, my conscience me smote And here perhaps a couple of lines I may quote Missing his mirth and agreeable vein, I directly wished we had him back again. And does M'Namara with the dead recline? Poor Francis, his waistcoats were wond'rously fine; He certainly was an elegant fellow, His coats were well made, his gloves a bright yellow; Florists shall hold up his Pall by the corners, Morgan a celebrated glove maker and Watkins a celebrated Tailor shall be his chief mourners. Last, here's Charles Dickens, who's now gone for ever; It's clear that he thought himself very clever; To all his friends' faults – it almost makes me weep, He was wide awake – to his own fast asleep. Though blame he deserved for such wilful blindness He had one merit – he ne'er forgot kindness. Perhaps I don't do right to call that a merit Which each human creature's bound to inherit; But when old Death claimed the debt that he owed him He felt most grateful to all that was showed him, His faults, and there were not in number few, As all his acquaintance extremely well knew, Emanated – to speak of him in good part – I think rather more from the head than the heart. His death wasn't sudden, he had long been ill, Slowly he languished and got worse, until, No mortal means could the poor young fellow save, And a sweet pair of eyes sent him home to his grave. Finis 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 'The Bill of Fare' Description An account of the resource MS in Maria Beadnell's hand (1831). Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Beinecke Library, Yale University. Manuscript. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1831 Type The nature or genre of the resource Poem Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1831_The_Bill_of_Fare 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. 'Lodgings To Let.' Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell (1831). Dickens Search. Eds. Emily Middleton and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1831_The_Bill_of_Fare">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1831_The_Bill_of_Fare</a>. Relation A related resource Parody of Oliver Goldsmith's 'Retaliation: A Poem'. Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. As the great rage just now is imitation, 'Mong high-born & low, throughout the whole Nation, I trust 'twill excuse the few following lines, Of which I'll say nothing, but that these poor rhymes, As you might expect, in degenerate days Like these, are entitled to no share of praise Because they are novel, – the ground work at least, Is a copy from Goldsmith's ever famed Feast. "And a bad one it is too," – you'll say, I fear, But let me entreat you, don't be too severe. – If, in a fair face, 'twill elicit a smile, If one single moment 'twill serve to beguile, – I shall think on it with great satisfaction, Et cet'ra, – & so forth: – now then to action! Without further preface to waste the time in We'll set to at once, – If you please we'll begin. We'll say a small party to Dinner are met, And the guests are themselves about to be eat; Without saying Grace, – (I own I'm a sinner, –) We'll endeavor to see what we've for dinner. Mr. Beadnell's a good fine sirloin of beef, Though to see him cut up would cause no small grief; And then Mrs. Beadnell, I think I may name, As being an excellent Rib of the same. The Miss B's are next, who it must be confessed Are two nice little Ducks; and very well dressed. William Moule's of a trifle, a trifling dish; Mr. Leigh we all know is a very great fish; Mrs. Leigh a Curry, smart, hot & biting, Although a dish that is always inviting. For cooking our meat we utensils won't lack So Miss Leigh shall be called a fine roasting Jack, A thing of great use, when we dine or we sup, A patent one too – never wants winding up. Mr Moule's a bottle of excellent Port; Mrs. Moule of Champagne, – good humor's her forte; The Miss M's of Snipe are a brace, if you please, And Joe is a very fine flavored Dutch-Cheese; Mrs. Lloyd & her spouse are a nice side dish, – (Some type of their most happy state I must wish To produce; – let me see, I've found out one soon) Of Honey & sweets in the form of a Moon; Arthur Beetham, – this dish has cost me some pains, Is a tongue with a well made garnish of brains; M'Namara, I think must by the same rule Be a dish of excellent gooseberry-fool; And Charles Dickens, who in our Feast plays a part, Is a young Summer Cabbage, without any heart; – Not that he's heartless, but because, as folks say, He lost his a twelve month ago from last May. Now let us suppose that the dinner is done, And the guests have roll'd on the floor one by one: – I don't mean to say that they're at the completion, Trying the fam'd city cure for repletion. Nor do I by any means raise up the question Whether they owe their deaths to indigestion. We'll say they're all dead; it's a terrible sight But I'll dry my tears, and their Epitaphs write. Here lies Mr. Beadnell, beyond contradiction, An excellent man, and a good politician; His opinions were always sound and sincere, Come here! ye Reformers, o'er him drop a tear: Come here, and with me weep at his sudden end, Ye who're to ballot & freedom a friend. Come here, all of ye who to him ever listened, Praise on rare quality – he was consistent; And if any one can say so much for you We'll try to write on you an epitaph too. He was most hospitable, friendly & kind; An enemy, I'm sure, he's not left behind; And if he be fairly, and all in all ta'en, "We never shall look upon his like again." Here lies Mrs. Beadnell, whose conduct through life, As a mother, a woman, a friend, a wife, I shall think, while I possess recollection, Can be summ'd up in one word – PERFECTION. Her faults I'd tell you beyond any doubt, But for this plain reason, – I ne'er found them out: Her character from my own knowledge I tell, For when she was living she was, I then knew her well. It chances to've been by the fates brought about, That she was the means of first bringing me out: – All my thanks for that & her kindness since then I'd vainly endeavor to tell with my pen: I think what I'd say, – I feel it, that's better, Or I'd scorn to write of these lines one letter. Excuse me, dear reader, for pause now I must; Here two charming Sisters lie low in the dust. – But why should I pause? do they want my poor aid To tell of their virtues while with us they stayed? Can a few words from me add a hundredth part To the regret felt for them in every heart? No, no! 't is impossible; still I must try, To speak of them here, for I can't pass them by. And first then for Anne I'll my banner unfurl – A truly delightful and sweet tempered girl, And, what's very odd, and will add to her fame, Is this one plain fact, – she was always the same. She was witty, clever, – you liked what she said; Without being blue, she was very well read. Her favourite Author, or else I'm a fibber, And have been deceived, was a famed Colley Cibber. I don't think dear reader 'twill interest you, But still, if you please, keep that quite entre nous. I grow tedious, so of her I'll not din more, – Oh! – She sometimes drest her hair a la Chinois. Ladies, if you want this fashion to follow, And don't know where you the pattern can borrow, Don't look in "the fashions" 'mong bows & wreathings, You'll find it on any antique China Tea things. But who have we here? alas what sight is this? Has her spirit flown back to regions of bliss? Has Maria left this World of trouble & care Because for us she was too good & too fair? Has Heaven in its jealousy ta'en her away As a blessing too great for us children of clay? All ye fair & beautiful, sadly come here, And Springs early flowers strew over her bier; Fit emblems are they of life's short fleeting day, Fit tributes are they to her mem'ry to pay; For though blooming now, they will soon be decayed, They blossom one moment, then wither and fade. I linger here now, and I hardly know why, I've no wish, no hope now, but this one – to die. My bright hopes & fond wishes were all centered here Their brightness has vanished, they're now dark & drear. The impression that Mem'ry engraves in my heart Is all I have left, and with that I ne'er part. I might tell you much, & I say't with a sigh, Of the grace of her form, & the glance of her eye; I might tell of happy days now pass'd away, Which I fondly hoped then would never decay, But 'twere useless – I should only those times deplore,  I know that again I can see them no more. But what's this small form that she folds to her breast, As if it had only laid down there to rest? Poor thing is it living? – Ah no! it's dead quite; It is a small dog, liver-colored & white. Dear me, now I see – 'tis the little dog that Would eat mutton chops if you cut off the fat! So very happy was its situation An object it was of such admiration, That I'd resign all my natural graces, E'en now, if I could with "Daphne" change places. William Moule next alas with the dead lieth here, And his loss we shall ne'er recover I fear; No more shall the young men, among whom am I, Regard with great envy his elegant tie; No more shall the girls, with anxiety wait, At a party, and mourn that he came in late; Though it was not his fault, it must be confess'd We knew very well that he lived "in the West"<a href="#fn1" id="ref1">1</a> And men of great fashion now never go out, Till long after twelve when engaged to a rout. No more shall he waltz an hour with one lady, To the delight of tut'ress, Miss A. B. Who no more shall turn to me, & whispering low, Say "Doesn't he waltz well? I taught him, you know." No more shall he curse all the City Folks' Balls, And vow that he never will honor their halls; No more from "the London", will he be turned back Because of his wearing a Kerchief of black; No more when we sit round the blithe supper table Shall he hush to silence the prattling Babel, By, – When a lady, a speech made upon her – Rising to return us her thanks for the honor. No more – but I think I'll use that phrase no more, I feel that I can't this loss enough deplore. Momus & Bacchus, both be merry no more, Your friend Mr. Leigh lies dead on the floor. Weep both of ye, each hide your sorrowful head, For he isn't dead drunk, but he's really dead. We shall never again see his good humored face, We shall never again much admire the grace With which he would drink off his bottle of wine, Or with which he'd ask you next Sunday to dine. We shall never again laugh aloud at his fun,  We shall never in turn amuse him with a pun. In his Will I hope as a Legacy that He's left me that elegant, pretty dress hat, The shape, make, & color of which were so rare; And which on all extra occasions he'd wear. I really do his loss most deeply regret, As the kindest best temper'd man, I e'er met. I'm as hale and as hearty as any one here So I'll help to carry him to his new bier. Mrs. Leigh's life, alas, has come to an end: – But I can't speak of her, I fear to offend; I don't think the truth need her feelings much gall, But if I can't tell it I won't write at all. If 'twere not for the lesson that I've been taught I'd have painted her as in justice I ought; I'd have said she was friendly, good hearted, kind, Her wit I'd have praised and intelligent mind; 'Bout scandal, or spreading reports without heed, Of course I'd say nothing, how could I indeed? Because if I did I should certainly lie, And my remarks here, doubtless, would not apply. So as I fear either to praise or to blame, I will not her faults or her virtues here name. And Mary Anne Leigh's death I much regret too, Though the greatest tormentor that I e'er knew; Whenever she met you, at morn, noon or night To tease & torment you, was her chief delight; To each glance or smile she'd a meaning apply, On every flirtation she kept a sharp eye. Though – tender feelings I trust I'm not hurting – She ne'er herself much objected to flirting.<a href="#fn2" id="ref2">2</a> She to each little secret always held the candle, And I think she liked a small bit of scandal. I think, too, that she used to dress her hair well, Although Arthur said, – but that tale I won't tell. In short though she was so terribly teasing So pretty she looked, her ways were so pleasing, That when she had finished I used to remain Half fearing, half hoping, to be teased again. Here lies – Mr. Moule, at whose plentiful board We often have sat, and where, with one accord, Mirth, pleasure, good humor & capital Wine, Seem'd always to meet when one went there to dine. To his friends he was always good-humored and kind And a much better host 'twould be hard to find. If he for an instant his good humor missed I've heard it would be at a rubber of whist; At least I've sometimes heard his Partners say so; Though of course I myself this fact cannot know. His hospitality deserved great credit; Indeed I much wish all men did inherit That merit from him; I'm sure it is needed, That some should prize it as highly as he did. I think his opinions were not always quite So kind, or so just as they should be of right. However that question I'll not travel though, 'Twould not I think become me so to do. Some others in this point like him we may see, So I will say requiescat in pace. Mrs. Moule alas lieth here with the dead, Her good temper vanish'd, her light spirits fled; I'd say much of her but all knew her too well, To leave any thing new for me here to tell, So I'll only say, – in thus speaking of her I'm sure all she e'er knew will concur – If kindness & temper as virtues are held She never by any one yet was excelled. Louisa Moule's next, – I can't better call her Than the same pattern, – N.B. a size smaller. Here lies Fanny Moule, of whom't may be said, That romance or sentiment quite turned her head. Her chief pleasure was, but I cannot tell why To sit by herself in a corner and sigh. You might talk for an hour to her thinking she heard, And find out at last she had not heard a word; She'd start turn her head, – the case was a hard one, – And say with a sigh, "Dear! I beg your pardon." Whether this arose from love, doubt, hesitation, Or whether indeed, 'twas all affectation, I will not by my own decision abide, I'll leave it to others the point to decide; Thus much though, I will say, – I think it is droll, That one who so pleasing might be on the whole, Should take so much trouble, – it must be a toil, – All her charms and graces entirely to spoil. Here lies honest Joe, & I'm sure when I say That he'd a good heart, there's no one will say nay, The themes, of all others, on which he would doat Were splendid gold lace & a flaming red Coat; His mind always ran on battles & slaughters, Guards, Bands, Kettle-drums & splendid Head Quarters. I've heard that the best bate to catch a young girl Is a red coat & a mustachio's curl; Bait your hook with but this, & Joe would soon bite Hint at it, he'd talk on from morning to night. In portraits of Soldiers he spent all his hoard; You talked of a penknife – he thought of a sword. Inspecting accounts he ne'er could get through His mind would revert to some former review. He ne'er made a bill out, smaller or larger But he thought he was then mounting his charger. He ne'er to the counting house trudged in a heat But he thought of forced marches & a retreat And ne'er from the play to his home went again But trembling he thought of the roll call at TEN. But fallen at last is this "gay young deceiver," A prey to Death and a bad Scarlet fever. Here lies Mrs. Lloyd, I'm sorry to say That she too from us is so soon snatched away; That her fate is most hard it can't be denied, When we think how recently she was a bride. That she became one is no source of surprise, For if all that's charming in critical eyes Is likely to finish a dull single life, I'm sure she ought t’ve been long since a wife Though we lament one so pleasing, so witty, And though her death we may think a great pitty I really myself do quite envy her fate, And I wish when with Death I've my tête à tête, He'd do me the favor to take me away When my prospects here were bright, blooming & gay, When I'm quite happy, ere with sorrows jaded, I wish for my grave, when my hopes are faded, – When I might be certain of leaving behind Those who would ne'er cease to bear me in mind She's gone and who shall now those sweet ballads sing Which still in my ears so delightfully ring? "We met," "Friends depart" – I those sweet sounds retain, And I feel I shall never forget them again. And down here Mr. Lloyd's remains lie beside Those of his so recently blooming young bride, I'm sorry he's dead, for I knew him to be, Good humored, most honest, kind hearted & free. That he was consistent, I ne'er had a doubt, Although scandal said, & 'twas whisper'd about, That when he last Summer from Paris came home (I think 'twas his marriage induced him to roam) He his principles changed, – so runs the story, Threw off the Whigs, & became a staunch Tory. But be that as it may, I think it's but fair, To say that I know he enjoyed the fresh air. And is Arthur Beetham for the first time hush'd? And has he returned to his original dust? Has he gone the way of all flesh with the rest In spite of the great care he took of his Chest!<a href="#fn3" id="ref3">3</a> At our snug coteries will he never make one? Will he never again gladden us with his fun? Poor fellow! I fear, now he's laid in the earth, That of our amusements we'll all find a dearth; And yet he'd his fault, – to speak without joking, He had a knack of being very provoking; So much so that several times t' other day I devoutly, heartily, wished him away; But after I'd done so, my conscience me smote And here perhaps a couple of lines I may quote Missing his mirth and agreeable vein, I directly wished we had him back again. And does M'Namara with the dead recline? Poor Francis, his waistcoats were wond'rously fine; He certainly was an elegant fellow, His coats were well made, his gloves a bright yellow; Florists shall hold up his Pall by the corners, Morgan<a href="#fn4" id="ref4">4</a> & Watkins<a href="#fn5" id="ref5">5</a> shall be his chief mourners. Last, here's Charles Dickens, who's now gone for ever; It's clear that he thought himself very clever; To all his friends' faults – it almost makes me weep, He was wide awake – to his own fast asleep. Though blame he deserved for such wilful blindness He had one merit – he ne'er forgot kindness. Perhaps I don't do right to call that a merit Which each human creature's bound to inherit; But when old Death claimed the debt that he owed him He felt most grateful to all that was showed him, His faults, & there were not in number few, As all his acquaintance extremely well knew, Emanated – to speak of him in good part – I think rather more from the head than the heart. His death wasn't sudden, he had long been ill, Slowly he languished & got worse, until, No mortal means could the poor young fellow save, And a sweet pair of eyes sent him home to his grave.  Finis 1. The purlieus of Tottenham Court Road!!!<a href="#ref1" title="Jump back to footnote 1 in the text.">↩</a> 2. A singular fact.<a href="#ref2" title="Jump back to footnote 2 in the text.">↩</a> 3. The reason assigned by Mr. A. B. for constantly wearing his coat buttoned up to his chin, was his extreme anxiety to preserve his chest from cold.<a href="#ref3" title="Jump back to footnote 3 in the text.">↩</a> 4. a celebrated glove maker<a href="#ref4" title="Jump back to footnote 4 in the text.">↩</a> 5. a celebrated Tailor<a href="#ref5" title="Jump back to footnote 5 in the text.">↩</a> https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/The_Blacksmith/1859-04-30_The_Blacksmith.pdf 0e119c97a01d119e3fec5f5c3718024b 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&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&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 Pickwick Papers (1837), a story of time’s inexorable passing, was frequently republished in newspapers. Several poems written to young ladies of Dickens’s acquaintance are released on Dickens Search 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=&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album&collection=&type=&tags=&date_search_term=&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. When writing <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter&collection=3&type=&tags=&date_search_term=&submit_search=Search+For+Items">letters</a> to friends, Dickens occasionally included comedic poems for the recipient. Several of these are included. Considering the enormity of Dickens’s correspondence, likely more instances of this sort of poetic humour will result over time. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&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&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Play">verse from Dickens's plays</a>, including songs removed from The Strange Gentleman and Is She His Wife? Or, Something Singular! before performance. 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. 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 The Old Curiosity Shop. 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 Echoes of Infant Voices. Because Dickens did not intend for this passage to be structured in verse form, the poem is not included in the poetry collection of Dickens Search. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/poetry-dickens-didnt-write">Read our blog post for more on poetry Dickens didn't write.</a> Occasionally, Dickens will quote a poem by another author, as in his burlesque Is She his Wife? Or, Something Singular! (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. Previous notable collections of some of Dickens's poetry include The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens (1882) edited by Richard Herne Shepherd and The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens (1903) edited by Frederic G. Kitton. In 2025, we published <a href="https://edinburghuniversitypress.com/book-the-verse-of-charles-dickens.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Verse of Charles Dickens</a> (Edinburgh University Press), which includes an introduction and editorial apparatus for this verse.  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. 1. The Verse of Charles Dickens. Edited by Lydia Craig and Emily Middleton. Edinburgh University Press, 2025; Robert Butterworth. 'The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers.' The Dickensian 516.118.1 (Spring 2022): pp. 43-56; Eva-Charlotta Mebius. 'Dreams of Dying Girls: The Poetry of Thomas J. Ouseley and Charles Dickens.' Dickens Quarterly 34.3 (September 2017): pp. 256-261; Robert C. Hanna. 'Before Boz; The Juvenilia and Early Writings of Charles Dickens, 1820-1833'. Dickens Studies Annual 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. 18590430 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   (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. OLD England, she has great warriors, Great princes, and poets great; But the Blacksmith is not to be quite forgot, In the history of the State. He is rich in the best of all metals, Yet silver he lacks and gold; And he payeth his due, and his heart is true, Though he bloweth both hot and cold. The boldest is he of incendiaries That ever the wide world saw, And a forger as rank as e’er robbed the Bank, Though he never doth break the law. He hath shoes that are worn by strangers, Yet he laugheth and maketh more; And a share (concealed) in the poor man’s field, Yet it adds to the poor man’s store. Then, hurrah for the iron Blacksmith! And hurrah for his iron crew! And whenever we go where his forges glow, We’ll sing what A MAN can do. Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Periodical Publication The title of the newspaper/serial (if applicable) All the Year Round TEI File Link to TEI file <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1859-04-30_All_The_Year_Round_The_Blacksmith.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'The Blacksmith.' All the Year Round (30 April 1859): p. 20.</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 'The Blacksmith' 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 1859-04-30 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Scanned material from Dickens Journals Online, <a href="http://www.djo.org.uk" id="LPNoLPOWALinkPreview" contenteditable="false" title="http://www.djo.org.uk">www.djo.org.uk</a>. Available under CC BY licence. 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. 'The Blacksmith.' All the Year Round (30 April 1859): p. 20. Dickens Search. Eds. Emily Middleton and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1859-04-30_All_The_Year_Round_The_Blacksmith">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1859-04-30_All_The_Year_Round_The_Blacksmith</a>. Type The nature or genre of the resource Poem Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Dickens Journals Online, <a href="https://www.djo.org.uk/all-the-year-round/volume-i/page-20.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://www.djo.org.uk/all-the-year-round/volume-i/page-20.html</a>; attr. Shepherd, <a href="https://www.google.com/books/edition/The_Plays_and_Poems_of_Charles_Dickens/3FPOAAAAMAAJ?hl=en&gbpv=1&dq=shephard+plays+and+poems+the+blacksmith+dickens&pg=PA232&printsec=frontcover" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Plays and Poems</a> (1885), p.232. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1859-04-30_All_The_Year_Round_The_Blacksmith Description An account of the resource Published in All The Year Round (30 April 1859). Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. OLD England, she has great warriors, Great princes, and poets great; But the Blacksmith is not to be quite forgot, In the history of the State.   He is rich in the best of all metals, Yet silver he lacks and gold; And he payeth his due, and his heart is true, Though he bloweth both hot and cold.   The boldest is he of incendiaries That ever the wide world saw, And a forger as rank as e’er robbed the Bank, Though he never doth break the law.   He hath shoes that are worn by strangers, Yet he laugheth and maketh more; And a share (concealed) in the poor man’s field, Yet it adds to the poor man’s store.   Then, hurrah for the iron Blacksmith! And hurrah for his iron crew! And whenever we go where his forges glow, We’ll sing what A MAN can do. https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/The_Bloomsbury_Christening/1834-04-The_Bloomsbury_Christening.pdf 4aee40edc5abf104ab56488b3a79b351 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. 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. Between 1833, when he tentatively submitted “A Dinner at Poplar Walk” for publication in The Monthly Magazine, 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 The Evening Chronicle, Bell’s Life in London, and Bentley's Miscellany 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. Global fame arrived with the serial publication of The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club (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 Sketches by Boz, 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 Sketches by Boz’ (44). Sketches of Young Gentlemen (1838), a joking response to Rev. Edward Caswell, or “QUIZ’s” recent effort Sketches of Young Ladies (1838), and Sketches of Couples (1840) were published by Chapman and Hall and illustrated by Hablot Knight Browne, better known as ‘PHIZ’. After this point, Dickens’s short stories were published in his periodicals Household Words and All the Year Round, 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 The Haunted House (1859). Notably, his collaboration with Wilkie Collins resulted in such works as The Perils of Certain English Prisoners (1857) and No Thoroughfare (1867). Towards the end of his life, Dickens began to publish short stories again in American publications such as The New York Ledger, The Atlantic Monthly, and Our Young Folks. 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 Sketches 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. Other anthologies, for instance Selected Short Fiction (Penguin, 2005), edited by Deborah A. Thomas, choose excerpts from Dickens’s entire oeuvre 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 Dickens and the Short Story. (University of Philadelphia Press, 1982) by Deborah A. Thomas and Charles Dickens and ‘Boz’: The Birth of the Industrial-Age Author (Cambridge, 2012) by Patten.1 To date, the most comprehensive overview of the sketches is provided by The Oxford Edition of Charles Dickens’s Sketches by Boz (2021) edited by Paul Schlicke with David Hewitt. Others include Dickens's Uncollected Magazine and Newspaper Sketches as Originally Composed and Published 1833–1836 (2012), edited by Robert C. Hanna, and Sketches by Boz and Other Early Papers (1994), edited by Michael Slater. 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 Dickens Search 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. While building this collection, we have consulted, and transcribed scans found on databases such as British Newspaper Archive (BNA), digital archives, and such open-access sites as Hathi Trust, Internet Archive, and Google Books; all items are linked to their original location on the internet. Please contact us with any errors, corrections, and suggestions, or to mention other short stories by Dickens that might have been overlooked. 1. See Dominic Rainsford. ‘“Luller-li-e-te”! Language, Personhood, and Sympathy in Sketches by Boz.’ In Some Keywords in Dickens. Edited by Michael Hollington, Francesca Orestano, and Nathalie Vanfasse. Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2021, pp. 117-130; William F. Long. ‘“Our Space is Limited”: Fitting Sketches by Boz into the Morning Chronicle”. Dickens Quarterly 4 (December 2020): pp. 325-348; William F. Long. 'Dickens before Sketches by Boz: Earliest Reactions to his Earliest Works'. Dickensian (2018), 114.505, pp.170-176; Christina Jen. '"Drop the Curtain": Astonishment and the Anxieties of Authorship in Charles Dickens's Sketches by Boz. Dickens Studies Annual 49.2 (2018): pp. 249-278; Dianne F. Sadoff. ‘Boz and Beyond: “Oliver Twist” and the Dickens Legacy’. Dickens Studies Annual 45 (2014): pp. 23-44; Dickens's Uncollected Magazine and Newspaper Sketches, as Originally Composed and Published, 1833–1836, No. 46. Ed. Robert C. Hanna (2012): New York, AMS Press; Danielle Coriale. ‘Sketches by Boz, “So Frail a Machine”. SEL: Studies in English Literature 48.4 (2008): pp. 801-812; Paul Schlicke. ‘“Risen Like a Rocket”: The Impact of Sketches by Boz’. Dickens Quarterly 22.1 (2005): pp. 3-18; Ellen Miller Casey. ‘“Boz has got the Town by the ear”: Dickens and the “Athenæum Critics”’. Dickens Studies Annual 33 (2003): pp. 159-190; Richard Maxwell. ‘Dickens, the Two “Chronicles”, and the Publication of “Sketches by Boz”’. Dickens Studies Annual 9 (1981): pp. 21–32; Angus Easson. “Who is Boz? Dickens and His Sketches”. The Dickensian 18.1.405 (Spring 1985): pp. 13-22; Julian W. Breslow. 'The Narrator in Sketches by Boz.' ELH 44.1 (1977): pp. 127–49. Short Story Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Periodical Publication The title of the newspaper/serial (if applicable) The Monthly Magazine 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. 18340401 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   (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. Mr. Nicodemus Dumps, or, as his acquaintance called him, "long Dumps," was a bachelor, six feet high, and fifty years old, —cross, cadaverous, odd, and ill-natured. He was never happy but when he was miserable (pardon the contradiction); and always miserable when he had the best reason to be happy. The only real comfort of his existence was to make everybody about him wretched—then he might be truly said to enjoy life. He was afflicted with a situation in the Bank worth five hundred a-year, and he rented a "first floor furnished" at Pentonville, which he originally took because it commanded a dismal prospect of an adjacent churchyard. He was familiar with the face of every tombstone, and the burial service seemed to excite his strongest sympathy. His friends said he was surly—he insisted he was nervous; they thought him a lucky dog, but he protested that he was "the most unfortunate man in the world." Cold as he was, and wretched as he declared himself to be, he was not wholly unsusceptible of attachments. He revered the memory of Hoyle, as he was himself an admirable and imperturbable whist-player, and he chuckled with delight at a fretful and impatient adversary. He adored King Herod for his massacre of the innocents; for if he hated one thing more than another, it was a child. However, he could hardly be said to hate any thing in particular, because he disliked every thing in general; but perhaps his greatest antipathies were cabs, old women, doors that would not shut, musical amateurs, and omnibus cads. He subscribed to the Society for the Suppression of Vice for the pleasure of putting a stop to any harmless amusements; and he contributed largely towards the support of two itinerant methodist parsons, under the amiable hope that if circumstances rendered any people happy in this world, they might perchance be rendered miserable by fears for the next. Mr. Dumps had a nephew who had been married about a year, and who was somewhat of a favourite with his uncle, because he was an admirable subject to exercise his misery-creating powers upon. Mr. Charles Kitterbell was a small, sharp, spare man, with a very large head, and a broad, good-humoured countenance. He looked like a faded giant, with the head and face partially restored; and he had a cast in his eye which rendered it quite impossible for any one with whom he conversed to know where he was looking. His eyes appeared fixed on the wall, and he was staring you out of countenance; in short, there was no catching his eye, and perhaps it is a merciful dispensation of Providence that such eyes are not catching. In addition to these characteristics, it may be added that Mr. Charles Kitterbell was one of the most credulous and matter-of-fact little personages that ever took to himself a wife, and for himself a house in Great Russell-street, Russell-square (Uncle Dumps always dropped the Russell-square," and inserted in lieu thereof the dreadful words "Tottenham-court-road"). "No, but, uncle, ’pon my life you must—you must promise to be godfather," said Mr. Kitterbell, as he sat in conversation with his respected relative one morning. "I cannot, indeed I cannot," returned Dumps. "Well, but why not? Jemima will think it very unkind. It’s very little trouble." "As to the trouble," rejoined the most unhappy man in existence, "I don’t mind that; but my nerves are in that state—I cannot go through the ceremony. You know I don’t like going out.—For God’s sake, Charles, don’t fidget with that stool so, you’ll drive me mad." Mr. Kitterbell, quite regardless of his uncle’s nerves, had occupied himself for some ten minutes in describing a circle on the floor with one leg of the office-stool on which he was seated, keeping the other three up in the air and holding fast on by the desk. "I beg your pardon, uncle," said Kitterbell, quite abashed, suddenly releasing his hold of the desk, and bringing the three wandering legs back to the floor with a force sufficient to drive them through it. "But come, don’t refuse. If it’s a boy, you know, we must have two godfathers." "If it’s a boy!" said Dumps, "why can’t you say at once whether it is a boy or not?" "I should be very happy to tell you, but it’s impossible I can undertake to say whether it’s a girl or a boy, if the child isn’t born yet." "Not born yet!" echoed Dumps, with a gleam of hope lighting up his lugubrious visage; "oh, well, it may be a girl, and then you won’t want me, or if it is a boy, it may die before it's christened." "I hope not," said the father that expected to be, looking very grave. "I hope not," acquiesced Dumps, evidently pleased with the subject. He was beginning to get happy. "I hope not, but distressing cases frequently occur during the first two or three days of a child’s life; fits, I am told, are exceedingly common, and alarming convulsions are almost matters of course." "Lord, uncle!" ejaculated little Kitterbell, gasping for breath. "Yes; my landlady was confined—let me see—last Tuesday: an uncommonly fine boy. On the Thursday night the nurse was sitting with him upon her knee before the fire, and he was as well as possible. Suddenly he became black in the face, and alarmingly spasmodic. The medical man was instantly sent for, and every remedy was tried, but—" "How frightful!" interrupted the horror-stricken Kitterbell. "The child died, of course. However, your child may not die; and if it should be a boy, and should live to be christened, why I suppose I must be one of the sponsors." Dumps was evidently good-natured on the faith of his anticipations. "Thank you, uncle," said his agitated nephew, grasping his hand as warmly as if he had done him some essential service. "Perhaps I had better not tell Mrs. K. what you have mentioned." ‘Why, if she’s low-spirited, perhaps you had better not mention the melancholy case to her,’ returned Dumps, who of course had invented the whole story; "though perhaps it would be but doing your duty as a husband to prepare her for the worst." A day or two afterwards, as Dumps was perusing a morning paper at the chop-house which he regularly frequented, the following-paragraph met his eye:- "Births.—On Saturday, the 18th inst., in Great Russell-street, the lady of Charles Kitterbell, Esq., of a son." "It is a boy!" he exclaimed, dashing down the paper, to the astonishment of the waiters. "It is a boy!" But he speedily regained his composure as his eye rested on a paragraph quoting the number of infant deaths from the bills of mortality. Six weeks passed away, and as no communication had been received from the Kitterbells, Dumps was beginning to flatter himself that the child was dead, when the following note painfully resolved his doubts:- "Great Russell-street, Monday morning. "DEAR UNCLE: You will be delighted to hear that my dear Jemima has left her room, and that your future godson is getting on capitally; he was very thin at first, but he is getting much larger, and nurse says he is filling out every day. He cries a good deal, and is a very singular colour, which made Jemima and me rather uncomfortable; but as nurse says it’s natural, and as of course we know nothing about these things yet, we are quite satisfied with what nurse says. We think he will be a sharp child; and nurse says she’s sure he will, because he never goes to sleep. You will readily believe that we are all very happy, only we’re a little worn out for want of rest, as he keeps us awake all night; but this we must expect, nurse says, for the first six or eight months. He has been vaccinated, but in consequence of the operation being rather awkwardly performed, some small particles of glass were introduced into the arm with the matter. Perhaps this may in some degree account for his being rather fractious; at least, so nurse says. We propose to have him christened at twelve o’clock on Friday, at Saint George’s church, in Hart-street, by the name of Frederick Charles William. Pray don’t be later than a quarter before twelve. We shall have a very few friends in the evening, when, of course we shall see you. I am sorry to say that the dear boy appears rather restless and uneasy to-day: the cause, I fear, is fever. "Believe me, dear Uncle, "Yours affectionately, "CHARLES KITTERBELL." "P.S.—I open this note to say that we have just discovered the cause of little Frederick’s restlessness. It is not fever, as I apprehended, but a small pin, which nurse accidentally stuck in his leg yesterday evening. We have taken it out, and he appears more composed, though he still sobs a good deal." It is almost unnecessary to say that the perusal of the above interesting statement was no great relief to the mind of the hypochondriacal Dumps. It was impossible to recede, however, and so he put the best face—that is to say, an uncommonly miserable one—upon the matter; and purchased a handsome silver mug for the infant Kitterbell, upon which he ordered the initials "F. C. W. K.," with the customary untrained grape-vine-looking flourishes, and a large full stop, to be engraved forthwith. Monday was a fine day, Tuesday was delightful, Wednesday was equal to either, and Thursday was finer than ever; four successive fine days in London! Hackney-coachmen became revolutionary, and crossing-sweepers began to doubt the existence of a First Cause. The Morning Herald informed its readers that an old woman, in Camden Town, had been heard to say that the fineness of the season was "unprecedented in the memory of the oldest inhabitant;" and Islington clerks, with large families and small salaries, left off their black gaiters, disdained to carry their once green cotton umbrellas, and walked to town in the conscious pride of white stockings, and cleanly brushed Bluchers. Dumps beheld all this with an eye of supreme contempt—his triumph was at hand. — He knew that if it had been fine for four weeks instead of four days, it would rain when he went out; he was lugubriously happy in the conviction that Friday would be a wretched day—and so it was. "I knew how it would be," said Dumps, as he turned round opposite the Mansion House at half-past eleven o’clock on the Friday morning. "I knew how it would be, I am concerned, and that’s enough;"—and certainly the appearance of the day was sufficient to depress the spirits of a much more buoyant-hearted individual than himself. It had rained, without a moment’s cessation, since eight o’clock; everybody that passed up Cheapside, and down Cheapside, looked wet, cold, and dirty. All sorts of forgotten and long-concealed umbrellas had been put into requisition. Cabs whisked about, with the "fare" as carefully boxed up behind two glazed calico curtains as any mysterious picture in any one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s castles; omnibus horses smoked like steam-engines; nobody thought of "standing up" under doorways or arches; they were painfully convinced it was a hopeless case; and so everybody went hastily along, jumbling and jostling, and swearing and perspiring, and slipping about, like amateur skaters behind wooden chairs on the Serpentine on a frosty Sunday. Dumps paused; he could not think of walking, being rather smart for the christening. If he took a cab he was sure to be spilt, and a hackney-coach was too expensive for his economical ideas. An omnibus was waiting at the opposite corner—it was a desperate case—he had never heard of an omnibus upsetting or running away, and if the cad did knock him down, he could "pull him up" in return. "Now, sir!" cried the young gentleman who officiated as "cad" to the "Lads of the Village," which was the name of the machine just noticed. Dumps crossed. "This vay, sir!" shouted the driver of the "Hark away," pulling up his vehicle immediately across the door of the opposition—"This vay, sir—he’s full." Dumps hesitated, whereupon the "Lads of the Village" commenced pouring out a torrent of abuse against the "Hark away"; but the conductor of the "Admiral Napier" settled the contest in a most satisfactory manner for all parties, by seizing Dumps round the waist, and thrusting him into the middle of his vehicle, which had just come up, and only wanted the sixteenth inside. "All right," said the "Admiral," and off the thing thundered, like a fire-engine at full gallop, with the kidnapped customer inside, standing in the position of a half doubled up boot-jack, and falling about with every jerk of the machine, first on one side, and then on the other, like a "Jack-in-the-green," on May-day, "setting" to the lady with the brass ladle. "For Heaven’s sake, where am I to sit?" inquired the miserable man of an old gentleman, into whose stomach he had just fallen for the fourth time. "Anywhere but on my chest, sir," replied the old gentleman, in a surly tone. "Perhaps the box would suit the gentleman better," suggested a very damp lawyer’s clerk, in a pink shirt and a smirking countenance. After a great deal of struggling and falling about, Dumps at last managed to squeeze himself into a seat, which, in addition to the slight disadvantage of being between a window that wouldn't shut, and a door that must be open, placed him in close contact with a passenger, who had been walking about all the morning without an umbrella, and who looked as if he had spent the day in a full water-butt—only wetter. "Don’t bang the door so," said Dumps to the conductor, as he shut it after letting out four of the passengers; "I am very nervous—it destroys me." "Did any gen’lm’n say anythink?" replied the cad, thrusting in his head, and trying to look as if he didn’t understand the request. "I told you not to bang the door so," repeated Dumps, with an expression of countenance like the knave of clubs, in convulsions. "Oh! vy, it’s rather a sing’ler circumstance about this here door, sir, that it von’t shut without banging," replied the conductor; and he opened the door very wide, and shut it again with a terrific bang, in proof of the assertion. "I beg your pardon, sir," said a little prim, wheezing old gentleman, sitting opposite Dumps, "I beg your pardon; but have you ever observed, when you have been in an omnibus on a wet day, that four people out of five, always come in with large cotton umbrellas, without a handle at the top, or the brass spike at the bottom?" ‘Why, sir,’ returned Dumps, as he heard the clock strike twelve, "it never struck me before; but now you mention it, I—Hollo! hollo!" shouted the persecuted individual, as the omnibus dashed past Drury-lane, where he had directed to be set down.—"Where is the cad?" "I think he’s on the box, sir," said the young gentleman before noticed in the pink shirt, which looked like a white one ruled with red ink. "I want to be set down!" said Dumps in a faint voice, overcome by his previous efforts. "I think these cads want to be set down," returned the attorney’s clerk, chuckling at his sally. "Hollo!" cried Dumps again. "Hollo!" echoed the passengers; the omnibus passed St. Giles’s church. "Hold hard!" said the conductor; "I’m blowed if we ha’n’t forgot the gen’lm’n as vas to be set down at Doory-lane.—Now, sir, make haste, if you please," he added, opening the door, and assisting Dumps out with as much coolness as if it was "all right." Dumps’s indignation was for once getting the better of his cynical equanimity. "Drury-lane!" he gasped, with the voice of a boy in a cold bath for the first time. "Doory-lane, sir?—yes, sir,—third turning on the right-hand side, sir." Dumps’ passion was paramount, he clutched his umbrella, and was striding off with the firm determination of not paying the fare. The cad, by a remarkable coincidence, happened to entertain a directly contrary opinion, and Heaven knows how far the altercation would have proceeded if it had not been most ably and satisfactorily brought to a close by the driver. "Hollo!" said that respectable person standing up on the box, and leaning with one hand on the roof of the omnibus. "Hollo, Tom! tell the gentleman if so be as he feels aggrieved, we will take him up to the Edge-er (Edgeware) Road for nothing, and set him down at Doory-lane when we comes back. He can’t reject that anyhow." The argument was irresistible; Dumps paid the disputed sixpence, and in a quarter of an hour was on the staircase of No. 14, Great Russell-street. Everything indicated that preparations were making for the reception of "a few friends" in the evening. Two dozen extra tumblers, and four ditto wine-glasses—looking anything but transparent, with little bits of straw in them — were on the slab in the passage, just arrived. There was a great smell of nutmeg, port wine, and almonds on the staircase; the covers were taken off the stair-carpet, and the figure of the Venus on the first landing looked as if she were ashamed of the composition-candle in her right hand, which contrasted beautifully with the lamp-blacked drapery of the goddess of love. The female servant (who looked very warm and bustling) ushered Dumps into a front drawing-room very prettily furnished with a plentiful sprinkling of little baskets, paper table-mats, china watchmen, pink and gold albums, and rainbow-bound little books on the different tables. "Ah, uncle!" said Mr. Kitterbell, "how d’ye do? allow me—Jemima, my dear—my uncle, — I think you’ve seen Jemima before, sir?" "Have had the pleasure," returned big Dumps, his tone and look making it doubtful whether in his life he had ever experienced the sensation. "I’m sure," said Mrs. Kitterbell, with a languid smile, and a slight cough. "I’m sure—hem—any friend—of Charles’s—hem—much less a relation, is—" "Knew you’d say so, my love," said little Kitterbell, who, while he appeared to be gazing on the opposite houses, was looking at his wife with a most affectionate air: "bless you." The last two words were accompanied with an interesting simper, and a squeeze of the hand, which stirred up all Uncle Dumps’ bile. "Jane, tell nurse to bring down baby," said Mrs. Kitterbell, addressing the servant. Mrs. Kitterbell was a tall thin young lady with very light hair, and a particularly white face—one of those young women who almost invariably, though one hardly knows why, recal to one’s mind the idea of a cold fillet of veal. Out went the servant, and in came the nurse, with a remarkably small parcel in her arms packed up in a blue mantle trimmed with white fur.—This was the baby. "Now, uncle," said Mr. Kitterbell, lifting up that part of the mantle which covered the infant’s face, with an air of great triumph, "Who do you think he’s like?" "He! he! Yes, who?" said Mrs. K. putting her arm through her husband’s, and looking up into Dumps’s face with an expression of as much interest as she was capable of displaying. "Good God, how small he is!" cried the amiable uncle, starting back with well-feigned surprise; "remarkably small indeed." "Do you think so?" inquired poor little Kitterbell, rather alarmed. "He’s a monster to what he was—an’t he, nurse?" "He’s a dear;" said the nurse, squeezing the child, and evading the question—not because she scrupled to disguise the fact, but because she couldn’t afford to throw away the chance of Dumps’ half-crown. "Well, but who is he like?" inquired little Kitterbell. Dumps looked at the little pink heap before him, and only thought at the moment of the best mode of mortifying the youthful parents. "I really don’t know who he’s like," he answered, very well knowing the reply expected of him. "Don’t you think he’s like me?" inquired his nephew with a knowing air. "Oh, decidedly not!" returned Dumps, with an emphasis not to be misunderstood. "Decidedly not like you.—Oh, certainly not." "Like Jemima?" asked Kitterbell, faintly. "Oh, dear no; not in the least. I’m no judge, of course, in such cases; but I really think he’s more like one of those little interesting carved representations that one sometimes sees blowing a trumpet on a tombstone!" The nurse stooped down over the child, and with great difficulty prevented an explosion of mirth. Pa and ma looked almost as miserable as their amiable uncle. "Well!" said the disappointed little father, "you’ll be better able to tell what he’s like by-and-by. You shall see him this evening with his mantle off." "Thank you," said Dumps, feeling particularly grateful. "Now, my love," said Kitterbell to his wife, "it’s time we were off. We’re to meet the other godfather and the godmother at the church, uncle,—Mr. and Mrs. Wilson from over the way—uncommonly nice people. My love, are you well wrapped up?" "Yes, dear." "Are you sure you won’t have another shawl?" inquired the anxious husband. "No, sweet," returned the charming mother, accepting Dumps’ proffered arm; and the little party entered the hackney-coach that was to take them to the church. Dumps amusing Mrs. Kitterbell by expatiating largely on the danger of measles, thrush, teeth-cutting, and other interesting diseases to which children are subject. The ceremony (which occupied about five minutes) passed off without anything particular occurring. The clergyman had to dine some distance from town, and had got two churchings, three christenings, and a funeral to perform in something less than an hour. The godfathers and godmother, therefore, promised to renounce the devil and all his works—"and all that sort of thing,"—as little Kitterbell said—"in less than no time;" and with the exception of Dumps nearly letting the child fall into the font when he handed it to the clergyman, the whole affair went off in the usual business-like and matter-of-course manner, and Dumps re-entered the Bank-gates at two o’clock with a heavy heart, and the painful conviction that he was regularly booked for an evening party. Evening came—and so did Dumps’ pumps, black silk stockings, and white cravat which he had ordered to be forwarded, per boy, from Pentonville. The depressed godfather dressed himself at a friend’s counting-house, from whence, with his spirits fifty degrees below proof, he sallied forth—as the weather had cleared up, and the evening was tolerably fine—to walk to Great Russell-street. Slowly he paced up Cheapside, Newgate-street, down Snow Hill, and up Holborn ditto, looking as grim as the figure-head of a man-of-war, and finding out fresh causes of misery at every step. As he was crossing the corner of Hatton Garden, a man, apparently intoxicated, rushed against him, and would have knocked him down had he not been providentially caught by a very genteel young man who happened to be close to him at the time. The shock so disarranged Dumps’ nerves, as well as his dress, that he could hardly stand. The gentleman took his arm, and in the kindest manner walked with him as far as Furnival’s Inn. Dumps, for about the first time in his life, felt grateful and polite; and he and the gentlemanly-looking young man parted with mutual expressions of good will. "There are at least some well-disposed men in the world," ruminated the misanthropical Dumps, as he proceeded towards his destination. Rat—tat—ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-rat—knocked a hackney-coachman at Kitterbell’s door, in imitation of a gentleman’s servant, just as Dumps reached it, and out came an old lady in a large toque, and an old gentleman in a blue coat, and three female copies of the old lady in pink dresses, and shoes to match. "It’s a large party," sighed the unhappy godfather, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, and leaning against the area-railings. It was some time before the miserable man could muster up courage to knock at the door, and when he did, the smart appearance of a neighbouring green-grocer (who had been hired to wait for seven and sixpence, and whose calves alone were worth double the money), the lamp in the passage, and the Venus on the landing, added to the hum of many voices, and the sound of a harp and two violins, painfully convinced him that his surmises were but too well founded "How are you?" said little Kitterbell in a greater bustle than ever, bolting out of the little back parlour with a cork-screw in his hand, and various particles of saw-dust, looking like so many inverted commas, on his inexpressibles. "Good God!" said Dumps, turning into the aforesaid parlour to put his shoes on which he had brought in his coat-pocket, and still more appalled by the sight of seven fresh drawn corks, and a corresponding number of decanters. "How many people are there up-stairs?" "Oh, not above thirty-five. We’ve had the carpet taken up in the back drawing-room, and the piano, and the card-tables are in the front. Jemima thought we’d better have a regular sit-down supper, in the front parlour, because of the speechifying, and all that. But, Lord! uncle, what’s the matter?" continued the excited little man, as Dumps stood with one shoe on, rummaging his pockets with the most frightful distortion of visage. "What have you lost? Your pocket-book?" "No," returned Dumps, diving first into one pocket and then into the other, and speaking in a voice like Desdemona with the pillow over her mouth. "Your card-case? snuff-box? the key of your lodgings?" continued Kitterbell, pouring question on question with the rapidity of lightning. "No! no!" ejaculated Dumps, still diving eagerly into his empty pockets. "Not—not—the mug you spoke of this morning?" "Yes, the mug!" replied Dumps, sinking into a chair" "How could you have done it?" inquired Kitterbell. "Are you sure you brought it out?" "Yes! yes! I see it all;" said Dumps, starting up as the idea flashed across his mind; "miserable dog that I am—I was born to suffer. I see it all; it was the gentlemanly-looking young man!" "Mr. Dumps!" shouted the green-grocer in a stentorian voice, as he ushered the somewhat recovered godfather into the drawing-room half an hour after the above declaration. "Mr. Dumps!"—everybody looked at the door, and in came Dumps, feeling about as much out of place as a salmon might be supposed to be on a gravel-walk. "Happy to see you again," said Mrs. Kitterbell, quite unconscious of the unfortunate man’s confusion and misery; "you must allow me to introduce you to a few of our friends:- my mama, Mr. Dumps—my papa and sisters." Dumps seized the hand of the mother as warmly as if she was his own parent, bowed to the young ladies, and against a gentleman behind him, and took no notice whatever of the father, who had been bowing incessantly for three minutes and a quarter." "Uncle," said little Kitterbell, after Dumps had been introduced to a select dozen or two, "you must let me lead you to the other end of the room, to introduce you to my friend Danton. Such a splendid fellow!—I’m sure you’ll like him—this way."—Dumps followed as tractably as a tame bear. Mr. Danton was a young man of about five-and-twenty, with a considerable stock of impudence, and a very small share of ideas: he was a great favourite, especially with young ladies of from sixteen to twenty-six years of age, both inclusive. He could imitate the French horn to admiration, sang comic songs most inimitably, and had the most insinuating way of saying impertinent nothings to his doting female admirers. He had acquired, somehow or other, the reputation of being a great wit, and, accordingly, whenever he opened his mouth, everybody who knew him laughed very heartily. The introduction took place in due form. Mr. Danton bowed and twirled a lady’s handkerchief, which he held in his hand, in a most comic way. Everybody smiled. "Very warm," said Dumps, feeling it necessary to say something. "Yes. It was warmer yesterday," returned the brilliant Mr. Danton.—A general laugh. "I have great pleasure in congratulating you on your first appearance in the character of a father, sir," he continued, addressing Dumps—"godfather, I mean."—The young ladies were convulsed, and the gentlemen in ecstasies. A general hum of admiration interrupted the conversation, and announced the entrance of nurse with the baby. An universal rush of the young ladies immediately took place. (Girls are always so fond of babies in company.) "Oh, you dear!" said one. "How sweet!" cried another, in a low tone of the most enthusiastic admiration. "Heavenly!" added a third. "Oh! what dear little arms!" said a fourth, holding up an arm and fist about the size and shape of the leg of a fowl cleanly picked. "Did you ever"—said a little coquette with a large bustle, who looked like a French lithograph, appealing to a gentleman in three waistcoats—"Did you ever—" "Never, in my life," returned her admirer, pulling up his collar. "Oh, do let me take it, nurse," cried another young lady. "The love!" "Can it open its eyes, nurse?" inquired another, affecting the utmost innocence.—Suffice it to say, that the single ladies unanimously voted him an angel, and that the married ones, nem. con., agreed that he was decidedly the finest baby they had ever beheld—except their own. The quadrilles were resumed with great spirit. Mr. Danton was universally admitted to be beyond himself, several young ladies enchanted the company and gained admirers by singing "We met"—"I saw her at the Fancy Fair"—"Can I believe Love's Wreath will pain?" — and other equally sentimental and interesting ballads. "The young men," as Mrs. Kitterbell said, "made themselves very agreeable;" the girls did not lose their opportunity; and the evening promised to go off excellently. Dumps didn’t mind it: he had devised a plan for himself—a little bit of fun in his own way—and he was almost happy! He played a rubber and lost every point Mr. Danton said he could not have lost every point, because he made a point of losing: everybody laughed tremendously. Dumps retorted with a better joke, and nobody smiled, with the exception of the host, who seemed to consider it his duty to laugh, till he was black in the face, at everything. There was only one drawback—the musicians did not play with quite as much spirit as could have been wished. The cause, however, was satisfactorily explained; for it appeared, on the testimony of a gentleman who had come up from Gravesend in the afternoon, that they had been engaged on board a steamer all day, and had played almost without cessation all the way to Gravesend, and all the way back again. The "sit-down supper" was excellent; there were four barley-sugar temples on the table, which would have looked beautiful if they had not melted away when the supper began; and a water-mill, whose only fault was that instead of going round, it ran over the table-cloth. Then there were fowls, and tongue, and trifle, and sweets, and lobster salad, and potted beef—and everything. And little Kitterbell kept calling out for clean plates, and the clean plates didn't come: and then the gentlemen who wanted the plates said they didn’t mind, they’d take a lady’s; and then Mrs. Kitterbell applauded their gallantry; and the green-grocer ran about till he thought his 7s.6d. was very hardly earned; and the young ladies didn’t eat much for fear it shouldn’t look romantic, and the married ladies eat as much as possible for fear they shouldn’t have enough; and a great deal of wine was drank, and everybody talked and laughed considerably. "Hush! hush!" said Mr. Kitterbell, rising and looking very important. "My love (this was addressed to his wife at the other end of the table), take care of Mrs. Maxwell, and your mama, and the rest of the married ladies; the gentlemen will persuade the young ladies to fill their glasses, I am sure." "Ladies and gentlemen," said long Dumps, in a very sepulchral voice and rueful accent, rising from his chair like the ghost in Don Juan, "will you have the kindness to charge your glasses? I am desirous of proposing a toast." A dead silence ensued, and the glasses were filled—everybody looked serious—"from gay to grave, from lively to severe." "Ladies and gentlemen," slowly continued the ominous Dumps, "I"—(here Mr. Danton imitated two notes from the French-horn, in a very loud key, which electrified the nervous toast-proposer, and convulsed his audience). "Order! order!" said little Kitterbell, endeavouring to suppress his laughter. "Order!" said the gentlemen. "Danton, be quiet," said a particular friend on the opposite side of the table. "Ladies and gentlemen," resumed Dumps, somewhat recovered, and not much disconcerted, for he was always a pretty good hand at a speech—"In accordance with what is, I believe, the established usage on these occasions, I, as one of the godfathers of Master Frederick Charles William Kitterbell—(here the speaker’s voice faltered, for he remembered the mug)—venture to rise to propose a toast. I need hardly say that it is the health and prosperity of that young gentleman, the particular event of whose early life we are here met to celebrate—(applause). Ladies and gentlemen, it is impossible to suppose that our friends here, whose sincere well-wishers we all are, can pass through life without some trials, considerable suffering, severe affliction, and heavy losses!"—Here the arch-traitor paused, and slowly drew forth a long, white pocket-handkerchief—his example was followed by several ladies. "That these trials may be long spared them is my most earnest prayer, my most fervent wish (a distinct sob from the grandmother). I hope and trust, ladies and gentlemen, that the infant whose christening we have this evening met to celebrate, may not be removed from the arms of his parents by premature decay (several cambrics were in requisition): that his young and now apparently healthy form, may not be wasted by lingering disease. (Here Dumps cast a sardonic glance around, for a great sensation was manifest among the married ladies.) You, I am sure, will concur with me in wishing that he may live to be a comfort and a blessing to his parents. ('Hear, hear!' and an audible sob from Mr. Kitterbell.) But should he not be what we could wish—should he forget in after times, the duty which he owes to them—should they unhappily experience that distracting truth, 'how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child'"—Here Mrs. Kitterbell, with her handkerchief to her eyes, and accompanied by several ladies, rushed from the room, and went into violent hysterics in the passage, leaving her better half in almost as bad a condition, and a general impression in Dumps’s favour; for people like sentiment after all. It need hardly be added, that this occurrence quite put a stop to the harmony of the evening. Vinegar, hartshorn, and cold water, were now as much in request as negus, rout-cakes, and bon-bons had been a short time before. Mrs. Kitterbell was immediately conveyed to her apartment, the musicians were silenced, flirting ceased, and the company slowly departed. Dumps left the house at the commencement of the bustle, and walked home with a light step, and (for him) a cheerful heart. His landlady, who slept in the next room, has offered to make oath that she heard him laugh, in his peculiar manner, after he had locked his door. The assertion, however, is so improbable, and bears on the face of it such strong evidence of untruth, that it has never obtained credence to this hour. The family of Mr. Kitterbell has considerably increased since the period to which we have referred; he has now two sons and a daughter: and as he expects, at no distant period, to have another addition to his blooming progeny, he is anxious to secure an eligible godfather for the occasion. He is determined, however, to impose upon him two conditions: he must bind himself, by a solemn obligation, not to make any speech after supper; and it is indispensable that he should be in no way connected with "the most miserable man in the world." 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 'The Bloomsbury Christening' Description An account of the resource Published in The Monthly Magazine (April 1834). Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived The Monthly Magazine, or The British Register of Politics, Art, Science, and the Belles-Lettres. April 1834, pp. 375-386, Internet Archive, <a href="https://archive.org/details/monthlymagazineo17lond/page/n9/mode/2up">https://archive.org/details/monthlymagazineo17lond/page/n9/mode/2up</a>. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1834-04 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Internet Archive, <a href="https://archive.org/about/terms.php">https://archive.org/about/terms.php</a>. Access to the Archive’s Collections is granted for scholarship and research purposes only. Type The nature or genre of the resource Short story Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1834-04-The_Bloomsbury_Christening 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. 'The Bloomsbury Christening'. Dickens Search. Eds. Emily Middleton and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-04-The-Bloomsbury-Christening">https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-04-The-Bloomsbury-Christening</a>. Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. Mr. Nicodemus Dumps, or, as his acquaintance called him, "long Dumps," was a bachelor, six feet high, and fifty years old,—cross, cadaverous, odd, and ill-natured. He was never happy but when he was miserable (pardon the contradiction); and always miserable when he had the best reason to be happy. The only real comfort of his existence was to make everybody about him wretched—then he might be truly said to enjoy life. He was afflicted with a situation in the Bank worth five hundred a-year, and he rented a "first floor furnished" at Pentonville, which he originally took because it commanded a dismal prospect of an adjacent churchyard. He was familiar with the face of every tombstone, and the burial service seemed to excite his strongest sympathy. His friends said he was surly—he insisted he was nervous; they thought him a lucky dog, but he protested that he was "the most unfortunate man in the world." Cold as he was, and wretched as he declared himself to be, he was not wholly unsusceptible of attachments. He revered the memory of Hoyle, as he was himself an admirable and imperturbable whist-player, and he chuckled with delight at a fretful and impatient adversary. He adored King Herod for his massacre of the innocents; for if he hated one thing more than another, it was a child. However, he could hardly be said to hate any thing in particular, because he disliked every thing in general; but perhaps his greatest antipathies were cabs, old women, doors that would not shut, musical amateurs, and omnibus cads. He subscribed to the Society for the Suppression of Vice for the pleasure of putting a stop to any harmless amusements; and he contributed largely towards the support of two itinerant methodist parsons, under the amiable hope that if circumstances rendered any people happy in this world, they might perchance be rendered miserable by fears for the next. Mr. Dumps had a nephew who had been married about a year, and who was somewhat of a favourite with his uncle, because he was an admirable subject to exercise his misery-creating powers upon. Mr. Charles Kitterbell was a small, sharp, spare man, with a very large head, and a broad, good-humoured countenance. He looked like a faded giant, with the head and face partially restored; and he had a cast in his eye which rendered it quite impossible for any one with whom he conversed to know where he was looking. His eyes appeared fixed on the wall, and he was staring you out of countenance; in short, there was no catching his eye, and perhaps it is a merciful dispensation of Providence that such eyes are not catching. In addition to these characteristics, it may be added that Mr. Charles Kitterbell was one of the most credulous and matter-of-fact little personages that ever took to himself a wife, and for himself a house in Great Russell-street, Russell-square (Uncle Dumps always dropped the Russell-square," and inserted in lieu thereof the dreadful words "Tottenham-court-road"). "No, but, uncle, ’pon my life you must—you must promise to be godfather," said Mr. Kitterbell, as he sat in conversation with his respected relative one morning. "I cannot, indeed I cannot," returned Dumps. "Well, but why not? Jemima will think it very unkind. It’s very little trouble." "As to the trouble," rejoined the most unhappy man in existence, "I don’t mind that; but my nerves are in that state—I cannot go through the ceremony. You know I don’t like going out.—For God’s sake, Charles, don’t fidget with that stool so, you’ll drive me mad." Mr. Kitterbell, quite regardless of his uncle’s nerves, had occupied himself for some ten minutes in describing a circle on the floor with one leg of the office-stool on which he was seated, keeping the other three up in the air and holding fast on by the desk. "I beg your pardon, uncle," said Kitterbell, quite abashed, suddenly releasing his hold of the desk, and bringing the three wandering legs back to the floor with a force sufficient to drive them through it. "But come, don’t refuse. If it’s a boy, you know, we must have two godfathers." "If it’s a boy!" said Dumps, "why can’t you say at once whether it is a boy or not?" "I should be very happy to tell you, but it’s impossible I can undertake to say whether it’s a girl or a boy, if the child isn’t born yet." "Not born yet!" echoed Dumps, with a gleam of hope lighting up his lugubrious visage; "oh, well, it may be a girl, and then you won’t want me, or if it is a boy, it may die before it's christened." "I hope not," said the father that expected to be, looking very grave. "I hope not," acquiesced Dumps, evidently pleased with the subject. He was beginning to get happy. "I hope not, but distressing cases frequently occur during the first two or three days of a child’s life; fits, I am told, are exceedingly common, and alarming convulsions are almost matters of course." "Lord, uncle!" ejaculated little Kitterbell, gasping for breath. "Yes; my landlady was confined—let me see—last Tuesday: an uncommonly fine boy. On the Thursday night the nurse was sitting with him upon her knee before the fire, and he was as well as possible. Suddenly he became black in the face, and alarmingly spasmodic. The medical man was instantly sent for, and every remedy was tried, but—" "How frightful!" interrupted the horror-stricken Kitterbell. "The child died, of course. However, your child may not die; and if it should be a boy, and should live to be christened, why I suppose I must be one of the sponsors." Dumps was evidently good-natured on the faith of his anticipations. "Thank you, uncle," said his agitated nephew, grasping his hand as warmly as if he had done him some essential service. "Perhaps I had better not tell Mrs. K. what you have mentioned." ‘Why, if she’s low-spirited, perhaps you had better not mention the melancholy case to her,’ returned Dumps, who of course had invented the whole story; "though perhaps it would be but doing your duty as a husband to prepare her for the worst." A day or two afterwards, as Dumps was perusing a morning paper at the chop-house which he regularly frequented, the following-paragraph met his eye:- "Births.—On Saturday, the 18th inst., in Great Russell-street, the lady of Charles Kitterbell, Esq., of a son." "It is a boy!" he exclaimed, dashing down the paper, to the astonishment of the waiters. "It is a boy!" But he speedily regained his composure as his eye rested on a paragraph quoting the number of infant deaths from the bills of mortality. Six weeks passed away, and as no communication had been received from the Kitterbells, Dumps was beginning to flatter himself that the child was dead, when the following note painfully resolved his doubts:- "Great Russell-street, Monday morning. "DEAR UNCLE: You will be delighted to hear that my dear Jemima has left her room, and that your future godson is getting on capitally; he was very thin at first, but he is getting much larger, and nurse says he is filling out every day. He cries a good deal, and is a very singular colour, which made Jemima and me rather uncomfortable; but as nurse says it’s natural, and as of course we know nothing about these things yet, we are quite satisfied with what nurse says. We think he will be a sharp child; and nurse says she’s sure he will, because he never goes to sleep. You will readily believe that we are all very happy, only we’re a little worn out for want of rest, as he keeps us awake all night; but this we must expect, nurse says, for the first six or eight months. He has been vaccinated, but in consequence of the operation being rather awkwardly performed, some small particles of glass were introduced into the arm with the matter. Perhaps this may in some degree account for his being rather fractious; at least, so nurse says. We propose to have him christened at twelve o’clock on Friday, at Saint George’s church, in Hart-street, by the name of Frederick Charles William. Pray don’t be later than a quarter before twelve. We shall have a very few friends in the evening, when, of course we shall see you. I am sorry to say that the dear boy appears rather restless and uneasy to-day: the cause, I fear, is fever. "Believe me, dear Uncle, "Yours affectionately, "CHARLES KITTERBELL." "P.S.—I open this note to say that we have just discovered the cause of little Frederick’s restlessness. It is not fever, as I apprehended, but a small pin, which nurse accidentally stuck in his leg yesterday evening. We have taken it out, and he appears more composed, though he still sobs a good deal." It is almost unnecessary to say that the perusal of the above interesting statement was no great relief to the mind of the hypochondriacal Dumps. It was impossible to recede, however, and so he put the best face—that is to say, an uncommonly miserable one—upon the matter; and purchased a handsome silver mug for the infant Kitterbell, upon which he ordered the initials "F. C. W. K.," with the customary untrained grape-vine-looking flourishes, and a large full stop, to be engraved forthwith. Monday was a fine day, Tuesday was delightful, Wednesday was equal to either, and Thursday was finer than ever; four successive fine days in London! Hackney-coachmen became revolutionary, and crossing-sweepers began to doubt the existence of a First Cause. The Morning Herald informed its readers that an old woman, in Camden Town, had been heard to say that the fineness of the season was "unprecedented in the memory of the oldest inhabitant;" and Islington clerks, with large families and small salaries, left off their black gaiters, disdained to carry their once green cotton umbrellas, and walked to town in the conscious pride of white stockings, and cleanly brushed Bluchers. Dumps beheld all this with an eye of supreme contempt—his triumph was at hand. — He knew that if it had been fine for four weeks instead of four days, it would rain when he went out; he was lugubriously happy in the conviction that Friday would be a wretched day—and so it was. "I knew how it would be," said Dumps, as he turned round opposite the Mansion House at half-past eleven o’clock on the Friday morning. "I knew how it would be, I am concerned, and that’s enough;"—and certainly the appearance of the day was sufficient to depress the spirits of a much more buoyant-hearted individual than himself. It had rained, without a moment’s cessation, since eight o’clock; everybody that passed up Cheapside, and down Cheapside, looked wet, cold, and dirty. All sorts of forgotten and long-concealed umbrellas had been put into requisition. Cabs whisked about, with the "fare" as carefully boxed up behind two glazed calico curtains as any mysterious picture in any one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s castles; omnibus horses smoked like steam-engines; nobody thought of "standing up" under doorways or arches; they were painfully convinced it was a hopeless case; and so everybody went hastily along, jumbling and jostling, and swearing and perspiring, and slipping about, like amateur skaters behind wooden chairs on the Serpentine on a frosty Sunday. Dumps paused; he could not think of walking, being rather smart for the christening. If he took a cab he was sure to be spilt, and a hackney-coach was too expensive for his economical ideas. An omnibus was waiting at the opposite corner—it was a desperate case—he had never heard of an omnibus upsetting or running away, and if the cad did knock him down, he could "pull him up" in return. "Now, sir!" cried the young gentleman who officiated as "cad" to the "Lads of the Village," which was the name of the machine just noticed. Dumps crossed. "This vay, sir!" shouted the driver of the "Hark away," pulling up his vehicle immediately across the door of the opposition—"This vay, sir—he’s full." Dumps hesitated, whereupon the "Lads of the Village" commenced pouring out a torrent of abuse against the "Hark away"; but the conductor of the "Admiral Napier" settled the contest in a most satisfactory manner for all parties, by seizing Dumps round the waist, and thrusting him into the middle of his vehicle, which had just come up, and only wanted the sixteenth inside. "All right," said the "Admiral," and off the thing thundered, like a fire-engine at full gallop, with the kidnapped customer inside, standing in the position of a half doubled up boot-jack, and falling about with every jerk of the machine, first on one side, and then on the other, like a "Jack-in-the-green," on May-day, "setting" to the lady with the brass ladle. "For Heaven’s sake, where am I to sit?" inquired the miserable man of an old gentleman, into whose stomach he had just fallen for the fourth time. "Anywhere but on my chest, sir," replied the old gentleman, in a surly tone. "Perhaps the box would suit the gentleman better," suggested a very damp lawyer’s clerk, in a pink shirt and a smirking countenance. After a great deal of struggling and falling about, Dumps at last managed to squeeze himself into a seat, which, in addition to the slight disadvantage of being between a window that wouldn't shut, and a door that must be open, placed him in close contact with a passenger, who had been walking about all the morning without an umbrella, and who looked as if he had spent the day in a full water-butt—only wetter. "Don’t bang the door so," said Dumps to the conductor, as he shut it after letting out four of the passengers; "I am very nervous—it destroys me." "Did any gen’lm’n say anythink?" replied the cad, thrusting in his head, and trying to look as if he didn’t understand the request. "I told you not to bang the door so," repeated Dumps, with an expression of countenance like the knave of clubs, in convulsions. "Oh! vy, it’s rather a sing’ler circumstance about this here door, sir, that it von’t shut without banging," replied the conductor; and he opened the door very wide, and shut it again with a terrific bang, in proof of the assertion. "I beg your pardon, sir," said a little prim, wheezing old gentleman, sitting opposite Dumps, "I beg your pardon; but have you ever observed, when you have been in an omnibus on a wet day, that four people out of five, always come in with large cotton umbrellas, without a handle at the top, or the brass spike at the bottom?" ‘Why, sir,’ returned Dumps, as he heard the clock strike twelve, "it never struck me before; but now you mention it, I—Hollo! hollo!" shouted the persecuted individual, as the omnibus dashed past Drury-lane, where he had directed to be set down.—"Where is the cad?" "I think he’s on the box, sir," said the young gentleman before noticed in the pink shirt, which looked like a white one ruled with red ink. "I want to be set down!" said Dumps in a faint voice, overcome by his previous efforts. "I think these cads want to be set down," returned the attorney’s clerk, chuckling at his sally. "Hollo!" cried Dumps again. "Hollo!" echoed the passengers; the omnibus passed St. Giles’s church. "Hold hard!" said the conductor; "I’m blowed if we ha’n’t forgot the gen’lm’n as vas to be set down at Doory-lane.—Now, sir, make haste, if you please," he added, opening the door, and assisting Dumps out with as much coolness as if it was "all right." Dumps’s indignation was for once getting the better of his cynical equanimity. "Drury-lane!" he gasped, with the voice of a boy in a cold bath for the first time. "Doory-lane, sir?—yes, sir,—third turning on the right-hand side, sir." Dumps’ passion was paramount, he clutched his umbrella, and was striding off with the firm determination of not paying the fare. The cad, by a remarkable coincidence, happened to entertain a directly contrary opinion, and Heaven knows how far the altercation would have proceeded if it had not been most ably and satisfactorily brought to a close by the driver. "Hollo!" said that respectable person standing up on the box, and leaning with one hand on the roof of the omnibus. "Hollo, Tom! tell the gentleman if so be as he feels aggrieved, we will take him up to the Edge-er (Edgeware) Road for nothing, and set him down at Doory-lane when we comes back. He can’t reject that anyhow." The argument was irresistible; Dumps paid the disputed sixpence, and in a quarter of an hour was on the staircase of No. 14, Great Russell-street. Everything indicated that preparations were making for the reception of "a few friends" in the evening. Two dozen extra tumblers, and four ditto wine-glasses—looking anything but transparent, with little bits of straw in them — were on the slab in the passage, just arrived. There was a great smell of nutmeg, port wine, and almonds on the staircase; the covers were taken off the stair-carpet, and the figure of the Venus on the first landing looked as if she were ashamed of the composition-candle in her right hand, which contrasted beautifully with the lamp-blacked drapery of the goddess of love. The female servant (who looked very warm and bustling) ushered Dumps into a front drawing-room very prettily furnished with a plentiful sprinkling of little baskets, paper table-mats, china watchmen, pink and gold albums, and rainbow-bound little books on the different tables. "Ah, uncle!" said Mr. Kitterbell, "how d’ye do? allow me—Jemima, my dear—my uncle, — I think you’ve seen Jemima before, sir?" "Have had the pleasure," returned big Dumps, his tone and look making it doubtful whether in his life he had ever experienced the sensation. "I’m sure," said Mrs. Kitterbell, with a languid smile, and a slight cough. "I’m sure—hem—any friend—of Charles’s—hem—much less a relation, is—" "Knew you’d say so, my love," said little Kitterbell, who, while he appeared to be gazing on the opposite houses, was looking at his wife with a most affectionate air: "bless you." The last two words were accompanied with an interesting simper, and a squeeze of the hand, which stirred up all Uncle Dumps’ bile. "Jane, tell nurse to bring down baby," said Mrs. Kitterbell, addressing the servant. Mrs. Kitterbell was a tall thin young lady with very light hair, and a particularly white face—one of those young women who almost invariably, though one hardly knows why, recal to one’s mind the idea of a cold fillet of veal. Out went the servant, and in came the nurse, with a remarkably small parcel in her arms packed up in a blue mantle trimmed with white fur.—This was the baby. "Now, uncle," said Mr. Kitterbell, lifting up that part of the mantle which covered the infant’s face, with an air of great triumph, "Who do you think he’s like?" "He! he! Yes, who?" said Mrs. K. putting her arm through her husband’s, and looking up into Dumps’s face with an expression of as much interest as she was capable of displaying. "Good God, how small he is!" cried the amiable uncle, starting back with well-feigned surprise; "remarkably small indeed." "Do you think so?" inquired poor little Kitterbell, rather alarmed. "He’s a monster to what he was—an’t he, nurse?" "He’s a dear;" said the nurse, squeezing the child, and evading the question—not because she scrupled to disguise the fact, but because she couldn’t afford to throw away the chance of Dumps’ half-crown. "Well, but who is he like?" inquired little Kitterbell. Dumps looked at the little pink heap before him, and only thought at the moment of the best mode of mortifying the youthful parents. "I really don’t know who he’s like," he answered, very well knowing the reply expected of him. "Don’t you think he’s like me?" inquired his nephew with a knowing air. "Oh, decidedly not!" returned Dumps, with an emphasis not to be misunderstood. "Decidedly not like you.—Oh, certainly not." "Like Jemima?" asked Kitterbell, faintly. "Oh, dear no; not in the least. I’m no judge, of course, in such cases; but I really think he’s more like one of those little interesting carved representations that one sometimes sees blowing a trumpet on a tombstone!" The nurse stooped down over the child, and with great difficulty prevented an explosion of mirth. Pa and ma looked almost as miserable as their amiable uncle. "Well!" said the disappointed little father, "you’ll be better able to tell what he’s like by-and-by. You shall see him this evening with his mantle off." "Thank you," said Dumps, feeling particularly grateful. "Now, my love," said Kitterbell to his wife, "it’s time we were off. We’re to meet the other godfather and the godmother at the church, uncle,—Mr. and Mrs. Wilson from over the way—uncommonly nice people. My love, are you well wrapped up?" "Yes, dear." "Are you sure you won’t have another shawl?" inquired the anxious husband. "No, sweet," returned the charming mother, accepting Dumps’ proffered arm; and the little party entered the hackney-coach that was to take them to the church. Dumps amusing Mrs. Kitterbell by expatiating largely on the danger of measles, thrush, teeth-cutting, and other interesting diseases to which children are subject. The ceremony (which occupied about five minutes) passed off without anything particular occurring. The clergyman had to dine some distance from town, and had got two churchings, three christenings, and a funeral to perform in something less than an hour. The godfathers and godmother, therefore, promised to renounce the devil and all his works—"and all that sort of thing,"—as little Kitterbell said—"in less than no time;" and with the exception of Dumps nearly letting the child fall into the font when he handed it to the clergyman, the whole affair went off in the usual business-like and matter-of-course manner, and Dumps re-entered the Bank-gates at two o’clock with a heavy heart, and the painful conviction that he was regularly booked for an evening party. Evening came—and so did Dumps’ pumps, black silk stockings, and white cravat which he had ordered to be forwarded, per boy, from Pentonville. The depressed godfather dressed himself at a friend’s counting-house, from whence, with his spirits fifty degrees below proof, he sallied forth—as the weather had cleared up, and the evening was tolerably fine—to walk to Great Russell-street. Slowly he paced up Cheapside, Newgate-street, down Snow Hill, and up Holborn ditto, looking as grim as the figure-head of a man-of-war, and finding out fresh causes of misery at every step. As he was crossing the corner of Hatton Garden, a man, apparently intoxicated, rushed against him, and would have knocked him down had he not been providentially caught by a very genteel young man who happened to be close to him at the time. The shock so disarranged Dumps’ nerves, as well as his dress, that he could hardly stand. The gentleman took his arm, and in the kindest manner walked with him as far as Furnival’s Inn. Dumps, for about the first time in his life, felt grateful and polite; and he and the gentlemanly-looking young man parted with mutual expressions of good will. "There are at least some well-disposed men in the world," ruminated the misanthropical Dumps, as he proceeded towards his destination. Rat—tat—ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-rat—knocked a hackney-coachman at Kitterbell’s door, in imitation of a gentleman’s servant, just as Dumps reached it, and out came an old lady in a large toque, and an old gentleman in a blue coat, and three female copies of the old lady in pink dresses, and shoes to match. "It’s a large party," sighed the unhappy godfather, wiping the perspiration from his forehead, and leaning against the area-railings. It was some time before the miserable man could muster up courage to knock at the door, and when he did, the smart appearance of a neighbouring green-grocer (who had been hired to wait for seven and sixpence, and whose calves alone were worth double the money), the lamp in the passage, and the Venus on the landing, added to the hum of many voices, and the sound of a harp and two violins, painfully convinced him that his surmises were but too well founded "How are you?" said little Kitterbell in a greater bustle than ever, bolting out of the little back parlour with a cork-screw in his hand, and various particles of saw-dust, looking like so many inverted commas, on his inexpressibles. "Good God!" said Dumps, turning into the aforesaid parlour to put his shoes on which he had brought in his coat-pocket, and still more appalled by the sight of seven fresh drawn corks, and a corresponding number of decanters. "How many people are there up-stairs?" "Oh, not above thirty-five. We’ve had the carpet taken up in the back drawing-room, and the piano, and the card-tables are in the front. Jemima thought we’d better have a regular sit-down supper, in the front parlour, because of the speechifying, and all that. But, Lord! uncle, what’s the matter?" continued the excited little man, as Dumps stood with one shoe on, rummaging his pockets with the most frightful distortion of visage. "What have you lost? Your pocket-book?" "No," returned Dumps, diving first into one pocket and then into the other, and speaking in a voice like Desdemona with the pillow over her mouth. "Your card-case? snuff-box? the key of your lodgings?" continued Kitterbell, pouring question on question with the rapidity of lightning. "No! no!" ejaculated Dumps, still diving eagerly into his empty pockets. "Not—not—the mug you spoke of this morning?" "Yes, the mug!" replied Dumps, sinking into a chair" "How could you have done it?" inquired Kitterbell. "Are you sure you brought it out?" "Yes! yes! I see it all;" said Dumps, starting up as the idea flashed across his mind; "miserable dog that I am—I was born to suffer. I see it all; it was the gentlemanly-looking young man!" "Mr. Dumps!" shouted the green-grocer in a stentorian voice, as he ushered the somewhat recovered godfather into the drawing-room half an hour after the above declaration. "Mr. Dumps!"—everybody looked at the door, and in came Dumps, feeling about as much out of place as a salmon might be supposed to be on a gravel-walk. "Happy to see you again," said Mrs. Kitterbell, quite unconscious of the unfortunate man’s confusion and misery; "you must allow me to introduce you to a few of our friends:- my mama, Mr. Dumps—my papa and sisters." Dumps seized the hand of the mother as warmly as if she was his own parent, bowed to the young ladies, and against a gentleman behind him, and took no notice whatever of the father, who had been bowing incessantly for three minutes and a quarter." "Uncle," said little Kitterbell, after Dumps had been introduced to a select dozen or two, "you must let me lead you to the other end of the room, to introduce you to my friend Danton. Such a splendid fellow!—I’m sure you’ll like him—this way."—Dumps followed as tractably as a tame bear. Mr. Danton was a young man of about five-and-twenty, with a considerable stock of impudence, and a very small share of ideas: he was a great favourite, especially with young ladies of from sixteen to twenty-six years of age, both inclusive. He could imitate the French horn to admiration, sang comic songs most inimitably, and had the most insinuating way of saying impertinent nothings to his doting female admirers. He had acquired, somehow or other, the reputation of being a great wit, and, accordingly, whenever he opened his mouth, everybody who knew him laughed very heartily. The introduction took place in due form. Mr. Danton bowed and twirled a lady’s handkerchief, which he held in his hand, in a most comic way. Everybody smiled. "Very warm," said Dumps, feeling it necessary to say something. "Yes. It was warmer yesterday," returned the brilliant Mr. Danton.—A general laugh. "I have great pleasure in congratulating you on your first appearance in the character of a father, sir," he continued, addressing Dumps—"godfather, I mean."—The young ladies were convulsed, and the gentlemen in ecstasies. A general hum of admiration interrupted the conversation, and announced the entrance of nurse with the baby. An universal rush of the young ladies immediately took place. (Girls are always so fond of babies in company.) "Oh, you dear!" said one. "How sweet!" cried another, in a low tone of the most enthusiastic admiration. "Heavenly!" added a third. "Oh! what dear little arms!" said a fourth, holding up an arm and fist about the size and shape of the leg of a fowl cleanly picked. "Did you ever"—said a little coquette with a large bustle, who looked like a French lithograph, appealing to a gentleman in three waistcoats—"Did you ever—" "Never, in my life," returned her admirer, pulling up his collar. "Oh, do let me take it, nurse," cried another young lady. "The love!" "Can it open its eyes, nurse?" inquired another, affecting the utmost innocence.—Suffice it to say, that the single ladies unanimously voted him an angel, and that the married ones, nem. con., agreed that he was decidedly the finest baby they had ever beheld—except their own. The quadrilles were resumed with great spirit. Mr. Danton was universally admitted to be beyond himself, several young ladies enchanted the company and gained admirers by singing "We met"—"I saw her at the Fancy Fair"—"Can I believe Love's Wreath will pain?" — and other equally sentimental and interesting ballads. "The young men," as Mrs. Kitterbell said, "made themselves very agreeable;" the girls did not lose their opportunity; and the evening promised to go off excellently. Dumps didn’t mind it: he had devised a plan for himself—a little bit of fun in his own way—and he was almost happy! He played a rubber and lost every point Mr. Danton said he could not have lost every point, because he made a point of losing: everybody laughed tremendously. Dumps retorted with a better joke, and nobody smiled, with the exception of the host, who seemed to consider it his duty to laugh, till he was black in the face, at everything. There was only one drawback—the musicians did not play with quite as much spirit as could have been wished. The cause, however, was satisfactorily explained; for it appeared, on the testimony of a gentleman who had come up from Gravesend in the afternoon, that they had been engaged on board a steamer all day, and had played almost without cessation all the way to Gravesend, and all the way back again. The "sit-down supper" was excellent; there were four barley-sugar temples on the table, which would have looked beautiful if they had not melted away when the supper began; and a water-mill, whose only fault was that instead of going round, it ran over the table-cloth. Then there were fowls, and tongue, and trifle, and sweets, and lobster salad, and potted beef—and everything. And little Kitterbell kept calling out for clean plates, and the clean plates didn't come: and then the gentlemen who wanted the plates said they didn’t mind, they’d take a lady’s; and then Mrs. Kitterbell applauded their gallantry; and the green-grocer ran about till he thought his 7s.6d. was very hardly earned; and the young ladies didn’t eat much for fear it shouldn’t look romantic, and the married ladies eat as much as possible for fear they shouldn’t have enough; and a great deal of wine was drank, and everybody talked and laughed considerably. "Hush! hush!" said Mr. Kitterbell, rising and looking very important. "My love (this was addressed to his wife at the other end of the table), take care of Mrs. Maxwell, and your mama, and the rest of the married ladies; the gentlemen will persuade the young ladies to fill their glasses, I am sure." "Ladies and gentlemen," said long Dumps, in a very sepulchral voice and rueful accent, rising from his chair like the ghost in Don Juan, "will you have the kindness to charge your glasses? I am desirous of proposing a toast." A dead silence ensued, and the glasses were filled—everybody looked serious—"from gay to grave, from lively to severe." "Ladies and gentlemen," slowly continued the ominous Dumps, "I"—(here Mr. Danton imitated two notes from the French-horn, in a very loud key, which electrified the nervous toast-proposer, and convulsed his audience). "Order! order!" said little Kitterbell, endeavouring to suppress his laughter. "Order!" said the gentlemen. "Danton, be quiet," said a particular friend on the opposite side of the table. "Ladies and gentlemen," resumed Dumps, somewhat recovered, and not much disconcerted, for he was always a pretty good hand at a speech—"In accordance with what is, I believe, the established usage on these occasions, I, as one of the godfathers of Master Frederick Charles William Kitterbell—(here the speaker’s voice faltered, for he remembered the mug)—venture to rise to propose a toast. I need hardly say that it is the health and prosperity of that young gentleman, the particular event of whose early life we are here met to celebrate—(applause). Ladies and gentlemen, it is impossible to suppose that our friends here, whose sincere well-wishers we all are, can pass through life without some trials, considerable suffering, severe affliction, and heavy losses!"—Here the arch-traitor paused, and slowly drew forth a long, white pocket-handkerchief—his example was followed by several ladies. "That these trials may be long spared them is my most earnest prayer, my most fervent wish (a distinct sob from the grandmother). I hope and trust, ladies and gentlemen, that the infant whose christening we have this evening met to celebrate, may not be removed from the arms of his parents by premature decay (several cambrics were in requisition): that his young and now apparently healthy form, may not be wasted by lingering disease. (Here Dumps cast a sardonic glance around, for a great sensation was manifest among the married ladies.) You, I am sure, will concur with me in wishing that he may live to be a comfort and a blessing to his parents. ('Hear, hear!' and an audible sob from Mr. Kitterbell.) But should he not be what we could wish—should he forget in after times, the duty which he owes to them—should they unhappily experience that distracting truth, 'how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child'"—Here Mrs. Kitterbell, with her handkerchief to her eyes, and accompanied by several ladies, rushed from the room, and went into violent hysterics in the passage, leaving her better half in almost as bad a condition, and a general impression in Dumps’s favour; for people like sentiment after all. It need hardly be added, that this occurrence quite put a stop to the harmony of the evening. Vinegar, hartshorn, and cold water, were now as much in request as negus, rout-cakes, and bon-bons had been a short time before. Mrs. Kitterbell was immediately conveyed to her apartment, the musicians were silenced, flirting ceased, and the company slowly departed. Dumps left the house at the commencement of the bustle, and walked home with a light step, and (for him) a cheerful heart. His landlady, who slept in the next room, has offered to make oath that she heard him laugh, in his peculiar manner, after he had locked his door. The assertion, however, is so improbable, and bears on the face of it such strong evidence of untruth, that it has never obtained credence to this hour. The family of Mr. Kitterbell has considerably increased since the period to which we have referred; he has now two sons and a daughter: and as he expects, at no distant period, to have another addition to his blooming progeny, he is anxious to secure an eligible godfather for the occasion. He is determined, however, to impose upon him two conditions: he must bind himself, by a solemn obligation, not to make any speech after supper; and it is indispensable that he should be in no way connected with "the most miserable man in the world." https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/The_Boarding-House_[No._1]/1834-05-The_Boarding_House_No1.pdf 1877cbc83464b769121663a626f145ef 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. 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. Between 1833, when he tentatively submitted “A Dinner at Poplar Walk” for publication in The Monthly Magazine, 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 The Evening Chronicle, Bell’s Life in London, and Bentley's Miscellany 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. Global fame arrived with the serial publication of The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club (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 Sketches by Boz, 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 Sketches by Boz’ (44). Sketches of Young Gentlemen (1838), a joking response to Rev. Edward Caswell, or “QUIZ’s” recent effort Sketches of Young Ladies (1838), and Sketches of Couples (1840) were published by Chapman and Hall and illustrated by Hablot Knight Browne, better known as ‘PHIZ’. After this point, Dickens’s short stories were published in his periodicals Household Words and All the Year Round, 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 The Haunted House (1859). Notably, his collaboration with Wilkie Collins resulted in such works as The Perils of Certain English Prisoners (1857) and No Thoroughfare (1867). Towards the end of his life, Dickens began to publish short stories again in American publications such as The New York Ledger, The Atlantic Monthly, and Our Young Folks. 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 Sketches 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. Other anthologies, for instance Selected Short Fiction (Penguin, 2005), edited by Deborah A. Thomas, choose excerpts from Dickens’s entire oeuvre 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 Dickens and the Short Story. (University of Philadelphia Press, 1982) by Deborah A. Thomas and Charles Dickens and ‘Boz’: The Birth of the Industrial-Age Author (Cambridge, 2012) by Patten.1 To date, the most comprehensive overview of the sketches is provided by The Oxford Edition of Charles Dickens’s Sketches by Boz (2021) edited by Paul Schlicke with David Hewitt. Others include Dickens's Uncollected Magazine and Newspaper Sketches as Originally Composed and Published 1833–1836 (2012), edited by Robert C. Hanna, and Sketches by Boz and Other Early Papers (1994), edited by Michael Slater. 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 Dickens Search 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. While building this collection, we have consulted, and transcribed scans found on databases such as British Newspaper Archive (BNA), digital archives, and such open-access sites as Hathi Trust, Internet Archive, and Google Books; all items are linked to their original location on the internet. Please contact us with any errors, corrections, and suggestions, or to mention other short stories by Dickens that might have been overlooked. 1. See Dominic Rainsford. ‘“Luller-li-e-te”! Language, Personhood, and Sympathy in Sketches by Boz.’ In Some Keywords in Dickens. Edited by Michael Hollington, Francesca Orestano, and Nathalie Vanfasse. Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2021, pp. 117-130; William F. Long. ‘“Our Space is Limited”: Fitting Sketches by Boz into the Morning Chronicle”. Dickens Quarterly 4 (December 2020): pp. 325-348; William F. Long. 'Dickens before Sketches by Boz: Earliest Reactions to his Earliest Works'. Dickensian (2018), 114.505, pp.170-176; Christina Jen. '"Drop the Curtain": Astonishment and the Anxieties of Authorship in Charles Dickens's Sketches by Boz. Dickens Studies Annual 49.2 (2018): pp. 249-278; Dianne F. Sadoff. ‘Boz and Beyond: “Oliver Twist” and the Dickens Legacy’. Dickens Studies Annual 45 (2014): pp. 23-44; Dickens's Uncollected Magazine and Newspaper Sketches, as Originally Composed and Published, 1833–1836, No. 46. Ed. Robert C. Hanna (2012): New York, AMS Press; Danielle Coriale. ‘Sketches by Boz, “So Frail a Machine”. SEL: Studies in English Literature 48.4 (2008): pp. 801-812; Paul Schlicke. ‘“Risen Like a Rocket”: The Impact of Sketches by Boz’. Dickens Quarterly 22.1 (2005): pp. 3-18; Ellen Miller Casey. ‘“Boz has got the Town by the ear”: Dickens and the “Athenæum Critics”’. Dickens Studies Annual 33 (2003): pp. 159-190; Richard Maxwell. ‘Dickens, the Two “Chronicles”, and the Publication of “Sketches by Boz”’. Dickens Studies Annual 9 (1981): pp. 21–32; Angus Easson. “Who is Boz? Dickens and His Sketches”. The Dickensian 18.1.405 (Spring 1985): pp. 13-22; Julian W. Breslow. 'The Narrator in Sketches by Boz.' ELH 44.1 (1977): pp. 127–49. Short Story Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Periodical Publication The title of the newspaper/serial (if applicable) The Monthly Magazine 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. 18340501 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   (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. Mrs. Tibbs was, beyond all dispute, the most tidy, fidgetty, thrifty little personage that ever inhaled the smoke of London; and the house of Mrs. Tibbs was, decidedly, the neatest in all Great Coram-street. The area and the area steps, and the street-door and the street-door steps, and the brass handle, and the door-plate, and the knocker, and the fan-light, were all as clean and as bright as indefatigable white-washing, and hearth-stoning, and scrubbing and rubbing could make them. The wonder was that the brass door-plate, with the interesting inscription "MRS. TIBBS," had never caught fire from constant friction, so perseveringly was it polished. There were meat-safe-looking wire-blinds in the parlour windows, blue and gold curtains in the drawing-room, and spring-roller blinds, as Mrs. Tibbs was wont, in the pride of her heart to boast, "all the way up." The bell-lamp in the passage, looked as clear as a soap-bubble; you could see yourself in all the tables, and French polish yourself on any one of the chairs; the banisters were bees'-waxed; and the very stair-wires made your eyes wink, they were so glittering. Mrs. Tibbs was somewhat short of stature, and Mr. Tibbs was by no means a large man; he had moreover very short legs, but, by way of indemnification, his face was peculiarly long; he was to his wife what the 0 is in 90—he was of some importance with her—he was nothing without her. Mrs. Tibbs was always talking. Mr. Tibbs rarely spoke; but if it were at any time possible to put in a word, when he should have said nothing at all, he did it. Mrs. Tibbs detested long stories, and Mr. Tibbs had one, the conclusion of which had never been heard by his most intimate friends. It always began, "I recollect when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and six,"—but, as he spoke very slowly and softly, and his better half very quickly and loudly, he rarely got beyond the introductory sentence. He was a melancholy specimen of the story-teller. He was the wandering Jew of Joe Millerism—ever pursuing and ever shunned. Mr. Tibbs enjoyed a small independence from the pension-list—about 43l. 15s. 10d. a-year. His father, mother, and five interesting scions from the same stock drew a like sum from the revenue of a grateful country, though for what particular service was never known. But as this said independence was not quite sufficient to furnish two people with all the luxuries of this life, it had occurred to the busy little spouse of Tibbs that the best thing she could do with a legacy of 700l., would be to take and furnish a tolerable house, somewhere in that partially-explored tract of country which lies between the British Museum, and a remote village called Somer's Town, for the reception of boarders. Great Coram-street was the spot pitched upon. The house had been furnished accordingly; two female servants and a boy engaged; and an advertisement inserted in the morning papers, informing the public that "Six individuals would meet with all the comforts of a cheerful musical home, in a select private family, residing within ten minutes’ walk of everywhere." Answers out of number were received, with all sorts of initials; all the letters of the alphabet seemed to be seized with a sudden wish to go out boarding and lodging; voluminous was the correspondence between Mrs. Tibbs and the applicants, and most profound was the secrecy observed. "E." didn’t like this, and "I." couldn’t think of putting up with that; "I. O. U." didn’t think the terms would suit him; and "G. R." had never slept in a French bed. The result, however, was, that three gentlemen became inmates of Mrs. Tibbs’s house, on terms which were "agreeable to all parties." In went the advertisement again, and a lady with her two daughters, proposed to increase—not their families, but Mrs. Tibbs’. "Charming woman, that Mrs. Maplesone!" said Mrs. Tibbs, as she and her spouse were sitting by the fire after breakfast; the gentlemen having gone out on their several avocations. "Charming woman, indeed!" repeated little Mrs. Tibbs, more by way of soliloquy than anything else, for she never thought of consulting her husband. "And the two daughters are delightful. We must have some fish to-day; they’ll join us at dinner for the first time." Mr. Tibbs placed the poker at right angles with the fire-shovel, and essayed to speak, but recollected he had nothing to say. "The young ladies,' continued Mrs. T., "have kindly volunteered to bring their own piano." Tibbs thought of the volunteer story, but did not venture it. A bright thought struck him - "It’s very likely," said he. "Pray don’t lean your head against the paper," interrupted Mrs. Tibbs — "and don’t put your feet on the steel fender; that’s worse." Tibbs took his head from the paper, and his feet from the fender; and proceeded. "It’s very likely one of the young ladies may set her cap at young Mr. Simpson, and you know a marriage"—— "A what!" shrieked Mrs. Tibbs. Tibbs modestly repeated his former suggestion. "I beg you won’t mention such a thing," said Mrs. T. "A marriage, indeed! — to rob me of my boarders—no, not for the world." Tibbs thought in his own mind that the event was by no means unlikely, but as he never argued with his wife, he put a stop to the dialogue, by observing it was "time to go to business." He always went out at ten o’clock in the morning, and returned at five in the afternoon, with an exceedingly dirty face, and smelling very mouldy. Nobody knew what he was, or where he went to; but Mrs. Tibbs used to say with an air of great importance, that he was engaged in the City. The Miss Maplesones and their accomplished parent arrived in the course of the afternoon in a hackney-coach, and accompanied by a most astonishing number of packages. Trunks, bonnet-boxes, muff-boxes, parasols, guitar-cases; and parcels of all imaginable shapes, done up in brown paper, and fastened with pins, filled the passage. Then there was such a running up and down with the luggage, such scampering for warm water for the ladies to wash in, and such a bustle, and confusion, and heating of servants, and curling-irons, as had never been known in Great Coram-street before. Little Mrs. Tibbs was quite in her element, bustling about, talking incessantly, and distributing towels and soap, and all the et ceteras, like a head nurse in a hospital. The house was not restored to its usual state of quiet repose until the ladies were safely shut up in their respective bed-rooms, engaged in the important occupation of dressing for dinner. "Are these gals andsome?" inquired Mr. Simpson of Mr. Septimus Hicks, another of the boarders, as they were amusing themselves in the drawing-room before dinner, by lolling on sofas, and contemplating their pumps. "Don’t know," replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who was a tallish, white-faced young man, with spectacles, and a black ribbon round his neck instead of a neckerchief—a most interesting person; a poetical walker of the hospitals, and a "very talented young man." He was fond of "lugging" into conversation all sorts of quotations from Don Juan, without fettering himself by the propriety of their application, in which particular he was remarkably independent. The other, Mr. Simpson, was one of those young men, who are in society what walking gentlemen are on the stage, only infinitely worse skilled in his vocation than the most indifferent artist. He was as empty-headed as the great bell of St. Paul’s, and had about as long a tongue. He always dressed according to the caricatures, published in Townsend's monthly fashions; and spelt Character with a K. "I saw a devilish number of parcels in the passage when I came home," simpered Simpson. "Materials for the toilet, no doubt," rejoined the Don Juan reader. " — much linen, lace, and several pair Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete; With other articles of ladies' fair, To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat." "Is that from Milton?" inquired Mr. Simpson. "No—from Byron," returned Mr. Hicks, with a look of profound contempt. He was quite sure of his author, because he had never read any other. — "Hush!" said the sapient hospital walker,, "Here come the gals," and they both commenced talking in a very loud key. "Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones, Mr. Hicks. Mr. Hicks—Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones," said Mrs. Tibbs, with a very red face, for she had been superintending the cooking operations below stairs, and looked like a wax doll on a sunny day. Mr. Simpson, I beg your pardon—Mr. Simpson—Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesone's"—and vice versa. The gentlemen immediately began to slide about with much politeness, and to look as if they wished their arms had been legs, so little did they know what to do with them. The ladies smiled, curtsied, and glided into chairs, and dived for dropped pockethandkerchiefs; the gentlemen leant against two of the curtain-pegs; Mrs. Tibbs went through an admirable bit of serious pantomime with a servant who had come up to ask some question about the fish sauce; and then the two young ladies looked at each other; and everybody else appeared to discover something very attractive in the pattern of the fender. "Julia, my love," said Mrs. Maplesone to her youngest daughter, in a tone just loud enough for the remainder of the company to hear—"Julia." "Yes, Ma." "Don’t stoop."—This was said for the purpose of directing general attention to Miss Julia’s figure, which was undeniable. Everybody looked at her, accordingly, and there was another pause. "We had the most uncivil hackney-coachman to-day, you can imagine," said Mrs. Maplesone to Mrs. Tibbs, in a truly confidential tone. "Dear me!" replied the hostess, with an air of great commiseration. She couldn’t say more, for the servant again appeared at the door, and commenced telegraphing most earnestly to her "Misses." "I think hackney-coachmen generally are uncivil," said Mr. Hicks in his most insinuating tone. "Positively I think they are," replied Mrs. Maplesone, as if the idea had never struck her before. "And cabmen, too," said Mr. Simpson. This remark was a failure, for no one intimated by word or sign the slightest knowledge of the manners and customs of cabmen. "Robinson, what do you want?" said Mrs. Tibbs to the servant, who, by way of making her presence known to her mistress, had been giving sundry hems and sniffs outside the door, during the preceding five minutes. "Please, ma’am, master wants his clean things," replied the servant, taken off her guard. There was no resisting this: the two young men turned their faces to the window, and "went off" like a couple of bottles of ginger-beer; the ladies put their cambrics to their mouths, and little Mrs. Tibbs bustled out of the room to give Tibbs his clean linen,—and the servant warning. Mr. Calton, the remaining boarder, shortly afterwards made his appearance, and proved a surprising promoter of the conversation. Mr. Calton was a superannuated beau—an old boy. He used to say of himself, that although his features were not regularly handsome, they were striking. They certainly were: it was impossible to look at his face without being reminded of a chubby street-door knocker, half-lion half-monkey; and the comparison might be extended to his whole character and conversation. He had stood still while everything else had been moving. He never originated a conversation, or started a new idea; but if any common-place topic were broached, or, to pursue the comparison, if anybody lifted him up, he would hammer away with surprising rapidity. He had the tic douloreux occasionally, and then he might be said to be muffled, because he did not make quite as much noise as at other times, when he would go on prosing, rat-tat-tat, the same thing over and over again. He had never been married; but he was still on the look-out for a wife with money. He had a life interest worth about 300l. a year—he was exceedingly vain, and inordinately selfish. He had acquired the reputation of being the very pink of politeness; and he walked round the park, and up Regent-street, every day. This respectable personage had made up his mind to render himself exceedingly agreeable to Mrs. Maplesone—indeed, the desire of being as amiable as possible extended itself to the whole party; Mrs. Tibbs having considered it an admirable little bit of management to represent to the gentlemen that she had some reason to believe the ladies were fortunes, and to hint to the ladies, that all the gentlemen were "eligible." A little flirtation, she thought, might keep her house full, without leading to any other result. Mrs. Maplesone was an enterprising widow of about fifty; shrewd, scheming, and good-looking. She was amiably anxious on behalf of her daughters; in proof whereof she used to remark, that she would have no objection to marry again, if it would benefit her dear girls—she could have no other motive. The "dear girls" themselves were not at all insensible to the merits of "a good establishment." One of them was twenty-five; the other three years younger. They had been at different watering-places for four seasons; they had gambled at libraries, read books in balconies, sold at fancy fairs, danced at assemblies, talked sentiment—in short, they had done all that industrious girls could do, and all to no purpose. "What a magnificent dresser Mr. Simpson is!" whispered Miss Matilda Maplesone to her sister Julia. "Splendid!" returned the youngest. The magnificent individual alluded to wore a maroon-coloured dress-coat, with a velvet collar and cuffs of the same tint—very like that which usually invests the form of the distinguished unknown who condescends to play the "swell" in the pantomime at "Richardson’s Show." "What whiskers!" said Miss Julia. "Charming!" responded her sister; "and what hair!" His hair was like a wig, and distinguished by that insinuating wave which graces the shining locks of those chef-d’oeuvres of art surmounting the waxen images in Bartellot’s window in Regent-street; and his whiskers, meeting beneath his chin, seemed strings wherewith to tie it on, ere science had rendered them unnecessary by her patent invisible springs. "Dinner’s on the table, ma’am, if you please," said the boy, who now appeared for the first time, in a revived black coat of his master’s. "Oh! Mr. Calton, will you lead Mrs. Maplesone?—Thank you." Mr. Simpson offered his arm to Miss Julia; Mr. Septimus Hicks escorted the lovely Matilda; and the procession proceeded to the dining-room. Mr. Tibbs was introduced, and Mr. Tibbs bobbed up and down to the three ladies like a figure in a Dutch clock, with a powerful spring in the middle of his body, and then dived rapidly into his seat at the bottom of the table, delighted to screen himself behind a soup tureen, which he could just see over, and that was all. The boarders were seated, a lady and gentleman alternately, like the layers of bread and meat in a sandwich; and then Mrs. Tibbs directed James to take off the covers, and salmon, lobster-sauce, giblet-soup, and the usual accompaniments were discovered: potatoes like petrifactions, and bits of toasted bread, the shape and size of blank dice. "Soup for Mrs. Maplesone, my dear," said the bustling Mrs. Tibbs. She always called her husband "my dear" before company. Tibbs, who had been eating his bread, and calculating how long it would be before he should get any fish, helped the soup in a hurry, made a small island on the table-cloth, and put his glass upon it, to hide it from his wife. "Miss Julia, shall I assist you to some fish?" "If you please—very little—oh! plenty, thank you;" (a bit about the size of a walnut put upon the plate). "Julia is a very little eater," said Mrs. Maplesone to Mr. Calton. The knocker gave a single rap. He was busy eating the fish with his eyes: so he only ejaculated, "Ah!" "My dear," said Mrs. Tibbs to her spouse after every one else had been helped, "what do you take?" The inquiry was accompanied with a look intimating that he mustn’t say fish, because there was not much left. Tibbs thought the frown referred to the island on the table-cloth; he therefore coolly replied, "Why—I’ll take a little—fish, I think." "Did you say fish, my dear?" (another frown.) "Yes, dear," replied the villain, with an expression of acute hunger depicted in his countenance. The tears almost started to Mrs. Tibbs’s eyes, as she helped her "wretch of a husband," as she inwardly called him, to the last eatable bit of salmon on the dish. "James, take this to your master, and take away your master’s knife." This was deliberate revenge, as Tibbs never could eat fish without one. He was, however, constrained to chase small particles of salmon round and round his plate with a piece of bread and a fork, occasionally securing a bit; the number of successful attempts being about one in seventeen. "Take away, James," said Mrs. Tibbs, as Tibbs swallowed the fourth mouthful—and away went the plates like lightning. "I’ll take a bit of bread, James," said the poor "master of the house," more hungry than ever. "Never mind your master now, James," said Mrs. Tibbs, "see about the meat." — This was conveyed in the tone in which ladies usually give admonitions to servants in company, that is to say, a low one; but which, like a stage whisper, from its peculiar emphasis, is most distinctly heard by everybody present. A pause ensued before the table was replenished—a sort of parenthesis in which Mr. Simpson, Mr. Calton, and Mr. Hicks produced respectively a bottle of sauterne, bucellas, and sherry, and took wine with everybody—except Tibbs: no one ever thought of him. Between the fish and an intimated sirloin there was a prolonged interval. Here was an opportunity for Mr. Hicks. He could not resist the singularly appropriate quotation: - "But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goats’ flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, And when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on." "Very ungentlemanly behaviour," thought little Mrs. Tibbs, "to talk in that way." "Ah," said Mr. Calton, filling his glass. "Tom Moore is my poet." "And mine," said Mrs. Maplesone. "And mine," said Miss Julia. "And mine," added Mr. Simpson. "Look at his compositions," resumed the knocker. "To be sure," said Simpson, with confidence. "Look at Don Juan," replied Mr. Septimus Hicks. "Julia’s letter," suggested Miss Matilda. "Can anything be grander than The Fire Worshippers?" inquired Miss Julia. "To be sure," said Simpson. "Or Paradise and the Peri," said the old beau. "Yes; or Paradise and the Peer," repeated the deeply-read Simpson, who thought he was getting through it capitally. "It’s all very well," replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who, as we have before hinted, never had read anything but Don Juan. Where will you find anything finer than the description of the siege, at the commencement of the seventh canto?" "Talking of a siege," said Tibbs, with a mouthful of bread—"when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and six, our commanding officer was Sir Charles Rampart; and one day, when we were exercising on the ground on which the London University now stands, he says, says he, Tibbs (calling me from the ranks), Tibbs—" "Tell your master, James," interrupted Mrs. Tibbs, in an awfully distinct tone, "tell your master if he won’t carve those fowls, to send them to me." The discomfited volunteer instantly set to work, and carved the fowls almost as expeditiously as his wife operated on the haunch of mutton. Whether he ever finished that story is not exactly known. As the ice was now broken, and the new inmates more at home, every member of the company felt more at ease. Tibbs himself most certainly did, because he went to sleep immediately after dinner. Mr. Hicks and the ladies discoursed most eloquently about poetry, and the theatres, and Lord Chesterfield’s Letters; and Mr. Calton followed up what everybody said, with continuous double knocks. Mrs. Tibbs highly approved of every observation that fell from Mrs. Maplesone; and as Mr. Simpson sat with a smile upon his face and said "Yes," or "Certainly," at intervals of about four minutes each, he received full credit for understanding what was going forward. The gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing-room very shortly after they had left the dining-parlour. Mrs. Maplesone and Mr. Calton played cribbage, and the "young people" amused themselves with music and conversation. The Miss Maplesones sang the most fascinating duets, and accompanied themselves on guitars, ornamented with bits of ethereal blue ribbon. Mr. Simpson put on a pink waistcoat, and said he was in raptures; and Mr. Hicks felt in the seventh heaven of poetry or the seventh canto of Don Juan,—it was the same thing to him. Mrs. Tibbs was quite charmed with the new comers, and Mr. Tibbs spent the evening in his usual way—he went to sleep, and woke up, and went to sleep again, and woke at supper-time. We are not about to adopt the licence of novel-writers, and to let "years roll on;" but we will take the liberty of requesting the reader to suppose that six months have elapsed, since the dinner we have described, and that Mrs. Tibbs’s boarders have, during that period, sang, and danced, and gone to theatres and exhibitions together, as ladies and gentlemen, wherever they board, often do; and we will beg them, the period we have mentioned having elapsed, to imagine further, that Mr. Septimus Hicks received, in his own bed-room (a front attic), at an early hour one morning, a note from Mr. Calton, requesting the favour of seeing him, as soon as convenient to himself, in his (Calton’s) dressing-room on the second-floor back. "Tell Mr. Calton I’ll come down directly," said Mr. Septimus to the boy. "Stop—Is Mr. Calton unwell?" inquired this excited walker of hospitals, as he put on a bed-furniture-looking dressing-gown. "Not as I knows on, Sir," replied the boy. "Please, Sir, he looked rather rum, as it might be." "Ah, that’s no proof of his being ill," returned Hicks, unconsciously. "Very well: I’ll be down directly." Down stairs ran the boy with the message, and down went the excited Hicks himself, almost as soon as the message was delivered. "Tap, tap." "Come in."—Door opens, and discovers Mr. Calton sitting in an easy chair, and looking more like a knocker than ever. Mutual shakes of the hand exchanged, and Mr. Septimus Hicks motioned to a seat. A short pause. Mr. Hicks coughed, and Mr. Calton took a pinch of snuff. It was just one of those interviews where neither party knows what to say. Mr. Septimus Hicks broke silence. "I received a note—" he said, very tremulously, in a voice like a Punch with a cold. "Yes," returned the other, "you did." "Exactly." "Yes." Now, although this dialogue must have been satisfactory, both gentlemen felt there was something more important to be said; therefore they did as most men in such a situation would have done—they looked at the table with a most determined aspect. The conversation had been opened, however, and Mr. Calton had made up his mind to continue it with a regular double knock. He always spoke very pompously. "Hicks," said he, "I have sent for you in consequence of certain arrangements which are pending in this house, connected with a marriage." "With a marriage!" gasped Hicks, compared with whose expression of countenance, Hamlet’s, when he sees his father’s ghost, is pleasing and composed. "With a marriage!" returned the knocker. "I have sent for you to prove the great confidence I can repose in you." "And will you betray me?" eagerly inquired Hicks, who in his alarm had even forgotten to quote. I betray you! Won’t you betray me?" "Never: no one shall know, to my dying day, that you had a hand in the business," responded the agitated Hicks, with an inflamed countenance, and his hair standing on end as if he were on the stool of an electrifying machine in full operation. "People must know that, some time or other—within a year, I imagine," said Mr. Calton, with an air of great self-complacency. "We may have a family." "We!—That won’t affect you, surely?" "The devil it won’t!" "No! How can it?" said the bewildered Hicks. Calton was too much inwrapped in the contemplation of his happiness to see the equivoque between Hicks and himself; and threw himself back in his chair, "Oh, Matilda!" sighed the antique beau, in a lack-a-daysical voice, and applying his right hand a little to the left of the fourth button of his waistcoat, counting from the bottom. This was meant to be pathetic - "Oh, Matilda!" "What Matilda?" inquired Hicks, starting up. "Matilda Maplesone," responded the other, doing the same. "I marry her to-morrow morning," said Hicks, furiously. "It’s false," rejoined his companion: "I marry her!" "You marry her?" "I marry her!" "You marry Matilda Maplesone?" "Matilda Maplesone." "Miss Maplesone marry you?" "Miss Maplesone! No; Mrs. Maplesone." "Good Heaven!" said Hicks, falling into his chair like Ward in Gustavus: "You marry the mother, and I the daughter!" "Most extraordinary circumstance!" replied Mr. Calton, "and rather inconvenient too; for the fact is, that owing to Matilda’s wishing to keep her intention secret from her daughters until the ceremony had taken place, she doesn’t like applying to any of her friends to give her away. I entertain an objection to making the affair known to my acquaintance just now; and the consequence is, that I sent to you to know whether you’d oblige me by acting as father." "I should have been most happy, I assure you," said Hicks, in a tone of condolence; "but, you see, I shall be acting as bridegroom. One character is frequently a consequence of the other; but it is no usual to act in both at the same time. There’s Simpson—I have no doubt he’ll do it for you." "I don’t like to ask him," replied Calton, "he’s such a donkey." Mr. Septimus Hicks looked up at the ceiling and down at the floor; at last an idea struck him — "Let the man of the house, Tibbs, be the father," he suggested; and then he quoted, as peculiarly applicable to Tibbs and the pair - "Oh Powers of Heaven! what dark eyes meeets she there? 'Tis—’tis her father’s—fixed upon the pair." "The idea has struck me already," said Mr. Calton: "but, you see, Matilda, for what reason I know not, is very anxious that Mrs. Tibbs should know nothing about it, till it’s all over. It’s a natural delicacy, after all, you know." "He’s the best-natured little man in existence, if you manage him properly," said Mr. Septimus Hicks. "Tell him not to mention it to his wife, and assure him she won’t mind it, and he’ll do it directly. My marriage is to be a secret one, on account of the mother and my father; therefore he must be enjoined to secrecy." A small double knock, like a presumptuous single one, was that instant heard at the street door. It was Tibbs; it could be no one else; for no one else occupied five minutes in rubbing their shoes. He had been out to pay the baker’s bill. "Mr. Tibbs," called Mr. Calton in a very bland tone, looking over the banisters. "Sir!" replied he of the dirty face. "Will you have the kindness to step up-stairs for a moment." "Certainly, sir," said Tibbs, delighted to be taken notice of. The bed-room door was carefully closed, and Tibbs, having put his hat on the floor (as all timid men do), and been accommodated with a seat, looked as astounded as if he were suddenly summoned before the familiars of the Inquisition. "A rather unpleasant occurrence, Mr. Tibbs," said Calton, in a very portentous manner, "obliges me to consult you, and to beg you will not communicate what I am about to say to your wife." Tibbs acquiesced, wondering in his own mind what the deuce the other could have done, and imagining that at least he must have broken the best decanters. Mr. Calton resumed; "I am placed, Mr. Tibbs, in rather an unpleasant situation." Tibbs looked at Mr. Septimus Hicks, as if he thought his being in the immediate vicinity of his fellow-boarder constituted the unpleasantness of his situation; but as he did not exactly know what to say, he merely ejaculated the monosyllable "Lor!" "Now," continued the knocker, "let me beg you will exhibit no manifestations of surprise, which may be overheard by the domestics, when I tell you—command your feelings of astonishment—that two inmates of this house intend to be married to-morrow morning," — and he drew back his chair several feet to perceive the effect of the unlooked-for announcement. If Tibbs had rushed from the room, staggered down stairs, and fainted in the passage—if he had instantaneously jumped out of the window into the mews behind the house, in an agony of surprise —his behaviour would have been much less inexplicable to Mr. Calton than it was, when he put his hands into his inexpressible-pockets, and said, with a half-chuckle, "Just so." "You are not surprised, Mr. Tibbs?" inquired Mr. Calton. "Bless you, no, sir," returned Tibbs; "after all, it's very natural. When two young people get together, you know—" "Certainly, certainly," said Calton, with an indescribable air of self-satisfaction. "You don’t think it’s at all an out-of-the-way affair then?" asked Mr. Septimus Hicks, who had watched the countenance of Tibbs in mute astonishment. "No, Sir," replied Tibbs; "I was just the same at his age." He actually smiled when he said this. "How devilish well I must carry my years!" thought the delighted old beau, knowing he was at least ten years older than Tibbs at that moment. "Well, then, to come to the point at once," he continued, "I have to ask you whether you will object to act as father on the occasion?" "Certainly not," replied Tibbs; still without evincing an atom of surprise. ‘You will not?’ "Decidedly not," reiterated Tibbs, still as calm as a pot of porter with the head off. Mr. Calton seized the hand of the petticoat-governed little man, and vowed eternal friendship from that hour. Hicks, who was all admiration and surprise, did the same. "Now, confess," asked Mr. Calton of Tibbs, as he picked up his hat, "were you not a little surprised?" "I b’lieve you!" replied that illustrious person, holding up one hand; "I b’lieve you! when I first heard of it." "So sudden," said Septimus Hicks. "So strange to ask me, you know," said Tibbs. "So odd altogether," said the superannuated love-maker; and then all three laughed. "I say," said Tibbs, shutting the door which he had previously opened, and giving full vent to a hitherto corked-up giggle, "what bothers me is, what will his father say?" Mr. Septimus Hicks looked at Mr. Calton. "Yes; but the best of it is," said the latter, giggling in his turn, "I haven’t got a father—he! he! he!" "You haven’t got a father. No; but he has," said Tibbs. "Who has?" inquired Septimus Hicks. "Why, him." "Him, who? Do you know my secret? Do you mean me?" "You! No; you know who I mean," returned Tibbs, with a knowing wink. "For Heaven’s sake, whom do you mean?" inquired Mr. Calton, who, like Septimus Hicks, was all but out of his senses at the strange confusion. "Why Mr. Simpson, of course," replied Tibbs; "who else could I mean?" "I see it all," said the Byron-quoter; "Simpson marries Julia Maplesone to-morrow morning!" "Undoubtedly," replied Tibbs, thoroughly satisfied, "of course he does." It would require the pencil of Hogarth to illustrate—our feeble pen is inadequate to describe—the expression which the countenances of Mr. Calton and Mr. Septimus Hicks respectively assumed at this unexpected announcement. Equally impossible is it to describe, although perhaps it is easier for our lady readers to imagine, what arts the three ladies could have used, so completely to entangle their separate partners. Whatever they were, however, they were successful. The mother was perfectly aware of the intended marriage of both daughters; and the young ladies were equally acquainted with the intention of their estimable parent. They agreed, however, that it would have a much better appearance if each feigned ignorance of the other’s engagement; and it was equally desirable that all the marriages should take place on the same day, to prevent the discovery of one clandestine alliance, operating prejudicially on the others. Hence the mystification of Mr. Calton and Mr. Septimus Hicks, and the pre-engagement of the unwary Tibbs. On the following morning, Mr. Septimus Hicks was united to Miss Matilda Maplesone. Mr. Simpson also entered into a "holy alliance" with Miss Julia, Tibbs acting as father, "his first appearance in that character." Mr. Calton not being quite so eager as the two young men, was rather struck by the double discovery; and as he had found some difficulty in getting any one to give the lady away, it occurred to him that the best mode of obviating the inconvenience would be not to take her at all. The lady, however, "appealed," as her counsel said on the trial of the cause, Maplesone v. Calton, for a breach of promise, "with a broken heart, to the outraged laws of her country." She recovered damages to the amount of 1,000l. which the unfortunate knocker was compelled to pay, because he had declined to ring the belle. Mr. Septimus Hicks having walked the hospitals, took it into his head to walk off altogether. His injured wife is at present residing with her mother at Boulonge. Mr. Simpson, having the misfortune to lose his wife six weeks after marriage (by her eloping with an officer during his temporary sojourn in the Fleet Prison, in consequence of his inability to discharge her little mantua-maker’s bill), and being disinherited by his father, who died soon afterwards, was fortunate enough to obtain a permanent engagement at a fashionable hair-cutter’s; hair dressing being a science to which he had frequently directed his attention. In this situation he had necessarily many opportunities of making himself acquainted with the habits and style of thinking of the exclusive portion of the nobility of this kingdom. To this fortunate circumstance are we indebted for the production of those brilliant efforts of genius, his fashionable novels, which so long as good taste, unsullied exaggeration, cant, and maudlin quackery continues to exist, cannot fail to instruct and amuse the thinking portion of the community. It only remains to add, that this "complication of disorders" completely deprived poor Mrs. Tibbs of all her inmates, except the one whom it would have afforded her the greatest pleasure to lose —her husband. That wretched little man returned home on the day of the wedding in a state of partial intoxication; and, under the influence of wine, excitement, and despair, actually dared to brave the anger of his wife. Since that ill-fated hour he has constantly taken his meals in the kitchen, to which apartment it is understood his witticisms will be in future confined, a turn-up bedstead having been conveyed there by Mrs. Tibbs’s order for his exclusive accommodation. It is very likely that he will be enabled to finish there his story of the volunteers. The advertisement has again appeared in the morning papers. Whether it will be productive of any beneficial result, we of course are unable to foretell. If it should, we may, perhaps, at no distant period, return to Mrs. Tibbs and her "Boarding-House." 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 'The Boarding-House' (No. 1) Description An account of the resource <div id="dublin-core-description" class="element"> <div class="element-text">Published in The Monthly Magazine, or The British Register of Politics, Art, Science, and the Belles-Lettres, May 1834, pp. 481-493.</div> </div> <div id="dublin-core-creator" class="element"></div> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived Internet Archive, <a href="https://archive.org/details/monthlymagazineo17lond/page/n9/mode/2up">https://archive.org/details/monthlymagazineo17lond/page/n9/mode/2up</a>. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1834-05 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Internet Archive, <a href="https://archive.org/about/terms.php">https://archive.org/about/terms.php</a>. Access to the Archive’s Collections is granted for scholarship and research purposes only. Type The nature or genre of the resource Short story Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1834-05-The_Boarding_House_No1 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. "The Boarding House" (No.1). Dickens Search. Eds. Emily Middleton and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-05-The-Boarding_House_No1">https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-05-The-Boarding_House_No1</a>. Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. Mrs. Tibbs was, beyond all dispute, the most tidy, fidgetty, thrifty little personage that ever inhaled the smoke of London; and the house of Mrs. Tibbs was, decidedly, the neatest in all Great Coram-street. The area and the area steps, and the street-door and the street-door steps, and the brass handle, and the door-plate, and the knocker, and the fan-light, were all as clean and as bright as indefatigable white-washing, and hearth-stoning, and scrubbing and rubbing could make them. The wonder was that the brass door-plate, with the interesting inscription "MRS. TIBBS," had never caught fire from constant friction, so perseveringly was it polished. There were meat-safe-looking wire-blinds in the parlour windows, blue and gold curtains in the drawing-room, and spring-roller blinds, as Mrs. Tibbs was wont, in the pride of her heart to boast, "all the way up." The bell-lamp in the passage, looked as clear as a soap-bubble; you could see yourself in all the tables, and French polish yourself on any one of the chairs; the banisters were bees'-waxed; and the very stair-wires made your eyes wink, they were so glittering. Mrs. Tibbs was somewhat short of stature, and Mr. Tibbs was by no means a large man; he had moreover very short legs, but, by way of indemnification, his face was peculiarly long; he was to his wife what the 0 is in 90—he was of some importance with her—he was nothing without her. Mrs. Tibbs was always talking. Mr. Tibbs rarely spoke; but if it were at any time possible to put in a word, when he should have said nothing at all, he did it. Mrs. Tibbs detested long stories, and Mr. Tibbs had one, the conclusion of which had never been heard by his most intimate friends. It always began, "I recollect when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and six,"—but, as he spoke very slowly and softly, and his better half very quickly and loudly, he rarely got beyond the introductory sentence. He was a melancholy specimen of the story-teller. He was the wandering Jew of Joe Millerism—ever pursuing and ever shunned. Mr. Tibbs enjoyed a small independence from the pension-list—about 43l. 15s. 10d. a-year. His father, mother, and five interesting scions from the same stock drew a like sum from the revenue of a grateful country, though for what particular service was never known. But as this said independence was not quite sufficient to furnish two people with all the luxuries of this life, it had occurred to the busy little spouse of Tibbs that the best thing she could do with a legacy of 700l., would be to take and furnish a tolerable house, somewhere in that partially-explored tract of country which lies between the British Museum, and a remote village called Somer's Town, for the reception of boarders. Great Coram-street was the spot pitched upon. The house had been furnished accordingly; two female servants and a boy engaged; and an advertisement inserted in the morning papers, informing the public that "Six individuals would meet with all the comforts of a cheerful musical home, in a select private family, residing within ten minutes’ walk of everywhere." Answers out of number were received, with all sorts of initials; all the letters of the alphabet seemed to be seized with a sudden wish to go out boarding and lodging; voluminous was the correspondence between Mrs. Tibbs and the applicants, and most profound was the secrecy observed. "E." didn’t like this, and "I." couldn’t think of putting up with that; "I. O. U." didn’t think the terms would suit him; and "G. R." had never slept in a French bed. The result, however, was, that three gentlemen became inmates of Mrs. Tibbs’s house, on terms which were "agreeable to all parties." In went the advertisement again, and a lady with her two daughters, proposed to increase—not their families, but Mrs. Tibbs’. "Charming woman, that Mrs. Maplesone!" said Mrs. Tibbs, as she and her spouse were sitting by the fire after breakfast; the gentlemen having gone out on their several avocations. "Charming woman, indeed!" repeated little Mrs. Tibbs, more by way of soliloquy than anything else, for she never thought of consulting her husband. "And the two daughters are delightful. We must have some fish to-day; they’ll join us at dinner for the first time." Mr. Tibbs placed the poker at right angles with the fire-shovel, and essayed to speak, but recollected he had nothing to say. "The young ladies,' continued Mrs. T., "have kindly volunteered to bring their own piano." Tibbs thought of the volunteer story, but did not venture it. A bright thought struck him - "It’s very likely," said he. "Pray don’t lean your head against the paper," interrupted Mrs. Tibbs — "and don’t put your feet on the steel fender; that’s worse." Tibbs took his head from the paper, and his feet from the fender; and proceeded. "It’s very likely one of the young ladies may set her cap at young Mr. Simpson, and you know a marriage"—— "A what!" shrieked Mrs. Tibbs. Tibbs modestly repeated his former suggestion. "I beg you won’t mention such a thing," said Mrs. T. "A marriage, indeed! — to rob me of my boarders—no, not for the world." Tibbs thought in his own mind that the event was by no means unlikely, but as he never argued with his wife, he put a stop to the dialogue, by observing it was "time to go to business." He always went out at ten o’clock in the morning, and returned at five in the afternoon, with an exceedingly dirty face, and smelling very mouldy. Nobody knew what he was, or where he went to; but Mrs. Tibbs used to say with an air of great importance, that he was engaged in the City. The Miss Maplesones and their accomplished parent arrived in the course of the afternoon in a hackney-coach, and accompanied by a most astonishing number of packages. Trunks, bonnet-boxes, muff-boxes, parasols, guitar-cases; and parcels of all imaginable shapes, done up in brown paper, and fastened with pins, filled the passage. Then there was such a running up and down with the luggage, such scampering for warm water for the ladies to wash in, and such a bustle, and confusion, and heating of servants, and curling-irons, as had never been known in Great Coram-street before. Little Mrs. Tibbs was quite in her element, bustling about, talking incessantly, and distributing towels and soap, and all the et ceteras, like a head nurse in a hospital. The house was not restored to its usual state of quiet repose until the ladies were safely shut up in their respective bed-rooms, engaged in the important occupation of dressing for dinner. "Are these gals andsome?" inquired Mr. Simpson of Mr. Septimus Hicks, another of the boarders, as they were amusing themselves in the drawing-room before dinner, by lolling on sofas, and contemplating their pumps. "Don’t know," replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who was a tallish, white-faced young man, with spectacles, and a black ribbon round his neck instead of a neckerchief—a most interesting person; a poetical walker of the hospitals, and a "very talented young man." He was fond of "lugging" into conversation all sorts of quotations from Don Juan, without fettering himself by the propriety of their application, in which particular he was remarkably independent. The other, Mr. Simpson, was one of those young men, who are in society what walking gentlemen are on the stage, only infinitely worse skilled in his vocation than the most indifferent artist. He was as empty-headed as the great bell of St. Paul’s, and had about as long a tongue. He always dressed according to the caricatures, published in Townsend's monthly fashions; and spelt Character with a K. "I saw a devilish number of parcels in the passage when I came home," simpered Simpson. "Materials for the toilet, no doubt," rejoined the Don Juan reader. " — much linen, lace, and several pair Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete; With other articles of ladies' fair, To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat." "Is that from Milton?" inquired Mr. Simpson. "No—from Byron," returned Mr. Hicks, with a look of profound contempt. He was quite sure of his author, because he had never read any other. — "Hush!" said the sapient hospital walker,, "Here come the gals," and they both commenced talking in a very loud key. "Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones, Mr. Hicks. Mr. Hicks—Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones," said Mrs. Tibbs, with a very red face, for she had been superintending the cooking operations below stairs, and looked like a wax doll on a sunny day. Mr. Simpson, I beg your pardon—Mr. Simpson—Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesone's"—and vice versa. The gentlemen immediately began to slide about with much politeness, and to look as if they wished their arms had been legs, so little did they know what to do with them. The ladies smiled, curtsied, and glided into chairs, and dived for dropped pockethandkerchiefs; the gentlemen leant against two of the curtain-pegs; Mrs. Tibbs went through an admirable bit of serious pantomime with a servant who had come up to ask some question about the fish sauce; and then the two young ladies looked at each other; and everybody else appeared to discover something very attractive in the pattern of the fender. "Julia, my love," said Mrs. Maplesone to her youngest daughter, in a tone just loud enough for the remainder of the company to hear—"Julia." "Yes, Ma." "Don’t stoop."—This was said for the purpose of directing general attention to Miss Julia’s figure, which was undeniable. Everybody looked at her, accordingly, and there was another pause. "We had the most uncivil hackney-coachman to-day, you can imagine," said Mrs. Maplesone to Mrs. Tibbs, in a truly confidential tone. "Dear me!" replied the hostess, with an air of great commiseration. She couldn’t say more, for the servant again appeared at the door, and commenced telegraphing most earnestly to her "Misses." "I think hackney-coachmen generally are uncivil," said Mr. Hicks in his most insinuating tone. "Positively I think they are," replied Mrs. Maplesone, as if the idea had never struck her before. "And cabmen, too," said Mr. Simpson. This remark was a failure, for no one intimated by word or sign the slightest knowledge of the manners and customs of cabmen. "Robinson, what do you want?" said Mrs. Tibbs to the servant, who, by way of making her presence known to her mistress, had been giving sundry hems and sniffs outside the door, during the preceding five minutes. "Please, ma’am, master wants his clean things," replied the servant, taken off her guard. There was no resisting this: the two young men turned their faces to the window, and "went off" like a couple of bottles of ginger-beer; the ladies put their cambrics to their mouths, and little Mrs. Tibbs bustled out of the room to give Tibbs his clean linen,—and the servant warning. Mr. Calton, the remaining boarder, shortly afterwards made his appearance, and proved a surprising promoter of the conversation. Mr. Calton was a superannuated beau—an old boy. He used to say of himself, that although his features were not regularly handsome, they were striking. They certainly were: it was impossible to look at his face without being reminded of a chubby street-door knocker, half-lion half-monkey; and the comparison might be extended to his whole character and conversation. He had stood still while everything else had been moving. He never originated a conversation, or started a new idea; but if any common-place topic were broached, or, to pursue the comparison, if anybody lifted him up, he would hammer away with surprising rapidity. He had the tic douloreux occasionally, and then he might be said to be muffled, because he did not make quite as much noise as at other times, when he would go on prosing, rat-tat-tat, the same thing over and over again. He had never been married; but he was still on the look-out for a wife with money. He had a life interest worth about 300l. a year—he was exceedingly vain, and inordinately selfish. He had acquired the reputation of being the very pink of politeness; and he walked round the park, and up Regent-street, every day. This respectable personage had made up his mind to render himself exceedingly agreeable to Mrs. Maplesone—indeed, the desire of being as amiable as possible extended itself to the whole party; Mrs. Tibbs having considered it an admirable little bit of management to represent to the gentlemen that she had some reason to believe the ladies were fortunes, and to hint to the ladies, that all the gentlemen were "eligible." A little flirtation, she thought, might keep her house full, without leading to any other result. Mrs. Maplesone was an enterprising widow of about fifty; shrewd, scheming, and good-looking. She was amiably anxious on behalf of her daughters; in proof whereof she used to remark, that she would have no objection to marry again, if it would benefit her dear girls—she could have no other motive. The "dear girls" themselves were not at all insensible to the merits of "a good establishment." One of them was twenty-five; the other three years younger. They had been at different watering-places for four seasons; they had gambled at libraries, read books in balconies, sold at fancy fairs, danced at assemblies, talked sentiment—in short, they had done all that industrious girls could do, and all to no purpose. "What a magnificent dresser Mr. Simpson is!" whispered Miss Matilda Maplesone to her sister Julia. "Splendid!" returned the youngest. The magnificent individual alluded to wore a maroon-coloured dress-coat, with a velvet collar and cuffs of the same tint—very like that which usually invests the form of the distinguished unknown who condescends to play the "swell" in the pantomime at "Richardson’s Show." "What whiskers!" said Miss Julia. "Charming!" responded her sister; "and what hair!" His hair was like a wig, and distinguished by that insinuating wave which graces the shining locks of those chef-d’oeuvres of art surmounting the waxen images in Bartellot’s window in Regent-street; and his whiskers, meeting beneath his chin, seemed strings wherewith to tie it on, ere science had rendered them unnecessary by her patent invisible springs. "Dinner’s on the table, ma’am, if you please," said the boy, who now appeared for the first time, in a revived black coat of his master’s. "Oh! Mr. Calton, will you lead Mrs. Maplesone?—Thank you." Mr. Simpson offered his arm to Miss Julia; Mr. Septimus Hicks escorted the lovely Matilda; and the procession proceeded to the dining-room. Mr. Tibbs was introduced, and Mr. Tibbs bobbed up and down to the three ladies like a figure in a Dutch clock, with a powerful spring in the middle of his body, and then dived rapidly into his seat at the bottom of the table, delighted to screen himself behind a soup tureen, which he could just see over, and that was all. The boarders were seated, a lady and gentleman alternately, like the layers of bread and meat in a sandwich; and then Mrs. Tibbs directed James to take off the covers, and salmon, lobster-sauce, giblet-soup, and the usual accompaniments were discovered: potatoes like petrifactions, and bits of toasted bread, the shape and size of blank dice. "Soup for Mrs. Maplesone, my dear," said the bustling Mrs. Tibbs. She always called her husband "my dear" before company. Tibbs, who had been eating his bread, and calculating how long it would be before he should get any fish, helped the soup in a hurry, made a small island on the table-cloth, and put his glass upon it, to hide it from his wife. "Miss Julia, shall I assist you to some fish?" "If you please—very little—oh! plenty, thank you;" (a bit about the size of a walnut put upon the plate). "Julia is a very little eater," said Mrs. Maplesone to Mr. Calton. The knocker gave a single rap. He was busy eating the fish with his eyes: so he only ejaculated, "Ah!" "My dear," said Mrs. Tibbs to her spouse after every one else had been helped, "what do you take?" The inquiry was accompanied with a look intimating that he mustn’t say fish, because there was not much left. Tibbs thought the frown referred to the island on the table-cloth; he therefore coolly replied, "Why—I’ll take a little—fish, I think." "Did you say fish, my dear?" (another frown.) "Yes, dear," replied the villain, with an expression of acute hunger depicted in his countenance. The tears almost started to Mrs. Tibbs’s eyes, as she helped her "wretch of a husband," as she inwardly called him, to the last eatable bit of salmon on the dish. "James, take this to your master, and take away your master’s knife." This was deliberate revenge, as Tibbs never could eat fish without one. He was, however, constrained to chase small particles of salmon round and round his plate with a piece of bread and a fork, occasionally securing a bit; the number of successful attempts being about one in seventeen. "Take away, James," said Mrs. Tibbs, as Tibbs swallowed the fourth mouthful—and away went the plates like lightning. "I’ll take a bit of bread, James," said the poor "master of the house," more hungry than ever. "Never mind your master now, James," said Mrs. Tibbs, "see about the meat." — This was conveyed in the tone in which ladies usually give admonitions to servants in company, that is to say, a low one; but which, like a stage whisper, from its peculiar emphasis, is most distinctly heard by everybody present. A pause ensued before the table was replenished—a sort of parenthesis in which Mr. Simpson, Mr. Calton, and Mr. Hicks produced respectively a bottle of sauterne, bucellas, and sherry, and took wine with everybody—except Tibbs: no one ever thought of him. Between the fish and an intimated sirloin there was a prolonged interval. Here was an opportunity for Mr. Hicks. He could not resist the singularly appropriate quotation: - "But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goats’ flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton, And when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on." "Very ungentlemanly behaviour," thought little Mrs. Tibbs, "to talk in that way." "Ah," said Mr. Calton, filling his glass. "Tom Moore is my poet." "And mine," said Mrs. Maplesone. "And mine," said Miss Julia. "And mine," added Mr. Simpson. "Look at his compositions," resumed the knocker. "To be sure," said Simpson, with confidence. "Look at Don Juan," replied Mr. Septimus Hicks. "Julia’s letter," suggested Miss Matilda. "Can anything be grander than The Fire Worshippers?" inquired Miss Julia. "To be sure," said Simpson. "Or Paradise and the Peri," said the old beau. "Yes; or Paradise and the Peer," repeated the deeply-read Simpson, who thought he was getting through it capitally. "It’s all very well," replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who, as we have before hinted, never had read anything but Don Juan. Where will you find anything finer than the description of the siege, at the commencement of the seventh canto?" "Talking of a siege," said Tibbs, with a mouthful of bread—"when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and six, our commanding officer was Sir Charles Rampart; and one day, when we were exercising on the ground on which the London University now stands, he says, says he, Tibbs (calling me from the ranks), Tibbs—" "Tell your master, James," interrupted Mrs. Tibbs, in an awfully distinct tone, "tell your master if he won’t carve those fowls, to send them to me." The discomfited volunteer instantly set to work, and carved the fowls almost as expeditiously as his wife operated on the haunch of mutton. Whether he ever finished that story is not exactly known. As the ice was now broken, and the new inmates more at home, every member of the company felt more at ease. Tibbs himself most certainly did, because he went to sleep immediately after dinner. Mr. Hicks and the ladies discoursed most eloquently about poetry, and the theatres, and Lord Chesterfield’s Letters; and Mr. Calton followed up what everybody said, with continuous double knocks. Mrs. Tibbs highly approved of every observation that fell from Mrs. Maplesone; and as Mr. Simpson sat with a smile upon his face and said "Yes," or "Certainly," at intervals of about four minutes each, he received full credit for understanding what was going forward. The gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing-room very shortly after they had left the dining-parlour. Mrs. Maplesone and Mr. Calton played cribbage, and the "young people" amused themselves with music and conversation. The Miss Maplesones sang the most fascinating duets, and accompanied themselves on guitars, ornamented with bits of ethereal blue ribbon. Mr. Simpson put on a pink waistcoat, and said he was in raptures; and Mr. Hicks felt in the seventh heaven of poetry or the seventh canto of Don Juan,—it was the same thing to him. Mrs. Tibbs was quite charmed with the new comers, and Mr. Tibbs spent the evening in his usual way—he went to sleep, and woke up, and went to sleep again, and woke at supper-time. We are not about to adopt the licence of novel-writers, and to let "years roll on;" but we will take the liberty of requesting the reader to suppose that six months have elapsed, since the dinner we have described, and that Mrs. Tibbs’s boarders have, during that period, sang, and danced, and gone to theatres and exhibitions together, as ladies and gentlemen, wherever they board, often do; and we will beg them, the period we have mentioned having elapsed, to imagine further, that Mr. Septimus Hicks received, in his own bed-room (a front attic), at an early hour one morning, a note from Mr. Calton, requesting the favour of seeing him, as soon as convenient to himself, in his (Calton’s) dressing-room on the second-floor back. "Tell Mr. Calton I’ll come down directly," said Mr. Septimus to the boy. "Stop—Is Mr. Calton unwell?" inquired this excited walker of hospitals, as he put on a bed-furniture-looking dressing-gown. "Not as I knows on, Sir," replied the boy. "Please, Sir, he looked rather rum, as it might be." "Ah, that’s no proof of his being ill," returned Hicks, unconsciously. "Very well: I’ll be down directly." Down stairs ran the boy with the message, and down went the excited Hicks himself, almost as soon as the message was delivered. "Tap, tap." "Come in."—Door opens, and discovers Mr. Calton sitting in an easy chair, and looking more like a knocker than ever. Mutual shakes of the hand exchanged, and Mr. Septimus Hicks motioned to a seat. A short pause. Mr. Hicks coughed, and Mr. Calton took a pinch of snuff. It was just one of those interviews where neither party knows what to say. Mr. Septimus Hicks broke silence. "I received a note—" he said, very tremulously, in a voice like a Punch with a cold. "Yes," returned the other, "you did." "Exactly." "Yes." Now, although this dialogue must have been satisfactory, both gentlemen felt there was something more important to be said; therefore they did as most men in such a situation would have done—they looked at the table with a most determined aspect. The conversation had been opened, however, and Mr. Calton had made up his mind to continue it with a regular double knock. He always spoke very pompously. "Hicks," said he, "I have sent for you in consequence of certain arrangements which are pending in this house, connected with a marriage." "With a marriage!" gasped Hicks, compared with whose expression of countenance, Hamlet’s, when he sees his father’s ghost, is pleasing and composed. "With a marriage!" returned the knocker. "I have sent for you to prove the great confidence I can repose in you." "And will you betray me?" eagerly inquired Hicks, who in his alarm had even forgotten to quote. I betray you! Won’t you betray me?" "Never: no one shall know, to my dying day, that you had a hand in the business," responded the agitated Hicks, with an inflamed countenance, and his hair standing on end as if he were on the stool of an electrifying machine in full operation. "People must know that, some time or other—within a year, I imagine," said Mr. Calton, with an air of great self-complacency. "We may have a family." "We!—That won’t affect you, surely?" "The devil it won’t!" "No! How can it?" said the bewildered Hicks. Calton was too much inwrapped in the contemplation of his happiness to see the equivoque between Hicks and himself; and threw himself back in his chair, "Oh, Matilda!" sighed the antique beau, in a lack-a-daysical voice, and applying his right hand a little to the left of the fourth button of his waistcoat, counting from the bottom. This was meant to be pathetic - "Oh, Matilda!" "What Matilda?" inquired Hicks, starting up. "Matilda Maplesone," responded the other, doing the same. "I marry her to-morrow morning," said Hicks, furiously. "It’s false," rejoined his companion: "I marry her!" "You marry her?" "I marry her!" "You marry Matilda Maplesone?" "Matilda Maplesone." "Miss Maplesone marry you?" "Miss Maplesone! No; Mrs. Maplesone." "Good Heaven!" said Hicks, falling into his chair like Ward in Gustavus: "You marry the mother, and I the daughter!" "Most extraordinary circumstance!" replied Mr. Calton, "and rather inconvenient too; for the fact is, that owing to Matilda’s wishing to keep her intention secret from her daughters until the ceremony had taken place, she doesn’t like applying to any of her friends to give her away. I entertain an objection to making the affair known to my acquaintance just now; and the consequence is, that I sent to you to know whether you’d oblige me by acting as father." "I should have been most happy, I assure you," said Hicks, in a tone of condolence; "but, you see, I shall be acting as bridegroom. One character is frequently a consequence of the other; but it is no usual to act in both at the same time. There’s Simpson—I have no doubt he’ll do it for you." "I don’t like to ask him," replied Calton, "he’s such a donkey." Mr. Septimus Hicks looked up at the ceiling and down at the floor; at last an idea struck him — "Let the man of the house, Tibbs, be the father," he suggested; and then he quoted, as peculiarly applicable to Tibbs and the pair - "Oh Powers of Heaven! what dark eyes meeets she there? 'Tis—’tis her father’s—fixed upon the pair." "The idea has struck me already," said Mr. Calton: "but, you see, Matilda, for what reason I know not, is very anxious that Mrs. Tibbs should know nothing about it, till it’s all over. It’s a natural delicacy, after all, you know." "He’s the best-natured little man in existence, if you manage him properly," said Mr. Septimus Hicks. "Tell him not to mention it to his wife, and assure him she won’t mind it, and he’ll do it directly. My marriage is to be a secret one, on account of the mother and my father; therefore he must be enjoined to secrecy." A small double knock, like a presumptuous single one, was that instant heard at the street door. It was Tibbs; it could be no one else; for no one else occupied five minutes in rubbing their shoes. He had been out to pay the baker’s bill. "Mr. Tibbs," called Mr. Calton in a very bland tone, looking over the banisters. "Sir!" replied he of the dirty face. "Will you have the kindness to step up-stairs for a moment." "Certainly, sir," said Tibbs, delighted to be taken notice of. The bed-room door was carefully closed, and Tibbs, having put his hat on the floor (as all timid men do), and been accommodated with a seat, looked as astounded as if he were suddenly summoned before the familiars of the Inquisition. "A rather unpleasant occurrence, Mr. Tibbs," said Calton, in a very portentous manner, "obliges me to consult you, and to beg you will not communicate what I am about to say to your wife." Tibbs acquiesced, wondering in his own mind what the deuce the other could have done, and imagining that at least he must have broken the best decanters. Mr. Calton resumed; "I am placed, Mr. Tibbs, in rather an unpleasant situation." Tibbs looked at Mr. Septimus Hicks, as if he thought his being in the immediate vicinity of his fellow-boarder constituted the unpleasantness of his situation; but as he did not exactly know what to say, he merely ejaculated the monosyllable "Lor!" "Now," continued the knocker, "let me beg you will exhibit no manifestations of surprise, which may be overheard by the domestics, when I tell you—command your feelings of astonishment—that two inmates of this house intend to be married to-morrow morning," — and he drew back his chair several feet to perceive the effect of the unlooked-for announcement. If Tibbs had rushed from the room, staggered down stairs, and fainted in the passage—if he had instantaneously jumped out of the window into the mews behind the house, in an agony of surprise —his behaviour would have been much less inexplicable to Mr. Calton than it was, when he put his hands into his inexpressible-pockets, and said, with a half-chuckle, "Just so." "You are not surprised, Mr. Tibbs?" inquired Mr. Calton. "Bless you, no, sir," returned Tibbs; "after all, it's very natural. When two young people get together, you know—" "Certainly, certainly," said Calton, with an indescribable air of self-satisfaction. "You don’t think it’s at all an out-of-the-way affair then?" asked Mr. Septimus Hicks, who had watched the countenance of Tibbs in mute astonishment. "No, Sir," replied Tibbs; "I was just the same at his age." He actually smiled when he said this. "How devilish well I must carry my years!" thought the delighted old beau, knowing he was at least ten years older than Tibbs at that moment. "Well, then, to come to the point at once," he continued, "I have to ask you whether you will object to act as father on the occasion?" "Certainly not," replied Tibbs; still without evincing an atom of surprise. ‘You will not?’ "Decidedly not," reiterated Tibbs, still as calm as a pot of porter with the head off. Mr. Calton seized the hand of the petticoat-governed little man, and vowed eternal friendship from that hour. Hicks, who was all admiration and surprise, did the same. "Now, confess," asked Mr. Calton of Tibbs, as he picked up his hat, "were you not a little surprised?" "I b’lieve you!" replied that illustrious person, holding up one hand; "I b’lieve you! when I first heard of it." "So sudden," said Septimus Hicks. "So strange to ask me, you know," said Tibbs. "So odd altogether," said the superannuated love-maker; and then all three laughed. "I say," said Tibbs, shutting the door which he had previously opened, and giving full vent to a hitherto corked-up giggle, "what bothers me is, what will his father say?" Mr. Septimus Hicks looked at Mr. Calton. "Yes; but the best of it is," said the latter, giggling in his turn, "I haven’t got a father—he! he! he!" "You haven’t got a father. No; but he has," said Tibbs. "Who has?" inquired Septimus Hicks. "Why, him." "Him, who? Do you know my secret? Do you mean me?" "You! No; you know who I mean," returned Tibbs, with a knowing wink. "For Heaven’s sake, whom do you mean?" inquired Mr. Calton, who, like Septimus Hicks, was all but out of his senses at the strange confusion. "Why Mr. Simpson, of course," replied Tibbs; "who else could I mean?" "I see it all," said the Byron-quoter; "Simpson marries Julia Maplesone to-morrow morning!" "Undoubtedly," replied Tibbs, thoroughly satisfied, "of course he does." It would require the pencil of Hogarth to illustrate—our feeble pen is inadequate to describe—the expression which the countenances of Mr. Calton and Mr. Septimus Hicks respectively assumed at this unexpected announcement. Equally impossible is it to describe, although perhaps it is easier for our lady readers to imagine, what arts the three ladies could have used, so completely to entangle their separate partners. Whatever they were, however, they were successful. The mother was perfectly aware of the intended marriage of both daughters; and the young ladies were equally acquainted with the intention of their estimable parent. They agreed, however, that it would have a much better appearance if each feigned ignorance of the other’s engagement; and it was equally desirable that all the marriages should take place on the same day, to prevent the discovery of one clandestine alliance, operating prejudicially on the others. Hence the mystification of Mr. Calton and Mr. Septimus Hicks, and the pre-engagement of the unwary Tibbs. On the following morning, Mr. Septimus Hicks was united to Miss Matilda Maplesone. Mr. Simpson also entered into a "holy alliance" with Miss Julia, Tibbs acting as father, "his first appearance in that character." Mr. Calton not being quite so eager as the two young men, was rather struck by the double discovery; and as he had found some difficulty in getting any one to give the lady away, it occurred to him that the best mode of obviating the inconvenience would be not to take her at all. The lady, however, "appealed," as her counsel said on the trial of the cause, Maplesone v. Calton, for a breach of promise, "with a broken heart, to the outraged laws of her country." She recovered damages to the amount of 1,000l. which the unfortunate knocker was compelled to pay, because he had declined to ring the belle. Mr. Septimus Hicks having walked the hospitals, took it into his head to walk off altogether. His injured wife is at present residing with her mother at Boulonge. Mr. Simpson, having the misfortune to lose his wife six weeks after marriage (by her eloping with an officer during his temporary sojourn in the Fleet Prison, in consequence of his inability to discharge her little mantua-maker’s bill), and being disinherited by his father, who died soon afterwards, was fortunate enough to obtain a permanent engagement at a fashionable hair-cutter’s; hair dressing being a science to which he had frequently directed his attention. In this situation he had necessarily many opportunities of making himself acquainted with the habits and style of thinking of the exclusive portion of the nobility of this kingdom. To this fortunate circumstance are we indebted for the production of those brilliant efforts of genius, his fashionable novels, which so long as good taste, unsullied exaggeration, cant, and maudlin quackery continues to exist, cannot fail to instruct and amuse the thinking portion of the community. It only remains to add, that this "complication of disorders" completely deprived poor Mrs. Tibbs of all her inmates, except the one whom it would have afforded her the greatest pleasure to lose —her husband. That wretched little man returned home on the day of the wedding in a state of partial intoxication; and, under the influence of wine, excitement, and despair, actually dared to brave the anger of his wife. Since that ill-fated hour he has constantly taken his meals in the kitchen, to which apartment it is understood his witticisms will be in future confined, a turn-up bedstead having been conveyed there by Mrs. Tibbs’s order for his exclusive accommodation. It is very likely that he will be enabled to finish there his story of the volunteers. The advertisement has again appeared in the morning papers. Whether it will be productive of any beneficial result, we of course are unable to foretell. If it should, we may, perhaps, at no distant period, return to Mrs. Tibbs and her "Boarding-House." https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/5/The_Boarding-House_[No.2]/1834-08-The_Boarding_House_No2.pdf fa47a61abd38c02acdcef68c4030d868 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. 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. Between 1833, when he tentatively submitted “A Dinner at Poplar Walk” for publication in The Monthly Magazine, 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 The Evening Chronicle, Bell’s Life in London, and Bentley's Miscellany 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. Global fame arrived with the serial publication of The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club (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 Sketches by Boz, 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 Sketches by Boz’ (44). Sketches of Young Gentlemen (1838), a joking response to Rev. Edward Caswell, or “QUIZ’s” recent effort Sketches of Young Ladies (1838), and Sketches of Couples (1840) were published by Chapman and Hall and illustrated by Hablot Knight Browne, better known as ‘PHIZ’. After this point, Dickens’s short stories were published in his periodicals Household Words and All the Year Round, 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 The Haunted House (1859). Notably, his collaboration with Wilkie Collins resulted in such works as The Perils of Certain English Prisoners (1857) and No Thoroughfare (1867). Towards the end of his life, Dickens began to publish short stories again in American publications such as The New York Ledger, The Atlantic Monthly, and Our Young Folks. 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 Sketches 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. Other anthologies, for instance Selected Short Fiction (Penguin, 2005), edited by Deborah A. Thomas, choose excerpts from Dickens’s entire oeuvre 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 Dickens and the Short Story. (University of Philadelphia Press, 1982) by Deborah A. Thomas and Charles Dickens and ‘Boz’: The Birth of the Industrial-Age Author (Cambridge, 2012) by Patten.1 To date, the most comprehensive overview of the sketches is provided by The Oxford Edition of Charles Dickens’s Sketches by Boz (2021) edited by Paul Schlicke with David Hewitt. Others include Dickens's Uncollected Magazine and Newspaper Sketches as Originally Composed and Published 1833–1836 (2012), edited by Robert C. Hanna, and Sketches by Boz and Other Early Papers (1994), edited by Michael Slater. 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 Dickens Search 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. While building this collection, we have consulted, and transcribed scans found on databases such as British Newspaper Archive (BNA), digital archives, and such open-access sites as Hathi Trust, Internet Archive, and Google Books; all items are linked to their original location on the internet. Please contact us with any errors, corrections, and suggestions, or to mention other short stories by Dickens that might have been overlooked. 1. See Dominic Rainsford. ‘“Luller-li-e-te”! Language, Personhood, and Sympathy in Sketches by Boz.’ In Some Keywords in Dickens. Edited by Michael Hollington, Francesca Orestano, and Nathalie Vanfasse. Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2021, pp. 117-130; William F. Long. ‘“Our Space is Limited”: Fitting Sketches by Boz into the Morning Chronicle”. Dickens Quarterly 4 (December 2020): pp. 325-348; William F. Long. 'Dickens before Sketches by Boz: Earliest Reactions to his Earliest Works'. Dickensian (2018), 114.505, pp.170-176; Christina Jen. '"Drop the Curtain": Astonishment and the Anxieties of Authorship in Charles Dickens's Sketches by Boz. Dickens Studies Annual 49.2 (2018): pp. 249-278; Dianne F. Sadoff. ‘Boz and Beyond: “Oliver Twist” and the Dickens Legacy’. Dickens Studies Annual 45 (2014): pp. 23-44; Dickens's Uncollected Magazine and Newspaper Sketches, as Originally Composed and Published, 1833–1836, No. 46. Ed. Robert C. Hanna (2012): New York, AMS Press; Danielle Coriale. ‘Sketches by Boz, “So Frail a Machine”. SEL: Studies in English Literature 48.4 (2008): pp. 801-812; Paul Schlicke. ‘“Risen Like a Rocket”: The Impact of Sketches by Boz’. Dickens Quarterly 22.1 (2005): pp. 3-18; Ellen Miller Casey. ‘“Boz has got the Town by the ear”: Dickens and the “Athenæum Critics”’. Dickens Studies Annual 33 (2003): pp. 159-190; Richard Maxwell. ‘Dickens, the Two “Chronicles”, and the Publication of “Sketches by Boz”’. Dickens Studies Annual 9 (1981): pp. 21–32; Angus Easson. “Who is Boz? Dickens and His Sketches”. The Dickensian 18.1.405 (Spring 1985): pp. 13-22; Julian W. Breslow. 'The Narrator in Sketches by Boz.' ELH 44.1 (1977): pp. 127–49. Short Story Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Periodical 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. 18340801 Pseudonym The name under which the item was published BOZ 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   (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. "Well," said little Mrs. Tibbs to herself, as she sat in the front parlour of the Coram-street mansion one morning, mending a piece of stair-carpet off the first landing;—"well! things have not turned out so badly either, and if I only get a favourable answer to the advertisement, we shall be full again." Mrs. Tibbs resumed her occupation of making worsted lattice-work in the carpet, anxiously listening to the twopenny postman, who was hammering his way down the street at the rate of a penny a knock. The house was as quiet as possible. There was only one low sound to be heard—it was the unhappy Tibbs cleaning the gentlemen’s boots in the back kitchen, and accompanying himself with a buzzing noise, in wretched mockery of humming a tune. The postman drew near the house. He paused—so did Mrs. Tibbs—a knock—a bustle—a letter—post-paid. "T. I. presents compt. to I. T. and T. I. begs To say that i see the advertisement And she will Do Herself the pleasure of calling On you at 12 o’clock to-morrow morning. "T. I. as To apoligise to I. T. for the shortness Of the notice But i hope it will not unconvenience you. "I remain "yours Truly "Wednesday evening." Little Mrs. Tibbs perused the document over and over again; and the more she read it, the more was she confused by the mixture of the first and third person; the substitution of the "I" for the "T. I," and the transition from the "I. T." to the you." The writing looked like a skein of thread in a tangle, and the note was ingeniously folded into a perfect square, with the direction squeezed up into the right-hand corner, as if it were ashamed of itself. The back of the epistle was pleasingly ornamented with a large red wafer, which, with the addition of divers ink-stains, bore a marvellous resemblance to a black-beetle trodden upon. One thing, however, was perfectly clear to the perplexed Mrs. Tibbs. Somebody was to call at twelve. The drawing-room was forthwith dusted for the third time that morning; three or four chairs were pulled out of their places, and a corresponding number of books carefully upset, in order that there might be a due absence of formality. Down went the piece of stair-carpet before noticed, and up ran Mrs. Tibbs "to make herself tidy." The clock of New Saint Pancras Church struck twelve, and the Foundling, with laudable politeness, did the same ten minutes afterwards. Saint something else struck the quarter, and then there arrived a single lady with a double knock, in a pelisse the colour of the interior of a damson pie; a bonnet of the same, with a regular conservatory of artificial flowers; a white veil, and a green parasol, with a cobweb border. The visitor (who was very fat and red-faced) was shown into the drawing-room; Mrs. Tibbs presented herself, and the negociation commenced. "I called in consequence of an advertizement," said the stranger, in a voice like a man who had been playing a set of Pan’s pipes for a fortnight without leaving off. "Yes!" said Mrs. Tibbs, rubbing her hands very slowly, and looking the applicant full in the face—two things she always did on such occasions. "Money isn’t no object whatever to me," said the lady, "so much as living in a state of retirement and obtrusion." Mrs. Tibbs, as a matter of course, acquiesced in such an exceedingly natural desire. "I am constantly attended by a medical man," resumed the pelisse wearer; "have been a shocking unitarian for some time—have had very little peace since the death of Mr. Bloss." Mrs. Tibbs looked at the relict of the departed Bloss, and thought he must have had very little peace in his time. Of course she could not say so; so she looked very sympathising. "I shall be a good deal of trouble to you," said Mrs. Bloss; "but, for that trouble I am willing to pay. I am going through a course of treatment which renders attention necessary. I have one mutton chop in bed at half-past eight, and another at ten, every morning." Mrs. Tibbs, as in duty bound, expressed the pity she felt for any body placed in such a distressing situation; and the carnivorous Mrs. Bloss proceeded to arrange the various preliminaries with wonderful despatch. "Now mind," said that lady, after terms were arranged; "I am to have the second-floor front for my bedroom?" "Yes, ma’am." "And you’ll find room for my little servant Agnes?" "Oh! certainly." "And I can have one of the cellars in the area for my bottled porter." "With the greatest pleasure;—James shall get it ready for you by Saturday." "And I’ll join the company at the breakfast-table on Sunday morning," said Mrs. Bloss. "I shall get up on purpose." "Very well," returned Mrs. Tibbs, in her most amiable tone; for satisfactory references had "been given and required," and it was quite certain that the new comer had plenty of money. "It’s rather singular," continued Mrs. Tibbs, with what was meant for a most bewitching smile, "that we have a gentleman now with us, who is in a very delicate state of health—a Mr. Gobler.—His apartment is the back drawing-room." "The next room?" inquired Mrs. Bloss. "The next room," repeated the hostess. "How very promiscuous!" ejaculated the widow. "He hardly ever gets up," said Mrs. Tibbs in a whisper. "Lor!" cried Mrs. Bloss, in an equally low tone. "And when he is up," said Mrs. Tibbs, "we never can persuade him to go to bed again." "Dear me!" said the astonished Mrs. Bloss, drawing her chair nearer Mrs. Tibbs. "What is his complaint?" "Why, the fact is," replied Mrs. Tibbs, with a most communicative air, "he has no stomach whatever." "No what?" inquired Mrs. Bloss, with a look of the most indescribable alarm. "No stomach," repeated Mrs. Tibbs, with a shake of the head. "Lord bless us! what an extraordinary case!" gasped Mrs. Bloss, as if she understood the communication in its literal sense, and was astonished at a gentleman without a stomach finding it necessary to board anywhere. "When I say he has no stomach," explained the chatty little Mrs. Tibbs, "I mean that his digestion is so much impaired, and his interior so deranged, that his stomach is not of the least use to him;—in fact, it’s rather an inconvenience than otherwise." "Never heard such a case in my life!" exclaimed Mrs. Bloss. "Why, he’s worse than I am." "Oh, yes!" replied Mrs. Tibbs;—"certainly." She said this with great confidence, for the set of the damson pelisse satisfactorily proved that Mrs. Bloss, at all events, was not suffering under Mr. Gobler’s complaint. "You have quite incited my curiosity," said Mrs. Bloss, as she rose to depart. "How I long to see him!" "He generally comes down once a week," replied Mrs. Tibbs; "I dare say you’ll see him on Sunday." And with this consolatory promise Mrs. Bloss was obliged to be contented. She accordingly walked slowly down the stairs, detailing her complaints all the way; and Mrs. Tibbs followed her, uttering an exclamation of compassion at every step. James (who looked very gritty, for he was cleaning the knives) fell up the kitchen-stairs, and opened the street-door; and, after mutual farewells, Mrs. Bloss slowly departed down the shady side of the street. It is almost superfluous to say, that the lady whom we have just shown out at the street-door (and whom the two female servants are now inspecting from the second-floor windows) was exceedingly vulgar, ignorant, and selfish. Her deceased better-half had been an eminent cork-cutter, in which capacity he had amassed a decent fortune. He had no relative but his nephew, and no friend but his cook. The former had the insolence one morning to ask for the loan of fifteen pounds, and by way of retaliation he married the latter next day; he made a will immediately afterwards, containing a burst of honest indignation against his nephew (who supported himself and two sisters on 100l a year), and a bequest of his whole property to his wife. He felt ill after breakfast, and died after dinner. There is a mantelpiece-looking tablet in a civic parish church, setting forth his virtues, and deploring his loss. He never dishonoured a bill, or gave away a halfpenny! The relict and sole executrix of this noble-minded man was an odd mixture of shrewdness and simplicity, liberality and meanness. Bred up as she had been, she knew no mode of living so agreeable as a boarding-house; and having nothing to do, and nothing to wish for, she naturally imagined she must be very ill—an impression which was most assiduously promoted by her medical attendant, Dr. Wosky, and her handmaid, Agnes, both of whom, doubtless for excellent reasons, encouraged all her extravagant notions. Since the catastrophe recorded in our last, Mrs. Tibbs had been very shy of young lady boarders. Her present inmates were all lords of the creation, and she availed herself of the opportunity of their assemblage at the dinner table, to announce the expected arrival of Mrs. Bloss. The gentlemen received the communication with stoical indifference, and Mrs. Tibbs devoted all her energies to prepare for the reception of the valetudinarian. The second-floor front was scrubbed, and washed, and flannelled, till the wet went through to the drawing-room ceiling. Clean white counterpanes, and curtains, and napkins; water-bottles as clear as crystal, blue jugs, and mahogany furniture, added to the splendour and increased the comfort of the apartment. The warming-pan was in constant requisition, and a fire lighted in the room every day. The chattels of Mrs. Bloss were forwarded by instalments. First there came a large hamper of Guinness’s stout and an umbrella; then a train of trunks; then a pair of clogs and a bandbox; then an easy chair with an air cushion; then a variety of suspicious-looking packages; and—"though last not least"—Mrs. Bloss and Agnes, the latter in a cherry-coloured merino dress, open-work stockings, and shoes with sandals; looking like a disguised Columbine. The installation of the Duke of Wellington, as Chancellor of the University of Oxford, was nothing in point of bustle and turmoil to the installation of Mrs. Bloss in her new quarters. True, there was no bright doctor of civil law to deliver a classical address on the occasion; but there were several other old women present, who spoke quite as much to the purpose, and understood themselves equally well. The chop-eater was so fatigued with the process of removal that she declined leaving her room until the following morning; so a mutton-chop, pickle, a two-grain calomel pill, a pint-bottle of stout, and other medicines, were carried up stairs for her consumption. "Why, what do you think, ma’am?" inquired the inquisitive Agnes of her mistress, after they had been in the house some three hours; "what do you think, ma’am? the lady of the house is married." "Married!" said Mrs. Bloss, taking the pill and a draught of Guinness—"married! Unpossible!" "She is indeed, ma’am," returned the Columbine; "and her husband, ma’am, lives—he—he—he—lives in the kitchen, ma’am." "In the kitchen!" "Yes, ma’am: and he—he—he—the housemaid says, he never goes into the parlour except on Sundays; and that Ms. Tibbs makes him clean the gentlemen’s boots; and that he cleans the windows, too, sometimes; and that one morning early, when he was in the front balcony cleaning the drawing-room windows, he called out to a gentleman on the opposite side of the way, who used to live here—'Ah! Mr. Calton, Sir, how are you?'" Here the attendant laughed till Mrs. Bloss was in serious apprehension of her chuckling herself into a fit. "Well, I never!" said Mrs. Bloss. "Yes, and please, ma’am, the servants give him gin-and-water sometimes; and then he cries, and says he hates his wife and the boarders, and wants to tickle them." "Tickle the boarders!" exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, seriously alarmed. "No, ma’am, not the boarders, the servants." "Oh, is that all!" said Mrs. Bloss, quite satisfied. "He wanted to kiss me as I came up the kitchen-stairs, just now," said Agnes, indignantly; "but I gave it him—a little wretch!" This intelligence was but too true. A long course of snubbing and neglect; his days spent in the kitchen, and his nights in the turn-up bedstead; had completely broken the little spirit that the unfortunate volunteer had ever possessed. He had no one to whom he could detail his injuries but the servants, and they were almost of necessity his chosen confidants. It is no less strange than true, however, that the little weaknesses which he had incurred, most probably, during his military career, seemed to increase as his comforts diminished. He was actually a sort of journeyman Giovanni in the basement story. The next morning, being Sunday, breakfast was laid in the front parlour at ten o’clock. Nine was the usual time, but the family always breakfasted an hour later on Sabbath. Tibbs enrobed himself in his Sunday costume—a black coat, and exceedingly short thin trowsers, with a very large white waistcoat, white stockings and cravat, and Blucher boots—and mounted to the parlour aforesaid. Nobody had come down, and he amused himself by drinking the contents of the milk-pot with a tea-spoon. A pair of slippers were heard descending the stairs; Tibbs flew to a chair, and a stern-looking man of about fifty, with very little hair on his head, and "The Examiner" in his hand, entered the room. "Good morning, Mr. Evenson," said Tibbs, very humbly, with something between a nod and a bow. "How do you do, Mr. Tibbs?" replied he of the slippers, as he sat himself down, and began to read his paper without saying another word. "Is Mr. Wisbottle in town to-day do you know, Sir?" inquired Tibbs, just for the sake of saying something. "I should think he was," replied the stern gentleman. "He was whistling 'The Light Guitar,' in the next room to mine, at five o’clock this morning." "He’s very fond of whistling," said Tibbs, with a slight smirk. "Yes—I an’t," was the laconic reply. Mr. John Evenson was in the receipt of an independent income, arising chiefly from various houses he owned in the different suburbs. He was very morose and discontented. He was a thorough radical, and used to attend a great variety of public meetings for the express purpose of finding fault with everything that was proposed. Mr. Wisbottle, on the other hand, was a high Tory. He was a clerk in the Woods and Forests office, which he considered rather an aristocratic employment; he knew the peerage by heart, and could tell you off-hand where any illustrious personage lived. He had a good set of teeth, and a capital tailor. Mr. Evenson looked on all these qualifications with profound contempt; and the consequence was that the two were always disputing, much to the edification of the rest of the house. It should be added, that, in addition to his partiality for whistling, Mr. Wisbottle had a great idea of his singing powers. There were two other boarders, besides the gentleman in the back drawing-room—Mr. Alfred Tomkins, and Mr. Frederick O’Bleary. Mr. Tomkins was a clerk in a wine-house; he was a connoisseur in paintings, and had a wonderful eye for the picturesque. Mr. O’Bleary was an Irishman, recently imported; he was in a perfectly wild state, and had come over to England to be an apothecary, a clerk in a government office, an actor, a reporter, or anything else that turned up—he was not particular. He was on familiar terms with two small Irish members, and got franks for everybody in the house. Like all Irishmen when they first come to England, he felt convinced that his intrinsic merits must procure him a high destiny. He wore shepherds'-plaid inexpressibles, and used to look under all the ladies’ bonnets as he walked along the streets. His manners and appearance always forcibly reminded one of Orson. "Here comes Mr. Wisbottle," said Tibbs; and Mr. Wisbottle forthwith appeared in blue slippers, and a shawl dressing-gown, whistling "Di piacer." "Good morning, Sir," said Tibbs again. It was about the only thing he ever said to any body. "How are you, Tibbs?" condescendingly replied the amateur; and he walked to the window, and whistled louder than ever. "Pretty air, that!" said Evenson with a snarl, and without taking his eyes off the paper. "Glad you like it," replied Wisbottle, highly gratified. "Don’t you think it would sound better, if you whistled it a little louder?" inquired the mastiff. "No; I don’t think it would," rejoined the unconscious Wisbottle. "I’ll tell you what, Wisbottle," said Evenson, who had been bottling up his anger for some hours,"the next time you feel disposed to whistle 'The Light Guitar,' at five o’clock in the morning, I’ll trouble you to whistle it with your head out o’ window. If you don’t, I’ll learn the triangle—I will, by—." The entrance of Mrs. Tibbs (with the keys in a little basket) interrupted the threat, and prevented its conclusion. Mrs. Tibbs apologized for being down rather late; the bell was rung; James brought up the urn, and received an unlimited order for dry toast and bacon. Tibbs sat down at the bottom of the table and began eating water-cresses like a Nebuchadnezzar. Mr. O’Bleary appeared and Mr. Alfred Tomkins. The compliments of the morning were exchanged, and the tea was made. "God bless me," exclaimed Tomkins, who had been looking out at window. "Here—Wisbottle—pray come here; make haste." Mr. Wisbottle started from table, and every one looked up. "Do you see," said the connoisseur, placing Wisbottle in the right position—"a little more this way: there—do you see how splendidly the light falls upon the left side of that broken chimney-pot at No. 48?" "Dear me—I see," replied Wisbottle, in a tone of admiration. "I never saw an object stand out so beautifully against the clear sky in my life," ejaculated Alfred. Every body (except John Evenson) echoed the sentiment, for Mr. Tomkins had a great character for finding out beauties which no one else could discover—he certainly deserved it. "I have frequently observed a chimney-pot in College-green, Dublin, which has a much better effect," said the patriotic O’Bleary, who never allowed Ireland to be outdone on any point. The assertion was received with obvious incredulity, for Mr. Tomkins declared that no other chimney-pot in the United Kingdom, broken or unbroken, could be so beautiful as the one at No. 48. The room door was suddenly thrown open, and Agnes appeared leading in Mrs. Bloss, who was dressed in a geranium-coloured muslin gown, and displayed a gold watch of the dimensions of a breakfast-cup; a chain like a gilt street-door chain, and a splendid assortment of rings, with stones about the size of half-crowns. A general rush was made for a chair, and a regular introduction took place. Mr. John Evenson made a slight inclination of the head: Mr. Frederick O’Bleary, Mr. Alfred Tomkins, and Mr. Wisbottle bowed like the mandarins in a grocer’s shop; and Tibbs rubbed his hands, and went round in circles. He was observed to close one eye, and to assume a clock-work sort of expression with the other; this has been considered as a wink, and it has been reported that Agnes was its object. We repel the calumny, and challenge contradiction. Mrs. Tibbs inquired after Mrs. Bloss’s health in a low tone. Mrs. Bloss, with a supreme contempt for the memory of Lindley Murray, answered the various questions in a most satisfactory manner; and a pause ensued, during which the eatables disappeared with awful rapidity. "You must have been very much pleased with the appearance of the ladies going to the drawing-room the other day, Mr. O’Bleary?" said Mrs. Tibbs, hoping to start a topic. "Yes;" replied Orson, with a mouthful of toast. "Never saw any thing like it before, I suppose?" suggested Wisbottle. "No—except the Lord Lieutenant’s levees," replied O’Bleary. "Are they at all equal to our drawing-rooms?" "Oh, infinitely superior." "Gad I don’t know," said the aristocratic Wisbottle, "the Dowager Marchioness of Publiccash was most magnificently dressed, and so was the Baron Slappenbachenhausen." "What was he presented on?" inquired Evenson. "On his arrival in England." "I thought so," growled the radical; "you never hear of these fellows being presented on their going away again. They know better than that." "Unless somebody pervades them with an apintment," said Mrs. Bloss, joining in the conversation in a faint voice. "Well," said Wisbottle, evading the point, "it’s a splendid sight." "And did it never occur to you," inquired the radical, who never would be quiet, —"did it never occur to you, that you pay for these precious ornaments of society." "It certainly has occurred to me," said Wisbottle, who thought this answer was a poser;" it has occurred to me, and I am willing to pay for them." "Well, and it has occurred to me too," replied John Evenson, "and I an’t willing to pay for ’em. Then why should I?—I say, why should I?" continued the politician, laying down the paper, and knocking his knuckles on the table. "There are two great principles—demand—" "A cup of tea if you please, dear," interrupted Tibbs. "And supply—" "May I trouble you to hand this tea to Mr. Tibbs?" said Mrs. Tibbs, interrupting the argument, and unconsciously illustrating it. The thread of the orator’s discourse was broken. He drank his tea and resumed the paper. "If it’s very fine," said Mr. Alfred Tomkins, addressing the company in general, "I shall ride down to Richmond to-day, and come back by the steamer. There are some splendid effects of light and shade on the Thames; the contrast between the blueness of the sky and the yellow water is frequently exceedingly beautiful." Mr. Wisbottle hummed, "Flow on, thy shining river." "We have some splendid steam-vessels in Ireland," said O’Bleary. "Certainly," said Mrs. Bloss, delighted to find a subject broached in which she could take part. "The accommodations are extraordinary," said O’Bleary. "Extraordinary indeed," returned Mrs. Bloss. "When Mr. Bloss was alive, he was promiscuously obligated to go to Ireland on business. I went with him, and raly the manner in which the ladies and gentlemen were accommodated with births, is not creditable." Tibbs, who had been listening to the dialogue, looked very aghast, and evinced a strong inclination to ask a question, but was checked by a look from his wife. Mr. Wisbottle laughed, and said Tomkins had made a pun; and Tomkins laughed too, and said he hadn't. The remainder of the meal passed off as breakfasts usually do. Conversation flagged, and people played with their tea-spoons. The gentlemen looked out at the window; walked about the room, and when they got near the door, dropped off one by one. Tibbs retired to the back parlour by his wife’s orders, to check the green-grocer’s weekly account; and ultimately Mrs. Tibbs and Mrs. Bloss were left alone together. "Oh dear," said the latter, "I feel alarmingly faint; it’s very singular." (It certainly was, for she had eaten four pounds of solids that morning.) "By-the-bye," said Mrs. Bloss, "I have not seen Mr. what’s-his-name yet." "Mr. Gobler?" suggested Mrs. Tibbs. "Yes." "Oh!" said Mrs. Tibbs, "he is a most mysterious person. He has his meals regularly sent up stairs, and sometimes don’t leave his room for weeks together." "I haven’t seen or heard nothing of him," repeated Mrs. Bloss. "I dare say you’ll hear him to-night," replied Mrs. Tibbs; "he generally groans a good deal on Sunday evenings." "I never felt such an interest in any one in my life," ejaculated Mrs. Bloss. A finicking double-knock interrupted the conversation; Doctor Wosky was announced, and duly shown in. He was a little man with a red face, dressed of course in black, with a stiff white neckerchief. He had a very good practice, and plenty of money, which he had amassed by invariably humouring the worst fancies of all the females of all the families he had ever been introduced into. Mrs. Tibbs offered to retire, but was entreated to stay. "Well, my dear ma’am, and how are we?" inquired Wosky in a soothing tone. "Very ill, doctor—very ill," said Mrs. Bloss, in a whisper. "Ah! we must take care of ourselves;—we must, indeed," said the obsequious Wosky, as he felt the pulse of his interesting patient. "How is our appetite?" Mrs. Bloss shook her head. "Our friend requires great care," said Wosky, appealing to Mrs. Tibbs, who of course assented. "I hope, however, with the blessing of Providence, that we shall be enabled to make her quite stout again." Mrs. Tibbs wondered in her own mind what the patient would be when she had got quite stout; for she looked like a pincushion on eastors already. "We must take stimulants," said the cunning Wosky—"plenty of nourishment, and, above all, we must keep our nerves quiet; we positively must not give way to our sensibilities. We must take all we can get," concluded the Doctor as he pocketed his fee, "and we must keep quiet." "Dear man!" exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, as the Doctor stepped into the carriage. "Charming creature indeed—quite a lady’s man!" said Mrs. Tibbs; and Dr. Wosky rattled away to make fresh gulls of delicate females, and pocket fresh fees. As we had occasion in a former paper to describe a dinner at Mrs. Tibbs’s, and as one meal went off very like another on all ordinary occasions, we will not fatigue our readers by entering into any other detailed account of the domestic economy of the establishment. We will, therefore, proceed to events, merely premising that the mysterious tenant of the back drawing-room was a lazy, selfish hypochondriac; always complaining and never ill. As his character in many respects closely assimilated to that of Mrs. Bloss, a very warm friendship soon sprung up between them. He was tall, thin, and pale; he always fancied he had got a severe pain somewhere or other, and his face invariably wore a pinched, screwed-up expression; he looked like a man who had got his feet in a tub of exceedingly hot water against his will. For two or three months after Mrs. Bloss’s first appearance in Coram-street, John Evenson was observed to become every day more sarcastic and more ill-natured, and there was a degree of additional importance in his manner, which clearly showed that he fancied he had discovered something, which he only wanted a proper opportunity of divulging. He found it at last. One evening, the different inmates of the house were assembled in the drawing-room engaged in their ordinary occupations. Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss were sitting at a small card-table near the centre window, playing cribbage; Mr. Wisbottle was describing semi-circles on the music-stool, turning over the leaves of a book on the piano, and humming most melodiously; Alfred Tomkins was sitting at the round table, with his elbows duly squared, making a pencil sketch of a head considerably larger than his own; O’Bleary was reading Horace, and trying to look as if he understood it; and John Evenson had drawn his chair close to Mrs. Tibbs’s work-table, and was talking to her very earnestly in a low tone. "I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs," said the radical, laying his forefinger on the muslin she was at work on; "I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs, that nothing but the interest I take in your welfare would induce me to make this communication. I repeat that I fear Wisbottle is endeavouring to gain the affections of that young woman Agnes, and that he is in the habit of meeting her in the store-room on the first floor, over the leads. From my bed-room I distinctly heard voices there last night. I opened my door immediately, and crept very softly on to the landing; there I saw Mr. Tibbs, who, it seems, had been disturbed also.—Bless me, Mrs. Tibbs, you change colour." "No, no—it’s nothing," returned Mrs. T. in a hurried manner; "it’s only the heat of the room." "A flush!" ejaculated Mrs. Bloss from the card-table; "that’s good for four." "If I thought it was Mr. Wisbottle," said Mrs. Tibbs, after a pause, "he should leave this house instantly." "Go!" said Mrs. Bloss again. "And if I thought," continued the hostess with a most threatening air, "if I thought he was assisted by Mr. Tibbs—" "One for his nob!" said Gobler. "Oh," said Evenson, in a most soothing tone;—he liked to make mischief—"I should hope Mr. Tibbs was not in any way implicated. He always appeared to me very harmless." "I have generally found him so," sobbed poor little Mrs. Tibbs; crying like a watering-pot in full play. "Hush! hush! pray—Mrs. Tibbs,—consider;—we shall be observed—pray, don’t!" said John Evenson, fearing his whole plan would be interrupted. "We will set the matter at rest with the utmost care, and I shall be most happy to assist you in doing so." Mrs. Tibbs murmured her thanks. "When you think every one has retired to rest to-night," said Evenson very pompously, "if you’ll meet me without a light, just outside my bed-room door, by the staircase window, I think we can ascertain who the parties really are, and you will afterwards be enabled to proceed as you think proper." Mrs. Tibbs was easily persuaded; her curiosity was excited, her jealousy was roused, and the arrangement was forthwith made. She resumed her work, and John Evenson walked up and down the room with his hands in his pockets, looking as if nothing had happened. The game of cribbage was over, and conversation began again. "Well, Mr. O’Bleary," said the humming-top, turning round on his pivot, and facing the company, "what did you think of Vauxhall the other night?" "Oh, it’s very fair," replied Orson, who had been euthusiastically lelighted with the whole exhibition. "Never saw anything like that Captain Ross’s set-out—eh?" "No," returned the patriot with his usual reservation—"except in Dublin." "I saw the Count de Canky and Captain Fitzthompson in the Gardens," said Wisbottle; "they appeared much delighted." "Then it must be beautiful!" snarled Evenson. "I think the white bears is partickerlerly well done, suggested Mrs. Bloss. "In their shaggy white coats they look just like Polar bears—don’t you think they do, Mr. Evenson?" "I think they look a great deal more like omnibus cads on all fours," replied the discontented one. "Upon the whole, I should have liked our evening very well," gasped Gobler; "only I caught a desperate cold which increased my pain dreadfully; I was obliged to have several shower baths, before I could leave my room." "Capital things those shower-baths!" ejaculated Wisbottle. "Excellent!" said Tomkins. "Delightful!" chimed in O’Bleary. (He had once seen one, outside a tinman’s.) "Disgusting machines!" rejoined Evenson, who extended his dislike to almost every created object, masculine, feminine, or neuter. "Disgusting, Mr. Evenson!" said Gobler, in a tone of strong indignation.—"Disgusting! Look at their utility—consider how many lives they've saved by promoting perspiration." "Promoting perspiration, indeed," growled John Evenson, stopping short in his walk across the large squares in the pattern of the carpet—"I was ass enough to be persuaded some time ago to have one in my bedroom. 'Gad, I was in it once, and it effectually cured me, for the mere sight of it threw me into a profuse perspiration for six months afterwards." A titter followed this announcement, and before it had subsided, James brought up "the tray," containing the remains of a leg of lamb which had made its début at dinner; bread, cheese; an atom of butter in a forest of parsley, one pickled walnut and the third of another, and so forth. The boy disappeared, and returned again with another tray, containing glasses and jugs of hot and cold water. The gentlemen brought in their spirit-bottles; the housemaid placed divers plated bedroom candlesticks under the card-table, and the servants retired for the night. Chairs were drawn round the table, and the conversation proceeded in the customary manner. John Evenson, who never eat supper, lolled on the sofa, and amused himself by contradicting everybody. O’Bleary eat as much as he could conveniently carry, and Mrs. Tibbs felt a due degree of indignation thereat; Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss conversed most affectionately on the subject of pill-taking and other innocent amusements; and Tomkins and Wisbottle "got into an argument;" that is to say, they both talked very loudly and vehemently, each flattering himself that he had got some advantage about something, and neither of them having more than a very indistinct idea of what they were talking about. An hour or two passed away; and the boarders and the plated candlesticks retired in pairs to their respective bed-rooms. John Evenson pulled off his boots, locked his door, and determined to sit up until Mr. Gobler had retired. He always sat in the drawing-room an hour after everybody else had left it, taking medicine, and groaning. Great Coram-street was hushed into a state of profound repose: it was nearly two o’clock. A hackney-coach now and then rumbled slowly by; and occasionally some stray lawyer’s clerk on his way home to Somers Town struck his iron heel on the top of the coal-cellar with a noise resembling the click of a smoke-Jack. A low, monotonous, gushing sound was heard, which added considerably to the romantic dreariness of the scene. It was the water "coming in" at No.11. "He must be asleep by this time," said John Evenson to himself, after waiting with exemplary patience for nearly an hour after Mr. Gobler had left the drawing-room. He listened for a few moments; the house was perfectly quiet; he extinguished his rushlight, and opened his bed-room door. The staircase was so dark that it was impossible to see anything. "S-s-fit!" whispered the mischief-maker, making a noise like the first indication a catherine-wheel gives of the probability of its going off. "Hush!" whispered somebody else. "Is that you, Mrs. Tibbs?" "Yes, Sir." "Where?" "Here;" and the misty outline of Mrs. Tibbs appeared at the staircase-window, like the ghost of Queen Anne in the tent-scene in Richard. "This way, Mrs. Tibbs;" whispered the delighted busybody: "give me your hand—there. Whoever these people are, they are in the store-room now, for I have been looking down from my window, and I could see that they accidentally upset their candlestick, and are now in darkness. You have no shoes on, have you?" "No," said little Mrs. Tibbs, who could hardly speak for trembling. "Well; I have taken my boots off, so we can go down, close to the store-room door, and listen over the banisters," continued Evenson; and down stairs they both crept accordingly, every board creaking like a patent mangle on a Saturday afternoon. "It’s Wisbottle and somebody I’ll swear," exclaimed the radical in an energetic whisper, when they had listened for a few moments. "Hush—pray let’s hear what they say," exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, the gratification of whose curiosity was now paramount to every other consideration. "Ah! if I could but believe you," said a female voice coquettishly, "I’d be bound to settle my missis for life." "What does she say?" inquired Mr. Evenson, who was not quite so well situated as his companion. "She says she’ll settle her missis’s life," replied Mrs. Tibbs. "The wretch! they’re plotting murder." "I know you want money," continued the voice, which belonged to Agnes; "and if you’d secure me the five hundred pound, I warrant she should take fire soon enough." "What’s that?" inquired Evenson again. He could just hear enough to want to hear more. "I think she says she’ll set the house on fire," replied the affrighted Mrs. Tibbs. "Thank God I’m insured in the Phoenix!" "The moment I have secured your mistress, my dear," said a man’s voice in a strong Irish brogue, "you may depend on having the money." "Bless my soul, it’s Mr. O’Bleary!" exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs in a parenthesis. "The villain!" said the indignant Mr. Evenson. "The first thing to be done," continued the Hibernian, "is to poison Mr. Gobler’s mind." "Oh, certainly!" returned Agnes, with the utmost coolness. "What’s that?" inquired Evenson again, in an agony of curiosity and a whisper. "He says she’s to mind and poison Mr. Gobler," replied Mrs. Tibbs, aghast at this sacrifice of human life. "And in regard of Mrs. Tibbs," continued O’Bleary.—Mrs. Tibbs shuddered. "Hush!" exclaimed Agnes, in a tone of the greatest alarm, just as Mrs. Tibbs was on the extreme verge of a fainting fit. "Hush!" "Hush!" exclaimed Evenson, at the same moment to Mrs. Tibbs. "There’s somebody coming up stairs," said Agnes to O’Bleary. "There’s somebody coming down stairs," whispered Evenson to Mrs. Tibbs. "Go into the parlour, Sir," said Agnes to her companion. "You will get there, before whoever it is gets to the top of the kitchen stairs." "The drawing-room, Mrs. Tibbs!" whispered the astonished Evenson to his equally astonished companion; and for the drawing-room they both made, plainly hearing the rustling of two persons coming down stairs, and one coming up. "What can it be?" exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs. "It’s like a dream. I wouldn’t be found in this situation for the world!" "Nor I," returned Evenson, who could never bear a joke at his own expense. "Hush! here they are at the door." "What fun!" whispered one of the new comers.—It was Wisbottle. "Glorious!" replied his companion, in an equally low tone.—This was Alfred Tomkins. "Who would have thought it?" "I told you so," said Wisbottle, in a most knowing whisper. "Lord bless you, he has paid her most extraordinary attention for the last two months. I saw ’em when I was sitting at the piano to-night." "Well, do you know I didn’t notice it?" interrupted Tomkins. "Not notice it!" continued Wisbottle. "Bless you; I saw him whispering to her, and she crying; and then I’ll swear I heard him say something about to-night when we were all in bed." "They’re talking of us!" exclaimed the agonized Mrs. Tibbs, as the painful suspicion, and a sense of their situation, flashed upon her mind. "I know it—I know it," replied Evenson, with a melancholy consciousness that there was no mode of escape. "What’s to be done?—we cannot both stop here," ejaculated Mrs. Tibbs in a state of partial derangement. "I’ll get up the chimney," replied Evenson, who really meant what he said. "You can’t," said Mrs. Tibbs, in despair. "You can’t—it’s a register stove." "Hush!" repeated John Evenson. "Hush—hush!" cried somebody down stairs. "What a d-d hushing!" said Alfred Tomkins, who began to get rather bewildered. "There they are!" exclaimed the sapient Wisbottle, as a rustling noise was heard in the store-room. "Hark!" whispered both the young men. "Hark!" repeated Mrs. Tibbs and Evenson. "Let me alone, Sir," said a female voice in the store-room. "Oh, Hagnes!" cried another voice, which clearly belonged to Tibbs, for nobody else ever owned one like it, "Oh, Hagnes—lovely creature!" "Be quiet, Sir!" (a bounce.) "Hag—" "Be quiet, Sir,—I am ashamed of you. Think of your wife, Mr. Tibbs.—Be quiet, Sir!" "My wife!" exclaimed the valorous Tibbs, who was clearly under the influence of gin-and-water, and a misplaced attachment; "I ate her! Oh, Hagnes! when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and—" "I declare I’ll scream. Be quiet, Sir, will you?" (Another bounce, and a scuffle.) "What’s that?" exclaimed Tibbs with a start. "What’s what?" said Agnes, stopping short. "Why that!" "Ah! you have done it nicely now, Sir," sobbed the frightened Agnes, as a tapping was heard at Mrs. Tibbs’ bed-room door, which would have beaten any twelve woodpeckers hollow. "Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!" called out Mrs. Bloss. "Mrs. Tibbs, pray get up." (Here the imitation of a woodpecker was resumed with tenfold violence.) "Oh, dear—dear!" exclaimed the wretched partner of the depraved Tibbs. "She’s knocking at my door. We must be discovered. What will they think?" "Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!" screamed the woodpecker again. "What’s the matter?" shouted Gobler, bursting out of the back drawing-room, like the dragon at Astley’s—only without the portable gas in his countenance. "Oh, Mr. Gobler!" cried Mrs. Bloss, with a proper approximation to hysterics; "I think the house is on fire, or else there’s thieves in it. I have heard the most dreadful noises." "The devil you have!" shouted Gobler again, bouncing back into his den, in happy imitation of the aforesaid dragon, and returning immediately with a lighted candle. "Why, what’s this? Wisbottle! Tomkins! O’Bleary! Agnes! What the deuce, all up and dressed?" "Astonishing!" said Mrs. Bloss, who had run down stairs, and taken Mr. Gobler’s arm. "Call Mrs. Tibbs directly, somebody," said Gobler, turning into the front drawing-room. "What! Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!!" "Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!" repeated every body, as that unhappy pair were discovered, Mrs. Tibbs seated in an arm-chair by the fireplace, and Mr. Evenson standing by her side. We must leave the scene that ensued to the reader’s imagination. We could tell how Mrs. Tibbs forthwith fainted away, and how it required the united strength of Mr. Wisbottle and Mr. Alfred Tomkins to hold her in her chair; how Mr. Evenson explained it; and how his explanation was evidently disbelieved;—how Agnes repelled the accusations of Mrs. Tibbs, by proving that she was negotiating with Mr. O’Bleary to influence her mistress’s affections in his behalf; and how Mr. Gobler threw a damp counterpane on the hopes of Mr. O’Bleary by avowing that he (Gobler) had already proposed to, and been accepted by, Mrs. Bloss; how Agnes was discharged from that lady’s service; how Mr. O’Bleary discharged himself from Mrs. Tibbs’ house, without going through the form of previously discharging his bill; and how that disappointed young gentleman rails against England and the English, and vows there is no virtue or fine feeling extant, "except in Ireland." We repeat that we could tell all this, but we love to exercise our self-denial, and we therefore prefer leaving it to be imagined. The lady whom we have hitherto described as Mrs. Bloss, is no more. Mrs. Gobler exists: Mrs. Bloss has left us for ever. In a secluded retreat in Newington Butts, far—far removed from the noisy strife of that great boarding-house the world, the enviable Gobler, and his pleasing wife, revel in retirement; happy in their complaints, their table, and their medicine; wafted through life by the grateful prayers of all the purveyors of animal food within three miles round. We would willingly stop here, but we have a painful duty imposed upon us, which we must discharge. Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs have separated by mutual consent, Mrs. Tibbs receiving one moiety of 43l.15s.10d., which we before stated to be the amount of her husband’s annual income, and Mr. Tibbs the other. He is spending the evening of his days in retirement; and he is spending also annually that small but honourable independence. He resides among the original settlers at Walworth, and it has been stated, on unquestionable authority, that the conclusion of the volunteer story has been heard in a small tavern in that respectable neighbourhood. The unfortunate Mrs. Tibbs has determined to dispose of the whole of her furniture by public auction, and to retire from a residence in which she has suffered so much. Mr. Robins has been applied to, to conduct the sale, and the transcendent abilities of the literary gentlemen connected with his establishment, are now devoted to the task of drawing up the preliminary advertisement. It is to contain, among a variety of brilliant matter, seventy-eight words in large capitals, and six original quotations in inverted commas. We fear Mrs. Tibb's determination is irrevocable. Should she, however, be induced to rescind it, we may become once again her faithful biographer. Publication The title of the newspaper/serial (if applicable) The Monthly Magazine 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 'The Boarding-House' (No.2) Description An account of the resource Published in The Monthly Magazine, or The British Register of Politics, Art, Science, and the Belles-Lettres, August 1834, pp. 177-192. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived The Monthly Magazine, or The British Register of Politics, Art, Science, and the Belles-Lettres. August 1834, pp. 177-192, Internet Archive, <a href="https://archive.org/details/sim_monthly-magazine_1834_18_index/mode/2up">https://archive.org/details/sim_monthly-magazine_1834_18_index/mode/2up</a>. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1834-08 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource Internet Archive, <a href="https://archive.org/about.terms.php">https://archive.org/about.terms.php</a>. Access to the Archive's Collections is granted for scholarship and research purposes only. Type The nature or genre of the resource Short story Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1834-08-The_Boarding_House_No2 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. "The Boarding House" (No.2). Dickens Search. Eds. Emily Middleton and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-08-The_Boarding_House_No2">https://dickenssearch.com/short-stories/1834-08-The_Boarding_House_No2</a>. Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. "Well," said little Mrs. Tibbs to herself, as she sat in the front parlour of the Coram-street mansion one morning, mending a piece of stair-carpet off the first landing;—"well! things have not turned out so badly either, and if I only get a favourable answer to the advertisement, we shall be full again." Mrs. Tibbs resumed her occupation of making worsted lattice-work in the carpet, anxiously listening to the twopenny postman, who was hammering his way down the street at the rate of a penny a knock.  The house was as quiet as possible.  There was only one low sound to be heard—it was the unhappy Tibbs cleaning the gentlemen’s boots in the back kitchen, and accompanying himself with a buzzing noise, in wretched mockery of humming a tune. The postman drew near the house.  He paused—so did Mrs. Tibbs—a knock—a bustle—a letter—post-paid. "T. I. presents compt. to I. T. and T. I. begs To say that i see the advertisement And she will Do Herself the pleasure of calling On you at 12 o’clock to-morrow morning. "T. I. as To apoligise to I. T. for the shortness Of the notice But i hope it will not unconvenience you. "I remain "yours Truly "Wednesday evening." Little Mrs. Tibbs perused the document over and over again; and the more she read it, the more was she confused by the mixture of the first and third person; the substitution of the "I" for the "T. I," and the transition from the "I. T." to the you." The writing looked like a skein of thread in a tangle, and the note was ingeniously folded into a perfect square, with the direction squeezed up into the right-hand corner, as if it were ashamed of itself. The back of the epistle was pleasingly ornamented with a large red wafer, which, with the addition of divers ink-stains, bore a marvellous resemblance to a black-beetle trodden upon. One thing, however, was perfectly clear to the perplexed Mrs. Tibbs.  Somebody was to call at twelve. The drawing-room was forthwith dusted for the third time that morning; three or four chairs were pulled out of their places, and a corresponding number of books carefully upset, in order that there might be a due absence of formality. Down went the piece of stair-carpet before noticed, and up ran Mrs. Tibbs "to make herself tidy." The clock of New Saint Pancras Church struck twelve, and the Foundling, with laudable politeness, did the same ten minutes afterwards. Saint something else struck the quarter, and then there arrived a single lady with a double knock, in a pelisse the colour of the interior of a damson pie; a bonnet of the same, with a regular conservatory of artificial flowers; a white veil, and a green parasol, with a cobweb border. The visitor (who was very fat and red-faced) was shown into the drawing-room; Mrs. Tibbs presented herself, and the negociation commenced. "I called in consequence of an advertizement," said the stranger, in a voice like a man who had been playing a set of Pan’s pipes for a fortnight without leaving off. "Yes!" said Mrs. Tibbs, rubbing her hands very slowly, and looking the applicant full in the face—two things she always did on such occasions. "Money isn’t no object whatever to me," said the lady, "so much as living in a state of retirement and obtrusion." Mrs. Tibbs, as a matter of course, acquiesced in such an exceedingly natural desire. "I am constantly attended by a medical man," resumed the pelisse wearer; "have been a shocking unitarian for some time—have had very little peace since the death of Mr. Bloss." Mrs. Tibbs looked at the relict of the departed Bloss, and thought he must have had very little peace in his time.  Of course she could not say so; so she looked very sympathising. "I shall be a good deal of trouble to you," said Mrs. Bloss; "but, for that trouble I am willing to pay. I am going through a course of treatment which renders attention necessary. I have one mutton chop in bed at half-past eight, and another at ten, every morning." Mrs. Tibbs, as in duty bound, expressed the pity she felt for any body placed in such a distressing situation; and the carnivorous Mrs. Bloss proceeded to arrange the various preliminaries with wonderful despatch. "Now mind," said that lady, after terms were arranged; "I am to have the second-floor front for my bedroom?" "Yes, ma’am." "And you’ll find room for my little servant Agnes?" "Oh! certainly." "And I can have one of the cellars in the area for my bottled porter." "With the greatest pleasure;—James shall get it ready for you by Saturday." "And I’ll join the company at the breakfast-table on Sunday morning," said Mrs. Bloss. "I shall get up on purpose." "Very well," returned Mrs. Tibbs, in her most amiable tone; for satisfactory references had "been given and required," and it was quite certain that the new comer had plenty of money. "It’s rather singular," continued Mrs. Tibbs, with what was meant for a most bewitching smile, "that we have a gentleman now with us, who is in a very delicate state of health—a Mr. Gobler.—His apartment is the back drawing-room." "The next room?" inquired Mrs. Bloss. "The next room," repeated the hostess. "How very promiscuous!" ejaculated the widow. "He hardly ever gets up," said Mrs. Tibbs in a whisper. "Lor!" cried Mrs. Bloss, in an equally low tone. "And when he is up," said Mrs. Tibbs, "we never can persuade him to go to bed again." "Dear me!" said the astonished Mrs. Bloss, drawing her chair nearer Mrs. Tibbs. "What is his complaint?" "Why, the fact is," replied Mrs. Tibbs, with a most communicative air, "he has no stomach whatever." "No what?" inquired Mrs. Bloss, with a look of the most indescribable alarm. "No stomach," repeated Mrs. Tibbs, with a shake of the head. "Lord bless us! what an extraordinary case!" gasped Mrs. Bloss, as if she understood the communication in its literal sense, and was astonished at a gentleman without a stomach finding it necessary to board anywhere. "When I say he has no stomach," explained the chatty little Mrs. Tibbs, "I mean that his digestion is so much impaired, and his interior so deranged, that his stomach is not of the least use to him;—in fact, it’s rather an inconvenience than otherwise." "Never heard such a case in my life!" exclaimed Mrs. Bloss. "Why, he’s worse than I am." "Oh, yes!" replied Mrs. Tibbs;—"certainly." She said this with great confidence, for the set of the damson pelisse satisfactorily proved that Mrs. Bloss, at all events, was not suffering under Mr. Gobler’s complaint. "You have quite incited my curiosity," said Mrs. Bloss, as she rose to depart. "How I long to see him!" "He generally comes down once a week," replied Mrs. Tibbs; "I dare say you’ll see him on Sunday." And with this consolatory promise Mrs. Bloss was obliged to be contented. She accordingly walked slowly down the stairs, detailing her complaints all the way; and Mrs. Tibbs followed her, uttering an exclamation of compassion at every step. James (who looked very gritty, for he was cleaning the knives) fell up the kitchen-stairs, and opened the street-door; and, after mutual farewells, Mrs. Bloss slowly departed down the shady side of the street. It is almost superfluous to say, that the lady whom we have just shown out at the street-door (and whom the two female servants are now inspecting from the second-floor windows) was exceedingly vulgar, ignorant, and selfish.  Her deceased better-half had been an eminent cork-cutter, in which capacity he had amassed a decent fortune.  He had no relative but his nephew, and no friend but his cook.  The former had the insolence one morning to ask for the loan of fifteen pounds, and by way of retaliation he married the latter next day; he made a will immediately afterwards, containing a burst of honest indignation against his nephew (who supported himself and two sisters on 100l. a year), and a bequest of his whole property to his wife. He felt ill after breakfast, and died after dinner.  There is a mantelpiece-looking tablet in a civic parish church, setting forth his virtues, and deploring his loss.  He never dishonoured a bill, or gave away a halfpenny! The relict and sole executrix of this noble-minded man was an odd mixture of shrewdness and simplicity, liberality and meanness.  Bred up as she had been, she knew no mode of living so agreeable as a boarding-house; and having nothing to do, and nothing to wish for, she naturally imagined she must be very ill—an impression which was most assiduously promoted by her medical attendant, Dr. Wosky, and her handmaid, Agnes, both of whom, doubtless for excellent reasons, encouraged all her extravagant notions. Since the catastrophe recorded in our last, Mrs. Tibbs had been very shy of young lady boarders.  Her present inmates were all lords of the creation, and she availed herself of the opportunity of their assemblage at the dinner table, to announce the expected arrival of Mrs. Bloss. The gentlemen received the communication with stoical indifference, and Mrs. Tibbs devoted all her energies to prepare for the reception of the valetudinarian. The second-floor front was scrubbed, and washed, and flannelled, till the wet went through to the drawing-room ceiling. Clean white counterpanes, and curtains, and napkins; water-bottles as clear as crystal, blue jugs, and mahogany furniture, added to the splendour and increased the comfort of the apartment. The warming-pan was in constant requisition, and a fire lighted in the room every day. The chattels of Mrs. Bloss were forwarded by instalments. First there came a large hamper of Guinness’s stout and an umbrella; then a train of trunks; then a pair of clogs and a bandbox; then an easy chair with an air cushion; then a variety of suspicious-looking packages; and—"though last not least"—Mrs. Bloss and Agnes, the latter in a cherry-coloured merino dress, open-work stockings, and shoes with sandals; looking like a disguised Columbine. The installation of the Duke of Wellington, as Chancellor of the University of Oxford, was nothing in point of bustle and turmoil to the installation of Mrs. Bloss in her new quarters.  True, there was no bright doctor of civil law to deliver a classical address on the occasion; but there were several other old women present, who spoke quite as much to the purpose, and understood themselves equally well. The chop-eater was so fatigued with the process of removal that she declined leaving her room until the following morning; so a mutton-chop, pickle, a two-grain calomel pill, a pint-bottle of stout, and other medicines, were carried up stairs for her consumption. "Why, what do you think, ma’am?" inquired the inquisitive Agnes of her mistress, after they had been in the house some three hours; "what do you think, ma’am? the lady of the house is married." "Married!" said Mrs. Bloss, taking the pill and a draught of Guinness—"married! Unpossible!" "She is indeed, ma’am," returned the Columbine; "and her husband, ma’am, lives—he—he—he—lives in the kitchen, ma’am." "In the kitchen!" "Yes, ma’am: and he—he—he—the housemaid says, he never goes into the parlour except on Sundays; and that Ms. Tibbs makes him clean the gentlemen’s boots; and that he cleans the windows, too, sometimes; and that one morning early, when he was in the front balcony cleaning the drawing-room windows, he called out to a gentleman on the opposite side of the way, who used to live here—'Ah!  Mr. Calton, Sir, how are you?'" Here the attendant laughed till Mrs. Bloss was in serious apprehension of her chuckling herself into a fit. "Well, I never!" said Mrs. Bloss. "Yes, and please, ma’am, the servants give him gin-and-water sometimes; and then he cries, and says he hates his wife and the boarders, and wants to tickle them." "Tickle the boarders!" exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, seriously alarmed. "No, ma’am, not the boarders, the servants." "Oh, is that all!" said Mrs. Bloss, quite satisfied. "He wanted to kiss me as I came up the kitchen-stairs, just now," said Agnes, indignantly; "but I gave it him—a little wretch!" This intelligence was but too true. A long course of snubbing and neglect; his days spent in the kitchen, and his nights in the turn-up bedstead; had completely broken the little spirit that the unfortunate volunteer had ever possessed. He had no one to whom he could detail his injuries but the servants, and they were almost of necessity his chosen confidants. It is no less strange than true, however, that the little weaknesses which he had incurred, most probably, during his military career, seemed to increase as his comforts diminished. He was actually a sort of journeyman Giovanni in the basement story. The next morning, being Sunday, breakfast was laid in the front parlour at ten o’clock. Nine was the usual time, but the family always breakfasted an hour later on Sabbath. Tibbs enrobed himself in his Sunday costume—a black coat, and exceedingly short thin trowsers, with a very large white waistcoat, white stockings and cravat, and Blucher boots—and mounted to the parlour aforesaid.  Nobody had come down, and he amused himself by drinking the contents of the milk-pot with a tea-spoon. A pair of slippers were heard descending the stairs; Tibbs flew to a chair, and a stern-looking man of about fifty, with very little hair on his head, and "The Examiner" in his hand, entered the room. "Good morning, Mr. Evenson," said Tibbs, very humbly, with something between a nod and a bow. "How do you do, Mr. Tibbs?" replied he of the slippers, as he sat himself down, and began to read his paper without saying another word. "Is Mr. Wisbottle in town to-day do you know, Sir?" inquired Tibbs, just for the sake of saying something. "I should think he was," replied the stern gentleman. "He was whistling 'The Light Guitar,' in the next room to mine, at five o’clock this morning." "He’s very fond of whistling," said Tibbs, with a slight smirk. "Yes—I an’t," was the laconic reply. Mr. John Evenson was in the receipt of an independent income, arising chiefly from various houses he owned in the different suburbs. He was very morose and discontented. He was a thorough radical, and used to attend a great variety of public meetings for the express purpose of finding fault with everything that was proposed. Mr. Wisbottle, on the other hand, was a high Tory. He was a clerk in the Woods and Forests office, which he considered rather an aristocratic employment; he knew the peerage by heart, and could tell you off-hand where any illustrious personage lived. He had a good set of teeth, and a capital tailor. Mr. Evenson looked on all these qualifications with profound contempt; and the consequence was that the two were always disputing, much to the edification of the rest of the house. It should be added, that, in addition to his partiality for whistling, Mr. Wisbottle had a great idea of his singing powers. There were two other boarders, besides the gentleman in the back drawing-room—Mr. Alfred Tomkins, and Mr. Frederick O’Bleary. Mr. Tomkins was a clerk in a wine-house; he was a connoisseur in paintings, and had a wonderful eye for the picturesque. Mr. O’Bleary was an Irishman, recently imported; he was in a perfectly wild state, and had come over to England to be an apothecary, a clerk in a government office, an actor, a reporter, or anything else that turned up—he was not particular. He was on familiar terms with two small Irish members, and got franks for everybody in the house. Like all Irishmen when they first come to England, he felt convinced that his intrinsic merits must procure him a high destiny. He wore shepherds'-plaid inexpressibles, and used to look under all the ladies’ bonnets as he walked along the streets. His manners and appearance always forcibly reminded one of Orson. "Here comes Mr. Wisbottle," said Tibbs; and Mr. Wisbottle forthwith appeared in blue slippers, and a shawl dressing-gown, whistling "Di piacer." "Good morning, Sir," said Tibbs again. It was about the only thing he ever said to any body. "How are you, Tibbs?" condescendingly replied the amateur; and he walked to the window, and whistled louder than ever. "Pretty air, that!" said Evenson with a snarl, and without taking his eyes off the paper. "Glad you like it," replied Wisbottle, highly gratified. "Don’t you think it would sound better, if you whistled it a little louder?" inquired the mastiff. "No; I don’t think it would," rejoined the unconscious Wisbottle. "I’ll tell you what, Wisbottle," said Evenson, who had been bottling up his anger for some hours,"the next time you feel disposed to whistle 'The Light Guitar,' at five o’clock in the morning, I’ll trouble you to whistle it with your head out o’ window. If you don’t, I’ll learn the triangle—I will, by—." The entrance of Mrs. Tibbs (with the keys in a little basket) interrupted the threat, and prevented its conclusion. Mrs. Tibbs apologized for being down rather late; the bell was rung; James brought up the urn, and received an unlimited order for dry toast and bacon. Tibbs sat down at the bottom of the table and began eating water-cresses like a Nebuchadnezzar. Mr. O’Bleary appeared and Mr. Alfred Tomkins. The compliments of the morning were exchanged, and the tea was made. "God bless me," exclaimed Tomkins, who had been looking out at window. "Here—Wisbottle—pray come here; make haste." Mr. Wisbottle started from table, and every one looked up. "Do you see," said the connoisseur, placing Wisbottle in the right position—"a little more this way: there—do you see how splendidly the light falls upon the left side of that broken chimney-pot at No. 48?" "Dear me—I see," replied Wisbottle, in a tone of admiration. "I never saw an object stand out so beautifully against the clear sky in my life," ejaculated Alfred.  Every body (except John Evenson) echoed the sentiment, for Mr. Tomkins had a great character for finding out beauties which no one else could discover—he certainly deserved it. "I have frequently observed a chimney-pot in College-green, Dublin, which has a much better effect," said the patriotic O’Bleary, who never allowed Ireland to be outdone on any point. The assertion was received with obvious incredulity, for Mr. Tomkins declared that no other chimney-pot in the United Kingdom, broken or unbroken, could be so beautiful as the one at No. 48. The room door was suddenly thrown open, and Agnes appeared leading in Mrs. Bloss, who was dressed in a geranium-coloured muslin gown, and displayed a gold watch of the dimensions of a breakfast-cup; a chain like a gilt street-door chain, and a splendid assortment of rings, with stones about the size of half-crowns. A general rush was made for a chair, and a regular introduction took place. Mr. John Evenson made a slight inclination of the head: Mr. Frederick O’Bleary, Mr. Alfred Tomkins, and Mr. Wisbottle bowed like the mandarins in a grocer’s shop; and Tibbs rubbed his  hands, and went round in circles.  He was observed to close one eye, and to assume a clock-work sort of expression with the other; this has been considered as a wink, and it has been reported that Agnes was its object. We repel the calumny, and challenge contradiction. Mrs. Tibbs inquired after Mrs. Bloss’s health in a low tone. Mrs. Bloss, with a supreme contempt for the memory of Lindley Murray, answered the various questions in a most satisfactory manner; and a pause ensued, during which the eatables disappeared with awful rapidity. "You must have been very much pleased with the appearance of the ladies going to the drawing-room the other day, Mr. O’Bleary?" said Mrs. Tibbs, hoping to start a topic. "Yes;" replied Orson, with a mouthful of toast. "Never saw any thing like it before, I suppose?" suggested Wisbottle. "No—except the Lord Lieutenant’s levees," replied O’Bleary. "Are they at all equal to our drawing-rooms?" "Oh, infinitely superior." "Gad I don’t know," said the aristocratic Wisbottle, "the Dowager Marchioness of Publiccash was most magnificently dressed, and so was the Baron Slappenbachenhausen." "What was he presented on?" inquired Evenson. "On his arrival in England." "I thought so," growled the radical; "you never hear of these fellows being presented on their going away again. They know better than that." "Unless somebody pervades them with an apintment," said Mrs. Bloss, joining in the conversation in a faint voice. "Well," said Wisbottle, evading the point, "it’s a splendid sight." "And did it never occur to you," inquired the radical, who never would be quiet, —"did it never occur to you, that you pay for these precious ornaments of society." "It certainly has occurred to me," said Wisbottle, who thought this answer was a poser;" it has occurred to me, and I am willing to pay for them." "Well, and it has occurred to me too," replied John Evenson, "and I an’t willing to pay for ’em. Then why should I?—I say, why should I?" continued the politician, laying down the paper, and knocking his knuckles on the table. "There are two great principles—demand—" "A cup of tea if you please, dear," interrupted Tibbs. "And supply—" "May I trouble you to hand this tea to Mr. Tibbs?" said Mrs. Tibbs, interrupting the argument, and unconsciously illustrating it. The thread of the orator’s discourse was broken.  He drank his tea and resumed the paper. "If it’s very fine," said Mr. Alfred Tomkins, addressing the company in general, "I shall ride down to Richmond to-day, and come back by the steamer. There are some splendid effects of light and shade on the Thames; the contrast between the blueness of the sky and the yellow water is frequently exceedingly beautiful." Mr. Wisbottle hummed, "Flow on, thy shining river." "We have some splendid steam-vessels in Ireland," said O’Bleary. "Certainly," said Mrs. Bloss, delighted to find a subject broached in which she could take part. "The accommodations are extraordinary," said O’Bleary. "Extraordinary indeed," returned Mrs. Bloss. "When Mr. Bloss was alive, he was promiscuously obligated to go to Ireland on business. I went with him, and raly the manner in which the ladies and gentlemen were accommodated with births, is not creditable." Tibbs, who had been listening to the dialogue, looked very aghast, and evinced a strong inclination to ask a question, but was checked by a look from his wife. Mr. Wisbottle laughed, and said Tomkins had made a pun; and Tomkins laughed too, and said he hadn't. The remainder of the meal passed off as breakfasts usually do. Conversation flagged, and people played with their tea-spoons. The gentlemen looked out at the window; walked about the room, and when they got near the door, dropped off one by one. Tibbs retired to the back parlour by his wife’s orders, to check the green-grocer’s weekly account; and ultimately Mrs. Tibbs and Mrs. Bloss were left alone together. "Oh dear," said the latter, "I feel alarmingly faint; it’s very singular." (It certainly was, for she had eaten four pounds of solids that morning.) "By-the-bye," said Mrs. Bloss, "I have not seen Mr. what’s-his-name yet." "Mr. Gobler?" suggested Mrs. Tibbs. "Yes." "Oh!" said Mrs. Tibbs, "he is a most mysterious person. He has his meals regularly sent up stairs, and sometimes don’t leave his room for weeks together." "I haven’t seen or heard nothing of him," repeated Mrs. Bloss. "I dare say you’ll hear him to-night," replied Mrs. Tibbs; "he generally groans a good deal on Sunday evenings." "I never felt such an interest in any one in my life," ejaculated Mrs. Bloss. A finicking double-knock interrupted the conversation; Doctor Wosky was announced, and duly shown in. He was a little man with a red face, dressed of course in black, with a stiff white neckerchief. He had a very good practice, and plenty of money, which he had amassed by invariably humouring the worst fancies of all the females of all the families he had ever been introduced into. Mrs. Tibbs offered to retire, but was entreated to stay. "Well, my dear ma’am, and how are we?" inquired Wosky in a soothing tone. "Very ill, doctor—very ill," said Mrs. Bloss, in a whisper. "Ah! we must take care of ourselves;—we must, indeed," said the obsequious Wosky, as he felt the pulse of his interesting patient. "How is our appetite?" Mrs. Bloss shook her head. "Our friend requires great care," said Wosky, appealing to Mrs. Tibbs, who of course assented. "I hope, however, with the blessing of Providence, that we shall be enabled to make her quite stout again." Mrs. Tibbs wondered in her own mind what the patient would be when she had got quite stout; for she looked like a pincushion on eastors already. "We must take stimulants," said the cunning Wosky—"plenty of nourishment, and, above all, we must keep our nerves quiet; we positively must not give way to our sensibilities. We must take all we can get," concluded the Doctor as he pocketed his fee, "and we must keep quiet." "Dear man!" exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, as the Doctor stepped into the carriage. "Charming creature indeed—quite a lady’s man!" said Mrs. Tibbs; and Dr. Wosky rattled away to make fresh gulls of delicate females, and pocket fresh fees. As we had occasion in a former paper to describe a dinner at Mrs. Tibbs’s, and as one meal went off very like another on all ordinary occasions, we will not fatigue our readers by entering into any other detailed account of the domestic economy of the establishment. We will, therefore, proceed to events, merely premising that the mysterious tenant of the back drawing-room was a lazy, selfish hypochondriac; always complaining and never ill.  As his character in many respects closely assimilated to that of Mrs. Bloss, a very warm friendship soon sprung up between them. He was tall, thin, and pale; he always fancied he had got a severe pain somewhere or other, and his face invariably wore a pinched, screwed-up expression; he looked like a man who had got his feet in a tub of exceedingly hot water against his will. For two or three months after Mrs. Bloss’s first appearance in Coram-street, John Evenson was observed to become every day more sarcastic and more ill-natured, and there was a degree of additional importance in his manner, which clearly showed that he fancied he had discovered something, which he only wanted a proper opportunity of divulging. He found it at last. One evening, the different inmates of the house were assembled in the drawing-room engaged in their ordinary occupations. Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss were sitting at a small card-table near the centre window, playing cribbage; Mr. Wisbottle was describing semi-circles on the music-stool, turning over the leaves of a book on the piano, and humming most melodiously; Alfred Tomkins was sitting at the round table, with his elbows duly squared, making a pencil sketch of a head considerably larger than his own; O’Bleary was reading Horace, and trying to look as if he understood it; and John Evenson had drawn his chair close to Mrs. Tibbs’s work-table, and was talking to her very earnestly in a low tone. "I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs," said the radical, laying his forefinger on the muslin she was at work on; "I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs, that nothing but the interest I take in your welfare would induce me to make this communication. I repeat that I fear Wisbottle is endeavouring to gain the affections of that young woman Agnes, and that he is in the habit of meeting her in the store-room on the first floor, over the leads. From my bed-room I distinctly heard voices there last night. I opened my door immediately, and crept very softly on to the landing; there I saw Mr. Tibbs, who, it seems, had been disturbed also.—Bless me, Mrs. Tibbs, you change colour." "No, no—it’s nothing," returned Mrs. T. in a hurried manner; "it’s only the heat of the room." "A flush!" ejaculated Mrs. Bloss from the card-table; "that’s good for four." "If I thought it was Mr. Wisbottle," said Mrs. Tibbs, after a pause, "he should leave this house instantly." "Go!" said Mrs. Bloss again. "And if I thought," continued the hostess with a most threatening air, "if I thought he was assisted by Mr. Tibbs—" "One for his nob!" said Gobler. "Oh," said Evenson, in a most soothing tone;—he liked to make mischief—"I should hope Mr. Tibbs was not in any way implicated. He always appeared to me very harmless." "I have generally found him so," sobbed poor little Mrs. Tibbs; crying like a watering-pot in full play. "Hush! hush! pray—Mrs. Tibbs,—consider;—we shall be observed—pray, don’t!" said John Evenson, fearing his whole plan would be interrupted. "We will set the matter at rest with the utmost care, and I shall be most happy to assist you in doing so." Mrs. Tibbs murmured her thanks. "When you think every one has retired to rest to-night," said Evenson very pompously, "if you’ll meet me without a light, just outside my bed-room door, by the staircase window, I think we can ascertain who the parties really are, and you will afterwards be enabled to proceed as you think proper." Mrs. Tibbs was easily persuaded; her curiosity was excited, her jealousy was roused, and the arrangement was forthwith made. She resumed her work, and John Evenson walked up and down the room with his hands in his pockets, looking as if nothing had happened. The game of cribbage was over, and conversation began again. "Well, Mr. O’Bleary," said the humming-top, turning round on his pivot, and facing the company, "what did you think of Vauxhall the other night?" "Oh, it’s very fair," replied Orson, who had been euthusiastically lelighted with the whole exhibition. "Never saw anything like that Captain Ross’s set-out—eh?" "No," returned the patriot with his usual reservation—"except in Dublin." "I saw the Count de Canky and Captain Fitzthompson in the Gardens," said Wisbottle; "they appeared much delighted." "Then it must be beautiful!" snarled Evenson. "I think the white bears is partickerlerly well done, suggested Mrs. Bloss. "In their shaggy white coats they look just like Polar bears—don’t you think they do, Mr. Evenson?" "I think they look a great deal more like omnibus cads on all fours," replied the discontented one. "Upon the whole, I should have liked our evening very well," gasped Gobler; "only I caught a desperate cold which increased my pain dreadfully;  I was obliged to have several shower baths, before I could leave my room." "Capital things those shower-baths!" ejaculated Wisbottle. "Excellent!" said Tomkins. "Delightful!" chimed in O’Bleary.  (He had once seen one, outside a tinman’s.) "Disgusting machines!" rejoined Evenson, who extended his dislike to almost every created object, masculine, feminine, or neuter. "Disgusting, Mr. Evenson!" said Gobler, in a tone of strong indignation.—"Disgusting! Look at their utility—consider how many lives they've saved by promoting perspiration." "Promoting perspiration, indeed," growled John Evenson, stopping short in his walk across the large squares in the pattern of the carpet—"I was ass enough to be persuaded some time ago to have one in my bedroom. 'Gad, I was in it once, and it effectually cured me, for the mere sight of it threw me into a profuse perspiration for six months afterwards." A titter followed this announcement, and before it had subsided, James brought up "the tray," containing the remains of a leg of lamb which had made its début at dinner; bread, cheese; an atom of butter in a forest of parsley, one pickled walnut and the third of another, and so forth. The boy disappeared, and returned again with another tray, containing glasses and jugs of hot and cold water.  The gentlemen brought in their spirit-bottles; the housemaid placed divers plated bedroom candlesticks under the card-table, and the servants retired for the night. Chairs were drawn round the table, and the conversation proceeded in the customary manner.  John Evenson, who never eat supper, lolled on the sofa, and amused himself by contradicting everybody. O’Bleary eat as much as he could conveniently carry, and Mrs. Tibbs felt a due degree of indignation thereat; Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss conversed most affectionately on the subject of pill-taking and other innocent amusements; and Tomkins and Wisbottle "got into an argument;" that is to say, they both talked very loudly and vehemently, each flattering himself that he had got some advantage about something, and neither of them having more than a very indistinct idea of what they were talking about. An hour or two passed away; and the boarders and the plated candlesticks retired in pairs to their respective bed-rooms. John Evenson pulled off his boots, locked his door, and determined to sit up until Mr. Gobler had retired. He always sat in the drawing-room an hour after everybody else had left it, taking medicine, and groaning. Great Coram-street was hushed into a state of profound repose: it was nearly two o’clock. A hackney-coach now and then rumbled slowly by; and occasionally some stray lawyer’s clerk on his way home to Somers Town struck his iron heel on the top of the coal-cellar with a noise resembling the click of a smoke-Jack. A low, monotonous, gushing sound was heard, which added considerably to the romantic dreariness of the scene. It was the water "coming in" at No.11. "He must be asleep by this time," said John Evenson to himself, after waiting with exemplary patience for nearly an hour after Mr. Gobler had left the drawing-room. He listened for a few moments; the house was perfectly quiet; he extinguished his rushlight, and opened his bed-room door. The staircase was so dark that it was impossible to see anything. "S-s-fit!" whispered the mischief-maker, making a noise like the first indication a catherine-wheel gives of the probability of its going off. "Hush!" whispered somebody else. "Is that you, Mrs. Tibbs?" "Yes, Sir." "Where?" "Here;" and the misty outline of Mrs. Tibbs appeared at the staircase-window, like the ghost of Queen Anne in the tent-scene in Richard. "This way, Mrs. Tibbs;" whispered the delighted busybody: "give me your hand—there. Whoever these people are, they are in the store-room now, for I have been looking down from my window, and I could see that they accidentally upset their candlestick, and are now in darkness. You have no shoes on, have you?" "No," said little Mrs. Tibbs, who could hardly speak for trembling. "Well; I have taken my boots off, so we can go down, close to the store-room door, and listen over the banisters," continued Evenson; and down stairs they both crept accordingly, every board creaking like a patent mangle on a Saturday afternoon. "It’s Wisbottle and somebody I’ll swear," exclaimed the radical in an energetic whisper, when they had listened for a few moments. "Hush—pray let’s hear what they say," exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, the gratification of whose curiosity was now paramount to every other consideration. "Ah! if I could but believe you," said a female voice coquettishly, "I’d be bound to settle my missis for life." "What does she say?" inquired Mr. Evenson, who was not quite so well situated as his companion. "She says she’ll settle her missis’s life," replied Mrs. Tibbs. "The wretch! they’re plotting murder." "I know you want money," continued the voice, which belonged to Agnes; "and if you’d secure me the five hundred pound, I warrant she should take fire soon enough." "What’s that?" inquired Evenson again. He could just hear enough to want to hear more. "I think she says she’ll set the house on fire," replied the affrighted Mrs. Tibbs. "Thank God I’m insured in the Phoenix!" "The moment I have secured your mistress, my dear," said a man’s voice in a strong Irish brogue, "you may depend on having the money." "Bless my soul, it’s Mr. O’Bleary!" exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs in a parenthesis. "The villain!" said the indignant Mr. Evenson. "The first thing to be done," continued the Hibernian, "is to poison Mr. Gobler’s mind." "Oh, certainly!" returned Agnes, with the utmost coolness. "What’s that?" inquired Evenson again, in an agony of curiosity and a whisper. "He says she’s to mind and poison Mr. Gobler," replied Mrs. Tibbs, aghast at this sacrifice of human life. "And in regard of Mrs. Tibbs," continued O’Bleary.—Mrs. Tibbs shuddered. "Hush!" exclaimed Agnes, in a tone of the greatest alarm, just as Mrs. Tibbs was on the extreme verge of a fainting fit. "Hush!" "Hush!" exclaimed Evenson, at the same moment to Mrs. Tibbs. "There’s somebody coming up stairs," said Agnes to O’Bleary. "There’s somebody coming down stairs," whispered Evenson to Mrs. Tibbs. "Go into the parlour, Sir," said Agnes to her companion. "You will get there, before whoever it is gets to the top of the kitchen stairs." "The drawing-room, Mrs. Tibbs!" whispered the astonished Evenson to his equally astonished companion; and for the drawing-room they both made, plainly hearing the rustling of two persons coming down stairs, and one coming up. "What can it be?" exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs. "It’s like a dream. I wouldn’t be found in this situation for the world!" "Nor I," returned Evenson, who could never bear a joke at his own expense. "Hush! here they are at the door." "What fun!" whispered one of the new comers.—It was Wisbottle. "Glorious!" replied his companion, in an equally low tone.—This was Alfred Tomkins. "Who would have thought it?" "I told you so," said Wisbottle, in a most knowing whisper. "Lord bless you, he has paid her most extraordinary attention for the last two months. I saw ’em when I was sitting at the piano to-night." "Well, do you know I didn’t notice it?" interrupted Tomkins. "Not notice it!" continued Wisbottle. "Bless you; I saw him whispering to her, and she crying; and then I’ll swear I heard him say something about to-night when we were all in bed." "They’re talking of us!" exclaimed the agonized Mrs. Tibbs, as the painful suspicion, and a sense of their situation, flashed upon her mind. "I know it—I know it," replied Evenson, with a melancholy consciousness that there was no mode of escape. "What’s to be done?—we cannot both stop here," ejaculated Mrs. Tibbs in a state of partial derangement. "I’ll get up the chimney," replied Evenson, who really meant what he said. "You can’t," said Mrs. Tibbs, in despair. "You can’t—it’s a register stove." "Hush!" repeated John Evenson. "Hush—hush!" cried somebody down stairs. "What a d-d hushing!" said Alfred Tomkins, who began to get rather bewildered. "There they are!" exclaimed the sapient Wisbottle, as a rustling noise was heard in the store-room. "Hark!" whispered both the young men. "Hark!" repeated Mrs. Tibbs and Evenson. "Let me alone, Sir," said a female voice in the store-room. "Oh, Hagnes!" cried another voice, which clearly belonged to Tibbs, for nobody else ever owned one like it, "Oh, Hagnes—lovely creature!" "Be quiet, Sir!"  (a bounce.) "Hag—" "Be quiet, Sir,—I am ashamed of you. Think of your wife, Mr. Tibbs.—Be quiet, Sir!" "My wife!" exclaimed the valorous Tibbs, who was clearly under the influence of gin-and-water, and a misplaced attachment; "I ate her! Oh, Hagnes! when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and—" "I declare I’ll scream. Be quiet, Sir, will you?"  (Another bounce, and a scuffle.) "What’s that?" exclaimed Tibbs with a start. "What’s what?" said Agnes, stopping short. "Why that!" "Ah! you have done it nicely now, Sir," sobbed the frightened Agnes, as a tapping was heard at Mrs. Tibbs’ bed-room door, which would have beaten any twelve woodpeckers hollow. "Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!" called out Mrs. Bloss.  "Mrs. Tibbs, pray get up." (Here the imitation of a woodpecker was resumed with tenfold violence.) "Oh, dear—dear!" exclaimed the wretched partner of the depraved Tibbs. "She’s knocking at my door.  We must be discovered. What will they think?" "Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!" screamed the woodpecker again. "What’s the matter?" shouted Gobler, bursting out of the back drawing-room, like the dragon at Astley’s—only without the portable gas in his countenance. "Oh, Mr. Gobler!" cried Mrs. Bloss, with a proper approximation to hysterics; "I think the house is on fire, or else there’s thieves in it. I have heard the most dreadful noises." "The devil you have!" shouted Gobler again, bouncing back into his den, in happy imitation of the aforesaid dragon, and returning immediately with a lighted candle. "Why, what’s this? Wisbottle! Tomkins! O’Bleary! Agnes! What the deuce, all up and dressed?" "Astonishing!" said Mrs. Bloss, who had run down stairs, and taken Mr. Gobler’s arm. "Call Mrs. Tibbs directly, somebody," said Gobler, turning into the front drawing-room. "What! Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!!" "Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!" repeated every body, as that unhappy pair were discovered, Mrs. Tibbs seated in an arm-chair by the fireplace, and Mr. Evenson standing by her side. We must leave the scene that ensued to the reader’s imagination. We could tell how Mrs. Tibbs forthwith fainted away, and how it required the united strength of Mr. Wisbottle and Mr. Alfred Tomkins to hold her in her chair; how Mr. Evenson explained it; and how his explanation was evidently disbelieved;—how Agnes repelled the accusations of Mrs. Tibbs, by proving that she was negotiating with Mr. O’Bleary to influence her mistress’s affections in his behalf; and how Mr. Gobler threw a damp counterpane on the hopes of Mr. O’Bleary by avowing that he (Gobler) had already proposed to, and been accepted by, Mrs. Bloss; how Agnes was discharged from that lady’s service; how Mr. O’Bleary discharged himself from Mrs. Tibbs’ house, without going through the form of previously discharging his bill; and how that disappointed young gentleman rails against England and the English, and vows there is no virtue or fine feeling extant, "except in Ireland." We repeat that we could tell all this, but we love to exercise our self-denial, and we therefore prefer leaving it to be imagined. The lady whom we have hitherto described as Mrs. Bloss, is no more. Mrs. Gobler exists: Mrs. Bloss has left us for ever. In a secluded retreat in Newington Butts, far—far removed from the noisy strife of that great boarding-house the world, the enviable Gobler, and his pleasing wife, revel in retirement; happy in their complaints, their table, and their medicine; wafted through life by the grateful prayers of all the purveyors of animal food within three miles round. We would willingly stop here, but we have a painful duty imposed upon us, which we must discharge.  Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs have separated by mutual consent, Mrs. Tibbs receiving one moiety of 43l. 15s. 10d., which we before stated to be the amount of her husband’s annual income, and Mr. Tibbs the other. He is spending the evening of his days in retirement; and he is spending also annually that small but honourable independence.  He resides among the original settlers at Walworth, and it has been stated, on unquestionable authority, that the conclusion of the volunteer story has been heard in a small tavern in that respectable neighbourhood. The unfortunate Mrs. Tibbs has determined to dispose of the whole of her furniture by public auction, and to retire from a residence in which she has suffered so much. Mr. Robins has been applied to, to conduct the sale, and the transcendent abilities of the literary gentlemen connected with his establishment, are now devoted to the task of drawing up the preliminary advertisement. It is to contain, among a variety of brilliant matter, seventy-eight words in large capitals, and six original quotations in inverted commas. We fear Mrs. Tibb's determination is irrevocable. Should she, however, be induced to rescind it, we may become once again her faithful biographer. https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/The_British_Lion/1846-01-24-Daily_News_The_British_Lion.pdf b46447fd0db4d6de12133ffc18293d41 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&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&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 Pickwick Papers (1837), a story of time’s inexorable passing, was frequently republished in newspapers. Several poems written to young ladies of Dickens’s acquaintance are released on Dickens Search 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=&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album&collection=&type=&tags=&date_search_term=&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. When writing <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter&collection=3&type=&tags=&date_search_term=&submit_search=Search+For+Items">letters</a> to friends, Dickens occasionally included comedic poems for the recipient. Several of these are included. Considering the enormity of Dickens’s correspondence, likely more instances of this sort of poetic humour will result over time. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&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&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Play">verse from Dickens's plays</a>, including songs removed from The Strange Gentleman and Is She His Wife? Or, Something Singular! before performance. 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. 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 The Old Curiosity Shop. 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 Echoes of Infant Voices. Because Dickens did not intend for this passage to be structured in verse form, the poem is not included in the poetry collection of Dickens Search. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/poetry-dickens-didnt-write">Read our blog post for more on poetry Dickens didn't write.</a> Occasionally, Dickens will quote a poem by another author, as in his burlesque Is She his Wife? Or, Something Singular! (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. Previous notable collections of some of Dickens's poetry include The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens (1882) edited by Richard Herne Shepherd and The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens (1903) edited by Frederic G. Kitton. In 2025, we published <a href="https://edinburghuniversitypress.com/book-the-verse-of-charles-dickens.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Verse of Charles Dickens</a> (Edinburgh University Press), which includes an introduction and editorial apparatus for this verse.  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. 1. The Verse of Charles Dickens. Edited by Lydia Craig and Emily Middleton. Edinburgh University Press, 2025; Robert Butterworth. 'The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers.' The Dickensian 516.118.1 (Spring 2022): pp. 43-56; Eva-Charlotta Mebius. 'Dreams of Dying Girls: The Poetry of Thomas J. Ouseley and Charles Dickens.' Dickens Quarterly 34.3 (September 2017): pp. 256-261; Robert C. Hanna. 'Before Boz; The Juvenilia and Early Writings of Charles Dickens, 1820-1833'. Dickens Studies Annual 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 Pseudonym The name under which the item was published CATNACH 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. 18460124 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   (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. A NEW SONG, BUT AN OLD STORY TUNE. - The Great Sea-Snake. Oh, p’raps you may heard, and if not, I’ll sing, Of the British Lion free, That was constantly a-going for to make a spring Upon his en-e-me; But who, being rather groggy at the knees, Broke down, always before; And generally gave a feeble wheeze Instead of a loud roar. Right toor rol, loor rol, fee faw fum, The British Lion bold! That was always a-going for to do great things, And was always being “sold”! He was carried about, in a caravan, And was show'd in country parts, And they said “Walk-up! Be in time! He can Eat Corn-Law-Leagues like tarts!” And his showmen, shouting there and then, To puff him didn’t fail; And they said, as they peep'd into his den, “Oh, Don’t he wag his tail!” Now, the principal keeper of this poor old beast, WAN HUMBUG was his name, Would once ev’ry day stir him up - at least - And wasn’t that a Game! For he hadn’t a tooth, and he hadn’t a claw, In that “Struggle” so “Sublime;” And, however sharp they touch’d him on the raw, He couldn’t come up to time. And this, you will observe, was the reason why WAN HUMBUG, on weak grounds, Was forced to make believe that he heard his cry In all unlikely sounds. So there wasn’t a bleat from an Essex Calf, Or a Duke, or a Lordling slim; But he said, with a very triumphant laugh, “I’m blest if that ain’t him.” At length, wery bald in his mane and tail, This British Lion growed: He pined, and declined, and he satisfied The last debt which he owed. And when they came to examine the skin, It was a wonder sore, To find that the an-i-mal within Was nothing but a BOAR! Right toor rol, loor rol, fee faw fum, The British Lion bold! That was always a-going for to do great things, And was always being "sold"! Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Newspaper Publication The title of the newspaper/serial (if applicable) Daily News TEI File Link to TEI file <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1846-01-24_Daily_News_The_British_Lion.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'The British Lion.' The Daily News (24 January 1846): p. 5.</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 'The British Lion' Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived British Newspapers Archive Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource British Newspapers Archive, <a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000051/18460124/061/0005">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000051/18460124/061/0005</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 1846-01-24-Daily_News_The_British_Lion 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. 'The British Lion.' Daily News (21 January 1841): p. 5. Dickens Search. Eds. Emily Middleton and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1846-01-24-Daily_News_The_British_Lion">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1846-01-24-Daily_News_The_British_Lion</a>. Type The nature or genre of the resource Poem Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1846-01-24 Description An account of the resource Published in the Daily News (24 January 1846). Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. A NEW SONG, BUT AN OLD STORY TUNE. - The Great Sea-Snake. Oh, p’raps you may heard, and if not, I’ll sing, Of the British Lion free, That was constantly a-going for to make a spring Upon his en-e-me; But who, being rather groggy at the knees, Broke down, always before; And generally gave a feeble wheeze Instead of a loud roar.   Right toor rol, loor rol, fee faw fum, The British Lion bold! That was always a-going for to do great things, And was always being “sold”!   He was carried about, in a caravan, And was show'd in country parts, And they said “Walk-up! Be in time! He can Eat Corn-Law-Leagues like tarts!” And his showmen, shouting there and then, To puff him didn’t fail; And they said, as they peep'd into his den, “Oh, Don’t he wag his tail!”   Now, the principal keeper of this poor old beast, WAN HUMBUG was his name, Would once ev’ry day stir him up - at least - And wasn’t that a Game! For he hadn’t a tooth, and he hadn’t a claw, In that “Struggle” so “Sublime;” And, however sharp they touch’d him on the raw, He couldn’t come up to time.   And this, you will observe, was the reason why WAN HUMBUG, on weak grounds, Was forced to make believe that he heard his cry In all unlikely sounds. So there wasn’t a bleat from an Essex Calf, Or a Duke, or a Lordling slim; But he said, with a very triumphant laugh, “I’m blest if that ain’t him.”   At length, wery bald in his mane and tail, This British Lion growed: He pined, and declined, and he satisfied The last debt which he owed. And when they came to examine the skin, It was a wonder sore, To find that the an-i-mal within Was nothing but a BOAR!   Right toor rol, loor rol, fee faw fum, The British Lion bold! That was always a-going for to do great things, And was always being "sold"! 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&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&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 Pickwick Papers (1837), a story of time’s inexorable passing, was frequently republished in newspapers. Several poems written to young ladies of Dickens’s acquaintance are released on Dickens Search 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=&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album&collection=&type=&tags=&date_search_term=&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. When writing <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter&collection=3&type=&tags=&date_search_term=&submit_search=Search+For+Items">letters</a> to friends, Dickens occasionally included comedic poems for the recipient. Several of these are included. Considering the enormity of Dickens’s correspondence, likely more instances of this sort of poetic humour will result over time. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&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&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Play">verse from Dickens's plays</a>, including songs removed from The Strange Gentleman and Is She His Wife? Or, Something Singular! before performance. 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. 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 The Old Curiosity Shop. 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 Echoes of Infant Voices. Because Dickens did not intend for this passage to be structured in verse form, the poem is not included in the poetry collection of Dickens Search. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/poetry-dickens-didnt-write">Read our blog post for more on poetry Dickens didn't write.</a> Occasionally, Dickens will quote a poem by another author, as in his burlesque Is She his Wife? Or, Something Singular! (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. Previous notable collections of some of Dickens's poetry include The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens (1882) edited by Richard Herne Shepherd and The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens (1903) edited by Frederic G. Kitton. In 2025, we published <a href="https://edinburghuniversitypress.com/book-the-verse-of-charles-dickens.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Verse of Charles Dickens</a> (Edinburgh University Press), which includes an introduction and editorial apparatus for this verse.  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. 1. The Verse of Charles Dickens. Edited by Lydia Craig and Emily Middleton. Edinburgh University Press, 2025; Robert Butterworth. 'The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers.' The Dickensian 516.118.1 (Spring 2022): pp. 43-56; Eva-Charlotta Mebius. 'Dreams of Dying Girls: The Poetry of Thomas J. Ouseley and Charles Dickens.' Dickens Quarterly 34.3 (September 2017): pp. 256-261; Robert C. Hanna. 'Before Boz; The Juvenilia and Early Writings of Charles Dickens, 1820-1833'. Dickens Studies Annual 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 Publication The title of the newspaper/serial (if applicable) Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell. Pseudonym The name under which the item was published C.D. TEI File Link to TEI file <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Churchyard.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'The Churchyard.' Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell (November 1831). </a> 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. 18311101 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   (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. How many tales these Tombstones tell Of life's e'er changing scene, Of by gone days spent ill or well By those who gay have been; Who have been happy, rich, and vain, Who now are dead, and cold, Who've gone alike to dust again The rich, poor, young, and old. Here lies a Man who lived to save Of Wordly gain a store; – It has not saved him from the grave He ne'er can use it more. A marble Tablet tells his fame To those who shall survive; – It tells us not who blest his name While he remained alive. Now mark the contrast. – Near this mound Lie the remains of one With whom no fault was ever found, Who spotless as the sun Fulfilled his Christian duties here, Both cheerfully and well But no rich velvet deck'd his Bier No lines his virtues tell. And is it so! Is man so vain, To riches such a Slave As to take his pride of gold, and gain E'en with him to the Grave! – Why let him take it. – Let him see If 'twill avail him there, Where we must all one dread day be, Where all Men must appear. Here sleeps a girl. – A year ago Bright, beautiful, and gay, Peaceful, and happy, then but Oh! How soon such days decay: They changed to times of shame and brief And this the mournful token Death was to her a glad relief For her young heart was broken. Aye – broken. – Let the Roué smile And let him boldly speed Exulting in his shameless guile To boast of such a deed. Let him boast gaily among men – They'll hear without surprize And let him boast if he can when On his death bed he lies. In truth it is a manly deed With woman's heart to trifle, To break the bent and bruised reed And with neglect to stifle The feelings man himself has raised Which he can't prize too high. – To leave the object he has praised Alone to weep and die. But why pursue this painful theme Or longer here remain The dead sleep sound; they cannot dream Of sorrow, grief, or pain. From Man to GOD they will appeal Where no man can dissemble There will the wronged for justice kneel There will the Tyrant tremble. 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 'The Churchyard' Description An account of the resource From the autograph album of Maria Beadnell (November 1831). Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived The Charles Dickens Museum, <a href="http://www.collections.dickensmuseum.com/object-b319--1971-1-105" target="_blank" rel="noopener">http://www.collections.dickensmuseum.com/object-b319--1971-1-105</a>. Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1831-11 Type The nature or genre of the resource Poem Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Churchyard 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. 'The Churchyard.' Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell (November 1831). Dickens Search. Eds. Emily Middleton and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Churchyard">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Churchyard</a><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/poetry/1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Devils_Walk"></a>. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. How many tales these Tombstones tell Of life's e'er changing scene, Of by gone days spent ill or well By those who gay have been; Who have been happy, rich, and vain, Who now are dead, and cold, Who've gone alike to dust again The rich, poor, young, and old. Here lies a Man who lived to save Of Wordly gain a store; – It has not saved him from the grave He ne'er can use it more. A marble Tablet tells his fame To those who shall survive; – It tells us not who blest his name While he remained alive. Now mark the contrast. – Near this mound Lie the remains of one With whom no fault was ever found, Who spotless as the sun Fulfilled his Christian duties here, Both cheerfully and well But no rich velvet deck'd his Bier No lines his virtues tell. And is it so! Is man so vain, To riches such a Slave As to take his pride of gold, and gain E'en with him to the Grave! – Why let him take it. – Let him see If 'twill avail him there, Where we must all one dread day be, Where all Men must appear. Here sleeps a girl. – A year ago Bright, beautiful, and gay, Peaceful, and happy, then but Oh! How soon such days decay: They changed to times of shame and brief And this the mournful token Death was to her a glad relief For her young heart was broken. Aye – broken. – Let the Roué smile And let him boldly speed Exulting in his shameless guile To boast of such a deed. Let him boast gaily among men – They'll hear without surprize And let him boast if he can when On his death bed he lies. In truth it is a manly deed With woman's heart to trifle, To break the bent and bruised reed And with neglect to stifle The feelings man himself has raised Which he can't prize too high. – To leave the object he has praised Alone to weep and die. But why pursue this painful theme Or longer here remain The dead sleep sound; they cannot dream Of sorrow, grief, or pain. From Man to GOD they will appeal Where no man can dissemble There will the wronged for justice kneel There will the Tyrant tremble. 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&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&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 Pickwick Papers (1837), a story of time’s inexorable passing, was frequently republished in newspapers. Several poems written to young ladies of Dickens’s acquaintance are released on Dickens Search 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=&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album&collection=&type=&tags=&date_search_term=&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. When writing <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter&collection=3&type=&tags=&date_search_term=&submit_search=Search+For+Items">letters</a> to friends, Dickens occasionally included comedic poems for the recipient. Several of these are included. Considering the enormity of Dickens’s correspondence, likely more instances of this sort of poetic humour will result over time. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&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&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Play">verse from Dickens's plays</a>, including songs removed from The Strange Gentleman and Is She His Wife? Or, Something Singular! before performance. 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. 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 The Old Curiosity Shop. 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 Echoes of Infant Voices. Because Dickens did not intend for this passage to be structured in verse form, the poem is not included in the poetry collection of Dickens Search. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/poetry-dickens-didnt-write">Read our blog post for more on poetry Dickens didn't write.</a> Occasionally, Dickens will quote a poem by another author, as in his burlesque Is She his Wife? Or, Something Singular! (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. Previous notable collections of some of Dickens's poetry include The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens (1882) edited by Richard Herne Shepherd and The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens (1903) edited by Frederic G. Kitton. In 2025, we published <a href="https://edinburghuniversitypress.com/book-the-verse-of-charles-dickens.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Verse of Charles Dickens</a> (Edinburgh University Press), which includes an introduction and editorial apparatus for this verse.  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. 1. The Verse of Charles Dickens. Edited by Lydia Craig and Emily Middleton. Edinburgh University Press, 2025; Robert Butterworth. 'The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers.' The Dickensian 516.118.1 (Spring 2022): pp. 43-56; Eva-Charlotta Mebius. 'Dreams of Dying Girls: The Poetry of Thomas J. Ouseley and Charles Dickens.' Dickens Quarterly 34.3 (September 2017): pp. 256-261; Robert C. Hanna. 'Before Boz; The Juvenilia and Early Writings of Charles Dickens, 1820-1833'. Dickens Studies Annual 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 Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Autograph Album Pseudonym The name under which the item was published C.D. TEI File Link to TEI file <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Devils_Walk.xml" target="_blank" rel="noopener">'The Devil's Walk.' From the autograph album of Maria Beadnell (1830-1831).</a> 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. 18311101 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   (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. While sitting one day in his well aired halls Of which we've often heard tell, The Devil determined to make a few calls To see if his Friends were well: So he put on his best and himself he drest In his long tailed coat of green And he buttoned it tightly o'er his chest Lest his own tail should be seen. To the House of Lords the Devil went straight To learn the state of Nations, And with mixed feelings of pleasure and hate He heard their deliberations; For he saw a few Nobles rich and proud War 'gainst the people and Prince, And he thought with pain tho' he laughed aloud Of the Wars in Heav'n long since. Then to Irving's Chapel he gaily hied To hear the new "unknown tongue" And he welcomed with great pleasure and pride The Maniacs he'd got among: For it always fills the Devil with glee To hear Religion mocked, And it pleases him very much to see Sights at which others are shocked. Then away to Bristol he quickly walked T'indulge in meditation, And he gaily laughed as he slowly stalked O'er a scene of desolation. He honored the hand that had done the deed Vowed that an "Anti" he'd be Then back to London he started with speed His old friend Sir Charles to see. The Devil was walking up Regent Street As some other great folks do When a very old friend he chanced to meet Whom it pleased him much to view. Let those describe his great pleasure who can On the Member for Preston spying He took off his hat for he envied the Man His pow'r of deceit and lying. As the Devil was passing I won't say where But not far from Lombard Street, He saw at a window a face so fair That it made him start and weep For a passing thought rushed over his brain Of days no beyond recal, He thought of the bright angelic train And of his own wretched fall. A dim cold feeling of what he had been Wrung from him a bitter groan He gazed and thought of the Angels who sing Surrounding Heaven's High Throne. He thought of the time, – the happy time, – When among them he had been And he madly cursed the impious crime Which plunged him in pain and sin. This feeling vanished as soon as it came And he turned to walk away But sought for this Album to find the name Of her he'd seen that day. He cast his eye swiftly o'er these few lines To drive away thoughts so sad And he said with glee "they're worthy of me For I'm sure they're devilish bad." 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 'The Devil's Walk' Description An account of the resource From the autograph album of Maria Beadnell (November 1831). Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived The Charles Dickens Museum, <a href="http://www.collections.dickensmuseum.com/object-b319--1971-1-105" target="_blank" rel="noopener">http://www.collections.dickensmuseum.com/object-b319--1971-1-105</a>. Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1831-11 Type The nature or genre of the resource Poem Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Devils_Walk 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. 'The Devil's Walk.' Autograph Album of Maria Beadnell (November 1831). Dickens Search. Eds. Emily Middleton and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Devils_Walk">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/</a><a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Devils_Walk">1831-11_Autograph_Album_of_Maria_Beadnell_The_Devils_Walk</a>. Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. While sitting one day in his well aired halls Of which we've often heard tell, The Devil determined to make a few calls To see if his Friends were well: So he put on his best and himself he drest In his long tailed coat of green And he buttoned it tightly o'er his chest Lest his own tail should be seen. To the House of Lords the Devil went straight To learn the state of Nations, And with mixed feelings of pleasure and hate He heard their deliberations; For he saw a few Nobles rich and proud War 'gainst the people and Prince, And he thought with pain tho' he laughed aloud Of the Wars in Heav'n long since. Then to Irving's Chapel he gaily hied To hear the new "unknown tongue" And he welcomed with great pleasure and pride The Maniacs he'd got among: For it always fills the Devil with glee To hear Religion mocked, And it pleases him very much to see Sights at which others are shocked. Then away to Bristol he quickly walked T'indulge in meditation, And he gaily laughed as he slowly stalked O'er a scene of desolation. He honored the hand that had done the deed Vowed that an "Anti" he'd be Then back to London he started with speed His old friend Sir Charles to see. The Devil was walking up Regent Street As some other great folks do When a very old friend he chanced to meet Whom it pleased him much to view. Let those describe his great pleasure who can On the Member for Preston spying He took off his hat for he envied the Man His pow'r of deceit and lying. As the Devil was passing I won't say where But not far from Lombard Street, He saw at a window a face so fair That it made him start and weep For a passing thought rushed over his brain Of days no beyond recal, He thought of the bright angelic train And of his own wretched fall. A dim cold feeling of what he had been Wrung from him a bitter groan He gazed and thought of the Angels who sing Surrounding Heaven's High Throne. He thought of the time, – the happy time, – When among them he had been And he madly cursed the impious crime Which plunged him in pain and sin. This feeling vanished as soon as it came And he turned to walk away But sought for this Album to find the name Of her he'd seen that day. He cast his eye swiftly o'er these few lines To drive away thoughts so sad And he said with glee "they're worthy of me For I'm sure they're devilish bad." https://www.dickenssearch.com/files/original/3/The_Fine_Old_English_Gentleman/1841-08-07-The_Examiner_The_Fine_Old_English_Gentleman.pdf 66ff4a4fd83d644f8b15d79beec6c22e 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&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&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 Pickwick Papers (1837), a story of time’s inexorable passing, was frequently republished in newspapers. Several poems written to young ladies of Dickens’s acquaintance are released on Dickens Search 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=&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Autograph+Album&collection=&type=&tags=&date_search_term=&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. When writing <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?search=&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bjoiner%5D=and&advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=94&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Letter&collection=3&type=&tags=&date_search_term=&submit_search=Search+For+Items">letters</a> to friends, Dickens occasionally included comedic poems for the recipient. Several of these are included. Considering the enormity of Dickens’s correspondence, likely more instances of this sort of poetic humour will result over time. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/items/browse?advanced%5B0%5D%5Belement_id%5D=51&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&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&advanced%5B0%5D%5Btype%5D=is+exactly&advanced%5B0%5D%5Bterms%5D=Play">verse from Dickens's plays</a>, including songs removed from The Strange Gentleman and Is She His Wife? Or, Something Singular! before performance. 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. 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 The Old Curiosity Shop. 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 Echoes of Infant Voices. Because Dickens did not intend for this passage to be structured in verse form, the poem is not included in the poetry collection of Dickens Search. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/poetry-dickens-didnt-write">Read our blog post for more on poetry Dickens didn't write.</a> Occasionally, Dickens will quote a poem by another author, as in his burlesque Is She his Wife? Or, Something Singular! (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. Previous notable collections of some of Dickens's poetry include The Plays and Poems of Charles Dickens (1882) edited by Richard Herne Shepherd and The Poems and Verses of Charles Dickens (1903) edited by Frederic G. Kitton. In 2025, we published <a href="https://edinburghuniversitypress.com/book-the-verse-of-charles-dickens.html" target="_blank" rel="noopener">The Verse of Charles Dickens</a> (Edinburgh University Press), which includes an introduction and editorial apparatus for this verse.  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. 1. The Verse of Charles Dickens. Edited by Lydia Craig and Emily Middleton. Edinburgh University Press, 2025; Robert Butterworth. 'The Hymn of the Wiltshire Labourers.' The Dickensian 516.118.1 (Spring 2022): pp. 43-56; Eva-Charlotta Mebius. 'Dreams of Dying Girls: The Poetry of Thomas J. Ouseley and Charles Dickens.' Dickens Quarterly 34.3 (September 2017): pp. 256-261; Robert C. Hanna. 'Before Boz; The Juvenilia and Early Writings of Charles Dickens, 1820-1833'. Dickens Studies Annual 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 Publication Type E.g. newspaper/serial Newspaper Publication The title of the newspaper/serial (if applicable) The Examiner Pseudonym The name under which the item was published W. TEI File Link to TEI file <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/teibp/dist/content/1841-08-07_The_Fine_Old_English_Gentleman.xml" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener">'The Fine Old English Gentleman.' The Examiner (7 August 1841): p. 500.</a> 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. 18410807 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   (which is the HTML for spaces). This will prevent the Ngram picking up on irrelevant HTML. THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN. NEW VERSION. (To be said or sung at all Conservative Dinners.) I'll sing you a new ballad, and I'll warrant it first-rate, Of the days of that old gentleman who had that old estate; When they spent the public money at a bountiful old rate On ev'ry mistress, pimp, and scamp, at ev'ry noble gate, In the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again! The good old laws were garnished well with gibbets, whips, and chains, With fine old English penalties, and fine old English pains, With rebel heads, and seas of blood once hot in rebel veins; For all these things were requisite to guard the rich old gains Of the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again! This brave old code, like Argus, had a hundred watchful eyes, And ev'ry English peasant had his good old English spies, To tempt his starving discontent with fine old English lies, Then call the good old Yeomanry to stop his peevish cries, In the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again! The good old times for cutting throats that cried out in their need, The good old times for hunting men who held their fathers' creed, The good old times when William Pitt, as all good men agreed, Came down direct from Paradise at more than railroad speed ... Oh the fine old English Tory times; When will they come again! In those rare days, the press was seldom known to snarl or bark, But sweetly sang of men in pow'r, like any tuneful lark; Grave judges, too, to all their evil deeds were in the dark; And not a man in twenty score knew how to make his mark. Oh the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again! Those were the days for taxes, and for war's infernal din; For scarcity of bread, that fine old dowagers might win; For shutting men of letters up, through iron bars to grin, Because they didn't think the Prince was altogether thin, In the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again! But Tolerance, though slow in flight, is strong-wing'd in the main; That night must come on these fine days, in course of time was plain; The pure old spirit struggled, but its struggles were in vain; A nation's grip was on it, and it died in choking pain, With the fine old English Tory days, All of the olden time. The bright old day now dawns again; the cry runs through the land, In England there shall be dear bread — in Ireland, sword and brand; And poverty, and ignorance, shall well the rich and grand. So, rally round the rulers with the gentle iron hand, Of the fine old English Tory days; Hail to the coming time! W. 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 'The Fine Old English Gentleman' Source A related resource from which the described resource is derived British Newspapers Archive Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1841-08-07 Type The nature or genre of the resource Song Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Dickens, Charles Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource British Newspapers Archive, <a href="https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000054/18410807/001/0004">https://www.britishnewspaperarchive.co.uk/viewer/bl/0000054/18410807/001/0004</a>. Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited. 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. 'The Fine Old English Gentleman.' The Examiner (7 August 1841): p. 500. Dickens Search. Eds. Emily Middleton and Lydia Craig. Accessed [date]. <a href="https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1841-08-07-The_Examiner_The_Fine_Old_English_Gentleman">https://dickenssearch.com/verse/1841-08-07-The_Examiner_The_Fine_Old_English_Gentleman</a>. Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context 1841-08-07_The_Examiner_The_Fine_Old_English_Gentleman Description An account of the resource Published in The Examiner (7 August 1841). Scripto Transcription A written representation of a document. <div style="text-align: left;">THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.</div> <div style="text-align: left;">NEW VERSION.</div> (To be said or sung at all Conservative Dinners.) I'll sing you a new ballad, and I'll warrant it first-rate, Of the days of that old gentleman who had that old estate; When they spent the public money at a bountiful old rate On ev'ry mistress, pimp, and scamp, at ev'ry noble gate, In the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again! The good old laws were garnished well with gibbets, whips, and chains, With fine old English penalties, and fine old English pains, With rebel heads, and seas of blood once hot in rebel veins; For all these things were requisite to guard the rich old gains Of the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again! This brave old code, like Argus, had a hundred watchful eyes, And ev'ry English peasant had his good old English spies, To tempt his starving discontent with fine old English lies, Then call the good old Yeomanry to stop his peevish cries, In the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again! The good old times for cutting throats that cried out in their need, The good old times for hunting men who held their fathers' creed, The good old times when William Pitt, as all good men agreed, Came down direct from Paradise at more than railroad speed . . . Oh the fine old English Tory times; When will they come again! In those rare days, the press was seldom known to snarl or bark, But sweetly sang of men in pow'r, like any tuneful lark; Grave judges, too, to all their evil deeds were in the dark; And not a man in twenty score knew how to make his mark. Oh the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again! Those were the days for taxes, and for war's infernal din; For scarcity of bread, that fine old dowagers might win; For shutting men of letters up, through iron bars to grin, Because they didn't think the Prince was altogether thin, In the fine old English Tory times; Soon may they come again! But Tolerance, though slow in flight, is strong-wing'd in the main; That night must come on these fine days, in course of time was plain; The pure old spirit struggled, but its struggles were in vain; A nation's grip was on it, and it died in choking pain, With the fine old English Tory days, All of the olden time. The bright old day now dawns again; the cry runs through the land, In England there shall be dear bread — in Ireland, sword and brand; And poverty, and ignorance, shall well the rich and grand. So, rally round the rulers with the gentle iron hand, Of the fine old English Tory days; Hail to the coming time! <div style="text-align: left;">W.</div>