CHAPTER XI.

MORE ABOUT _that_ MR. DICK FARDEN--HOW REALLY AND TRULY THERE WAS NO TRUSTING THE FELLOW TO DO A SINGLE THING, FOR POSITIVELY HE SPOILT EVERYTHING HE PUT HIS HAND TO, (IF, INDEED TO DO THE MAN JUSTICE, I EXCEPT THE BOOTS AND KNIVES)--AND HOW, WHEN AT LAST HE SO COMPLETELY RUINED MY LOVE OF A PIANO, THAT ACTUALLY MY “BROADWOOD” WAS ONLY FIT FOR FIREWOOD, (IF THAT,) I WISHED TO GOODNESS GRACIOUS I HAD BEEN A MAN FOR HIS SAKE--BUT AS IT WAS, I MERELY TOLD HIM THAT SUCH GOINGS ON WOULD NOT SUIT _me_, AND THAT HE HAD BETTER GO AND PLAY HIS PRANKS ELSEWHERE, FOR I WASN’T GOING TO PUT UP WITH THEM ANY LONGER, I COULD TELL HIM.

“He seemed confounded--vexed--he stared-- Then vow’d he’d ne’er deceive me; Says I, ‘Your presence can be spared, Sir, if you please, do leave me.’” * * * * * * * * * * “Now pray,” says I, “don’t teaze, young man, You don’t exactly suit me.” “YOU DON’T EXACTLY SUIT ME.” _G. Herbert Rodwell._

The courteous reader will perhaps recollect that Mr. Savill, my bothering printer (as I couldn’t help calling him last month), came in, just at the most interesting part of my narrative about Mr. Dick Farden, and in a most unrelenting manner cut short the thread of my tale with the scissors: “of want of space.” Not that I should have minded so much about it, only the worst of it was, I had warmed so nicely into my story, and really had grown so hot upon it, just at the very moment when in walked Mr. Savill, to throw cold water upon me, with his precious “No more room, ma’m.” And it isn’t easy for a person of poetic mind to have to warm up her feelings a second time, as if the heart were so much cold mutton, or beef, or pork; although, for the matter of that, I think my fair readers will agree with me that pork makes but an indifferent hash, and that nothing on earth can be nicer than a cold boiled leg with a nice mixed pickle, especially in summer time, when hot joints are so disagreeable.

Well, but I think I hear the reader exclaiming, “Goodness gracious, my dear Mrs. Sk--n--st--n, you are allowing your fertile imagination to run away with you, and you have so interested us with your sufferings, that our only happiness lies in listening to your miseries. So “_revenons à nos moutons_,” and Mr. Dick Farden’s capers.”

Certainly the man had a great deal to answer for. His whole life seemed to have been one round of juggling, and imposition, and deceit. Not that I would visit all the blame upon him, for, from what I could learn, his good-for-nothing father really seemed to have been no better than he should have been. Indeed, Mr. Dick Farden told me one day, while he was rubbing down our dining-room table, that “his old governor” (as he called his paternal parent) had originally been in the hair-dressing, shaving, and perfuming line, and had at one time the heads of at least a hundred families in his care, and the chins of half an entire parish under his hands. Consequently, Mr. Farden, sen. did a very extensive business in “Macassars,” “Circassian creams,” “Balm of Columbias,” “Botanic Waters,” and other only safe and speedy means by which baldness is effectually removed, and the hair renovated, beautified, and preserved; for whilst he was cutting and curling his customers, he used invariably to persuade them that their locks were thinning and falling off dreadfully, and that the hair, being nothing more nor less than a vegetable, and the head merely the field in which it sprouted, of course, whenever the crops were cut, it stood to reason that the soil required manuring with a good top-dressing of bear’s grease, while the roots of the plants naturally needed being occasionally irrigated with “botanic water;” adding, that the days were shortly coming when the barber would be ranked with the farmer, and looked upon as the tiller of the head, or hairgriculturist.

Accordingly, Mr. Dick Farden, sen., finding that his eloquence as to the virtues of the artificial manures for the hair was adding considerably to the incomes of Messrs. Rowland, Ross, Gosnell, and others, it struck him that it was merely a duty he owed to his family to devise some guano for the head which should make his own fortune. So he plunged head over ears into bear’s grease, and kept a manufactory and two roaring Russians in a cage in his front kitchen, so that the passers-by might see through the area gratings the brace of hairy monsters walking backwards and forwards, just where the dresser used to be, and thus have ocular demonstration that he dealt only in the genuine article; while, at the end of his garden, he fitted up a very commodious stye for the fattening of pigs; for, as he said very truly, if bald people were partial to the fat of the bear merely on account of the strength of the hair that grew on the back of that animal, surely good, wholesome pig’s fat would be twice as serviceable to them, seeing that that domestic creature bore nothing weaker than bristles. Consequently, Mr. Farden, sen., now turned his thoughts chiefly to the growth of lard and sale of genuine bear’s grease; and whenever he killed a fat pig, he used to paste up outside his door a large placard, with “ANOTHER FINE YOUNG BEAR JUST SLAUGHTERED” printed upon it; whilst in his shop window he suspended the body of the defunct porker, dexterously served up in a beautiful bear’s skin that he always kept by him on purpose, and with a card hung with blue ribbon round his neck, on which was written, “REAL GENUINE BEAR’S GREASE CUT FROM THE CARCASS, AT ONLY 1_s._ 6_d._ PER POUND.” As Dick Farden said, “his governor’s” business was very profitable, but very unpleasant, for the exhibition of the two savage monsters in the kitchen, and the domestic animal in the window, raised such a demand for real bear’s grease in the neighbourhood, that the family had nothing but pork, pork, pork, for dinner all the year round.

To his father’s business our Dick Farden in course of time succeeded, but being of a wild and roving turn of mind, he paid little or no attention to the pigs, and as he said, “he went it so fast that he wasn’t long in going through ‘Farden’s magic grease,’” so that in a very little time, the sheriff walked into the shop, and seized the two bears in the kitchen, together with all the wigs, scalps, and moustachios he had on the premises. But this, he said, he thought he might have got over, had he not unfortunately distrained upon several ladies’ fronts which he had been intrusted with to bake, and which he regretted to say, being taken for the benefit of the creditors, obliged him to fly the neighbourhood, and seek a living elsewhere. After this sad affair, things went very crooked with him, and he said that often and often he had been so put to it, that he would have given anything for a mouthful of the crackling of the fine young bears that he used once to turn his nose up at; and he said he must have tried, what he called “no end of dodges,” to earn an honest living, but all to no good, until one day he fell in with a gentleman over his pipe at the “White Hart,” who persuaded him to join him in the British smuggling line; for as the gentleman, who seemed to be a perfect man of the world and to have a wonderfully fine knowledge of the female portion of human nature, expressed it: “You had only to make the ladies believe that you had got several extraordinary bargains, in the shape of cambrics, gloves, or lace, which you could let them have at fifty per cent. under prime cost, and they would buy cart-loads, whether they wanted them or not, and never trouble their dear heads as to whether they were honestly come by.” In fact, he knew scores and scores of enterprising linendrapers, who had made large fortunes by ruining themselves regularly once a twelvemonth, and selling off the whole of their stock, by order of the assignees, for the benefit of the creditors in general, and ladies in particular. For he said it was well known among the gentlemen in the haberdashery line, that the ladies would never enter a linendraper’s shop so long as he asked only a fair profit on his wares, whereas, if he would only make them believe that he was going to the dogs, and that he was selling off his goods for full half less than they were ever made for, down they would come in swarms, as fast as their legs, cabs, and carriages would carry them, and pay whatever prices the spirited proprietor might please to ask. For the idea of “ANOTHER EXTENSIVE FAILURE” seemed to have such a charm to the women, that the only way by which a linendraper could keep himself solvent, was by declaring himself bankrupt, especially as the darling creatures evidently looked upon it as a religious duty to attend every “AWFUL SACRIFICE,” for nothing seemed to them to be so noble as the notion of a man’s immolating himself at the shrine of Basinghall-street for the love of the fair sex. Indeed, the angels of women appeared to be the very reverse of those ungrateful brutes of rats, and instead of leaving a house just as it’s about to tumble to pieces, they seemed to be more like owls, and love to haunt “ruins,” or rather, he might say, they were the very image of Cornwall wreckers, and would, in answer to the very first placard that was hung out as a signal of distress by the stranded linendraper, rush down in hundreds to see what remnants they could pick up, or get out of the wreck, before the whole concern went to pieces.

Mr. Dick Farden then informed me, that upon this advice he had devoted his labours entirely to the fair sex, and immediately embarked in the “bargain line.” Knowing that the ladies had a natural aversion to parting with their money, and preferred exchanging their dear husbands’ left-off wearing apparel, he made a feeble endeavour to convert old clothes into the current coin of the realm, by carrying about on his arm a beautiful little love of a tame squirrel, which he offered to the passers-by, at the low price of a worn out surtout, and a wonderful piping bullfinch for the exceedingly small charge of a castoff pair of trousers and a waistcoat. In the winter, however, he carried with him a basket of Derbyshire Spa chimney ornaments, with a few glasses and jugs and basins hanging round it. With these, he said, he managed very well, for he could furnish a sweet pretty mantelpiece very elegantly for a lady, with a great coat in the middle and an umbrella on one side, and a mackintosh on the other, while he believed that through his humble means, several husbands had often washed their faces in their old hats, and sipped their gin and water out of their worn-out boots.

By these means he raised money enough to purchase a cargo of contraband goods in the Minories, and succeeded in running them safe into a public-house in the neighbourhood of Regent-street, the sale of which goods occupied his afternoon; while, he added, with a stupid grin on his face, he was proud to say his mornings were devoted to the polishing of our boots and shoes, and knives; for, thank goodness, he continued, there was no pride in him, and he was always willing to pick up a sixpence any day, any how, so that now he could look any of his creditors in the face, and had no need to be, as he so repeatedly was after his father’s death, _non est inwentus_, though, for the matter of that, Mr. Carstairs, who was one of the most beautiful writers of the day, very truly said--“A _nonest_ man’s the noblest work of Natur.”

I am very much afraid I’ve been wasting a great deal of my own valuable time and space, and of my courteous reader’s equally valuable patience, in giving all I could learn of the history of this worthless man; only my dear Edward (who is as obstinate as a mule) would have it that Dick Farden was quite a character, although I must say that if he was a character, he was a very bad one; and I declare the way in which he served me and my sweet piano, is quite heart-rending to think of, but I will tell the reader all about this in its proper place. Though I can’t help adding, that it was quite as much the work of my dear Edward (who, it pains me to state, always will have his own way, and _of course_ always _must_ be in the right) as it was the work of Mr. Dick Farden, (who certainly was one of the clumsiest and stupidest men that I ever came nigh,) for if Mr. Sk--n--st--n would only have allowed me to have packed the man out of the house when _I_ wanted, of course it never would have happened, and I should have had my sweet Broadwood in my possession at this very minute, but the gentle reader knows as well as I do, that what can’t be, &c., must be, &c.; so I shall say no more about the piano, until I touch upon it in the due course of things; for I’ve quite made up my mind to the loss of the thing a long time ago, and the least said is the soonest mended; still I can’t help adding, that I only wish to goodness gracious that I had never set eyes upon that awkward lout of a Mr. Dick Farden, or that that perverse, headstrong (though good at times) husband of mine would not go interfering about the servants, but just allow me to deal with them as I please, and manage my own affairs myself, for I should be glad to know how he would like me to go meddling with his clerks, indeed. In conclusion, I can only say that the circumstance affected me so much at the time that I only prayed for one thing, and that was that the laws would have allowed me to have had the vagabond transported, as they ought to have done, or at the very least have compelled the man to have given me a new piano, value seventy-five guineas, which I was assured was the cost of ours when it was new, though for myself I can’t speak positively to the fact, for, to tell the truth, we bought it second-hand.

But, methinks I hear the gentle reader saying, what about the piano? You are again forgetting yourself, Mrs. Sk--n--st--n, and allowing your naturally fine, warm feelings to make you wander from your subject. _C’est vrai--vous avez raison_, courteous reader.

Well, then, the fact is, I never was fond of needle-work at the best of times, and really and truly, I never could see the fun of passing the heyday of one’s youth darning stockings, and cobbling up a pack of old clothes as full of holes as a cinder shovel. So I longed to have an instrument just to amuse myself with for an hour or two in the day, or play over an air or two to Edward of an evening. And it wasn’t as if I hadn’t got any music-books; besides, I really and truly was sick and tired of doing kettle-holders and working a pack of filthy copper kettles in Berlin wool with a stupid “Mind it boils” underneath them, or else working a lot of braces and slippers for Edward, which, in his nasty vulgar way, he said were too fine by half for use, or else sitting for hours with your toe cocked up in the air netting purses and spending a mint of money in steel beads for a pack of people that you didn’t care twopence about, and who never gave you so much as a trumpery ring or brooch in return (I hate such meanness). So I wouldn’t let Edward have any peace until he promised to get me a piano; for, as I very truly observed, I had been out of practice so long, that I should be very much surprised if on sitting down to a piano, I didn’t find the cries of the wounded in the “Battle of Prague” too much for me, and I was sure that I should break down in the runs in the “Bird Waltz,” even supposing I was able to manage the shakes. And as for the matter of my voice, I told him I had serious alarms about losing my G, and if I did I should never forgive myself, after the money that had been spent on my musical education at Boulogne-sur-mer alone, and I was sure that if I had to begin anew with my singing exercises, and was to be put in the scales again, that I should be found wanting. Besides, I concluded the business by giving him to understand, that it wasn’t so much for myself that I wanted the piano, after all, but of course my darling little toodle-loodle-loo of a Kate, in two or three years at least must have an instrument to begin practising upon, and if he didn’t get one before that, I was sure I shouldn’t be able to tell the difference between A flat and a bull’s foot, and he would have to go to I know not what expense in masters for her, and then he would be ready to cut his ears off for not having got me a piano when I begged of him.

I am happy to say that Edward for once was not deaf to reason, but seeing that I wanted the piano more out of love for little Kate than from any selfish motive on my part, he very properly consented to look out for one for me, although my gentleman couldn’t let well alone, but must go cutting his stupid jokes, saying that he was very much afraid that the piano was only “one for the pot” over again; but I very quickly silenced my lord by merely exclaiming, in my most sarcastic way, “Fiddle.”

However, of course, as usual Mr. Sk--n--st--n, if ever he does consent to do a good action must go spoiling it by doing the thing by halves; for instead of going and ordering me one of Broadwood’s very best new grand uprights, he must needs go poking his nose into all the filthy dirty salerooms in London, until he fell in with a trumpery second-hand cottage, and which I had to have French polished all outside, and thoroughly repaired and done up in, before I could do anything with it, for I declare when I came to go over it, half of the keys of the cottage were of no use. Still, thank goodness, it was a Broadwood, although no one would have thought it, if they had seen it in the state in which it came home to me; for a Broadwood, I think it had the most disgraceful legs I ever saw in all my life, and it wasn’t until I had had the whole thing thoroughly cleaned and put in order, that it was fit to be seen in any respectable person’s dining-room.

When I had spent nearly a fortune upon it, I must confess that it wasn’t so bad after all; indeed, no one would have known it again, and I’ve over and over again seen very many worse in the houses of persons far better off in the world than ourselves, but whose names, for many reasons, of course, I’m not going to state. Certainly its tone was heavenly, and, upon my word, when it came home newly done up, and I ran over “The Soldier Tired,” I declare it sounded for all the world like the music of the spheres--such grandeur in the lower notes--such sweetness in the upper ones--such power when you were impassioned--such plaintiveness when you were sentimental--that I declare it seemed to go right through me, and be more than I could bear, for it would move me to tears; and as I playfully ran up and down the notes, really and truly I felt myself lifted from my seat and carried, without knowing it, into another region--Oh! it was such a little duck of a cottage, and such a darling little pet of a dear Broadwood, the reader can’t tell!

I don’t suppose I could have had the cottage in the house more than a fortnight before I began to feel that it was a sin to be possessed of such a beautifully toned instrument, and not give a party just to show it off--for really the quadrilles upon it sounded quite divinely--and if they did so under my humble fingers, I said to myself, what would they sound like under the more skilful execution of those sweet girls and admirable piano-forte players, the Miss B--yl--s’s, who I knew very well would be delighted to take it in turns and play the whole evening through for me. Besides, it wasn’t as if we had been seeing a whole house full of company every evening; on the contrary, I’m sure we had been living as retired as owls, and hadn’t given a party for I couldn’t safely say when, and I do think it is so dreadful to be obliged to sit moping, locked up in a box all day long, without ever seeing a single soul beyond the people you’ve got about you. Moreover, as I very properly observed to myself, it really was not left for us to say whether we liked to give a party or not; but, upon my word, when I looked at it again, I felt that it was a moral obligation, and nothing more nor less than a matter of common honesty on our side to do so; for, of course, having danced at all our friends’ houses, and eaten all our friends’ suppers, they naturally expected that we should make them some return, as indeed, in plain justice, we ought to; besides, how could we hope that we should ever be asked out to our friends again, if we didn’t give them supper for supper and dance for dance. I told Edward, too, that really and truly it would be little or no expense, for we should only want such a small supper that a five pound note would cover it all, I was sure; for I merely intended just to have a ham and beef sandwich or two for the top and bottom, and a chicken or so prettily done up in blue satin ribbon, as if it had been had from the pastrycooks; and then for the matter of confectionary, of course we might have a trifle from Camden Town for a mere nothing, and that with, say one or two custards, and a jelly, would make quite show enough for what we wanted, I was certain; besides, I could easily fill out the table with a few almonds, and raisins, and figs, and candied lemon peel, for, as I very properly said, there was no necessity for our going to the foolish expense of grapes, and surely they could do without crackers for once in a way, and if they couldn’t, why they wouldn’t have them, that was all I knew. And even then, supposing that upon second thoughts we didn’t fancy the table looked crowded and showy enough, why I could easily make a bargain with the pastrycook for the hire of some of their fancy articles, either a beautiful elephant in pound-cake, or a love of a barley-sugar bird-cage, and which we must take care and not press our friends to taste, and then with Edward’s two beautiful plated candelabras with silver edges, I was sure it would be as handsome an entertainment as any one could wish for, and if it wasn’t, why all I could say was, that I wasn’t going to any more expense about the matter,--no! not if the Queen herself were coming--and there’s an end of it!

Well, it was all so nicely arranged, and I sent out all my invitations in such good time, that I think I had only eight refusals, and those not from the _best_ of our acquaintance, so I didn’t break my heart about them. But, as I very truly said to myself, I may as well have my rooms full whilst I am about it, so I packed off a card to some of my friends that I didn’t care very much for, and whom I had consequently made up my mind not to ask at all, with a note apologising for the shortness of the notice, and telling them that owing to the letter having been misdirected, the invitation I had sent them three weeks back had just been returned to me by the Post-office.

Upon my word, the preparations for the party were almost too much for me, and I declare to gracious I worked like a common cab-horse, for I hadn’t even time to sit down and take my meals decently, like a Christian, and when I went to bed, I can assure my lady-readers, I was _so_ tired, that I made a vow to myself that even if the whole world depended upon it, I’d never again be dragged into giving another party,--no, not for ever so much! But I shouldn’t have minded it a very great deal after all, if it hadn’t been for Mr. Sk--n--st--n’s shameful behaviour, and total want of sympathy with my sufferings--for really and truly, if he hadn’t the bare-faced impudence to tell me that I had only myself to blame for it; for that “_I_ (_I_, indeed!) was always bothering his life out about giving a party,” when all the while the wretch must have known, as well as I did, that it wasn’t for _myself_ that I wanted any of your parties, but merely to oblige him, by keeping all _his_ friends and clients together. But, of course, these are just the thanks one gets for slaving one’s life out, as one does, for the sake of one’s husband. It’s always the way with those selfish things of men, though. Mr. Edward, however, wont catch his dear (pretty dear!) Caroline making such a fool of herself again in a hurry--No! not if she knows it.

As our look out at the back is far from pretty, and to tell the truth never did please me, (for we had only a view of these S--mm--nds’ trumpery garden, and they are always washing at-home, and hanging the things out to dry right under our very noses) why, I thought (as I always had been, from my cradle, of an ingenious turn of mind) that I might as well ornament our staircase-window just a little bit, and so shut out that dreadful eyesore which we had at the back of us, and make the window quite a handsome object; for I must say that of all things in the world for a staircase, give me a stained glass window. Oh! I do think it looks so beautiful--so rich and _distingué_, to see bunches of roses, and pinks, and camelias, painted on ground glass, just for all the world as if they were growing there. So I set to work, and having a pair of old worn-out chintz bed-curtains up stairs, I cut out some of the best flowers that had had the least of their colour washed out of them, and dabbed some putty over all the panes, until, I declare to goodness gracious, a glazier himself would have sworn that the glass had been ground. Then, with some gum I stuck the chintz flowers in the centre of every one of the panes, and, upon my honour, I can assure the reader, it was the most perfect bit of deception I ever saw in all my life; and I’ll warrant, that even the best judges in stained glass would have had to have passed their fingers over the surface, before they would have been able to have found it out. As any one came in at our street-door, it positively gave the house quite a cathedral air. Oh! it was so beautiful, so chaste, and yet so rich; and when I first saw it from our hall, I couldn’t for the life of me help exclaiming, with the top of the bills of the Colosseum--“’Tis not a picture--it is nature.” Yet, when I think of what happened afterwards, I declare I feel as if I could sit down and cry my eyes out--but more of this hereafter.

Well, I got all the plate nicely cleaned, and all the carpets taken up, and all the papers cut for the wax candles, and the chandelier taken out of its brown holland bag, and had ordered the rout-seats, and the flowers, and the chickens, and the barley sugar bird-cage (which I thought would look best after all, for the man hadn’t a single elephant in his shop that he said would be large enough to place in the middle of the supper-table, and wanted to put me off with a trumpery hedgehog, with half its almond quills out, and which I could very easily see, from the stale look of the thing, had been out to an evening party every night that week.) The only thing that remained to be done was to get that lovely cottage of mine up into the drawing-room, and how the dickens we were ever to manage it, I’m sure I couldn’t tell. When I asked Mr. Edward about it, as he was decantering his wine at the side-board, before he went to business, on the morning of the party, and inquired of him whether he didn’t think Dick Farden could manage it for me, he merely said, stuff-a’-nonsense, I had better have proper people to do it, and then I should be sure to have it done rightly; on which I very justly remarked--“Proper people, indeed! did he know what proper people would come to? He seemed to be talking as if he had got more money in his pockets than he knew what to do with; and I should just like to know what on earth was the use of having Mr. Dick Farden always about the house, if he couldn’t be trusted to move my cottage just from one room to another.” This brought him to his senses, for he said, as I seemed to know so much more about it than he did, I had better do as I liked--only he must go spoiling it, by adding, in his nasty perverse way, “that I mustn’t go blame him if any thing happened to it.”--But I _do_ blame him for it all, and can’t help saying, that it was entirely his own fault, for what business had he to tell me that I knew more about it than he did, and that I had better do it as I liked, when he must have known, as well as I did, that I knew nothing at all about moving cottages, and that something dreadful was going to happen. Oh! that dear, dear Broadwood of mine. But I must restrain myself.

Well, no sooner had I seen my husband fairly out of the house, than I rang the bell for Mr. Dick Farden, and when he came into the parlour, I asked him if he thought he could manage to move that piano of mine up into the drawing-room. So, after measuring the width of it, and then going and looking at our first landing, he said, “he was afeard there would be no getting the thing up the stairs anyhow, for there was no room to turn the corner with it;” and, on going up and looking for myself, sure enough the man was right; though as I told him, what on earth could make the people go building houses in that stupid way, was beyond a person of my limited understanding to comprehend. Dick Farden said that there were only two ways of getting over it, one was to take out my beautiful painted glass window, (which of course I wasn’t going to listen to--though I can’t help wishing now, from the very bottom of my heart, that I had); and the other to “hoist it up” outside the back of the house, and so get it in at the French window in the drawing-room, which, he said, he and a “pal” of his, as he called him, could do very easily for a pot of beer. I asked him whether he was sure that it would be perfectly safe; but he would have it that there was not the least danger, so long as the ropes were good. So I showed him the clothes lines, but my gentleman wanted to persuade me that it would be better to have them just a trifle thicker--though of course I knew what that all meant, and wasn’t going to be foolish enough to give him the money to go buying new ropes with, indeed, and making a pretty penny out of them, I’d be bound. So I quietly told him that as those very ropes had been strong enough to bear the weight of “La petite Saqui,” (and she was no feather,) jumping and frisking about on them, I thought they might manage to lift my Broadwood up to the drawing-room window--though, of course, like master like man, he must go saying, as Mr. Edward did, that I mus’n’t blame him if anything happened on account of the ropes,--and really, from their all talking so about something happening, I positively began to fancy that something _was_ going to happen, (and so it _was_, too, with a vengeance,) and what I should do then goodness gracious only knows.

Off scampered Mr. Dick Farden for his friend, and I gave him permission to bring the beer in with him, for of course he couldn’t do a thing without tasting his beer first. I declare I never knew such a pig for beer as the man was in all my life; he couldn’t do anything beyond his everyday work without looking for something to drink; in fact, if I asked him to do ever such a trifle, he was always saying, in a nasty begging tone, “You haven’t got such a thing as a pint of beer about you, have you, ma’am?”

When he came back, he and his friend, whom he called Jim, carried my cottage out into the garden; and when they had tied the clothes line all round it, Jim went up stairs to the second-floor window, and threw out a string for us to tie the end of the rope to. As soon as he had got hold of it, Mr. Farden tied what he called the “guider” to one of the legs of my Broadwood, so as to prevent its knocking against the house as it went up. When they were all ready, Farden called out to Jim, “Now, pull steady, lad!” and up went my beautiful cottage in the air, as nicely as ever I saw anything done in all my life. Just as they had got it well over the area railings, and nearly on a level with our back-parlour window, that bothering Jim, who was as strong as a bull, began pulling too hard, and I saw that it was more than Farden could manage to keep the piano away from the house, and that in another minute I should be having it going bang in at our back-parlour window, and perhaps lodging right on the top of the sideboard, where I had put all the jellies and custards not ten minutes before. So I gave a slight scream, and ran up to him as fast as my legs could carry me, and seizing hold of the guider, told him, for goodness gracious sake, to pull the piano over towards the garden wall. But I declare the words were no sooner out of my mouth, than away he must tear, pulling away as hard as ever he could, just for all the world as if my beautiful instrument were made of cast iron, and he had no sooner got it opposite my beautiful staircase window, than all of a sudden off flew the leg of my Broadwood to which the guide rope was attached, and down he tumbled, and I with him; and ah, lor a mercy! I heard something go bang, smash, crash, and on looking up, oh dear! there was my lovely cottage gone right through my beautiful imitation-stained glass window, and dashing backwards and forwards, for all the world like one of those great big swings at a fair, and knocking against the window, as Jim kept pulling it up, until there wasn’t scarcely a bit of the frame or glass left standing. Lord love you, out came all the neighbours’ servants, in a swarm, just like a pack of bees at the sound of a gong; and I’d be bound to say they thought it a fine bit of fun, and a sight worth going a mile any day to see. Farden hallooed out as loud as he could, “Hold hard there, Jim!” but Jim (the stupid oaf!) being, as I afterwards learnt, rather hard of hearing, only kept pulling and pulling as fast as Mr. Farden kept saying, “Hold hard there, will you, Jim; I tell you the rope’s cut!” And sure enough so it had been, by the broken glass; and as I looked at it, I could see thread by thread giving way, until at last, when it was very nearly on a level with our drawing-room window, snap went the clothes lines--and oh! was ever poor woman born to be so tormented before! down came my lovely cottage, like a thunderclap, on to the top of our water-butt, which it upset, so that as my beautiful Broadwood fell smash upon the stones in the yard, whop came that great big heavy water-butt right upon it, crashing it all to shivers, and shooting the whole of its contents, for all the world like a torrent, into both of our kitchens, and flooding the whole place at least two pattens deep I declare--

When we went up stairs to look after that deaf scoundrel of a Jim, oh, lud! if the breaking of the rope hadn’t thrown him back into my darling little Kitty’s beautiful cradle, and as I said to myself, I am sure it was a perfect mercy that the poor dear innocent angel hadn’t been sleeping there at the time, or that heavy lout of a Jim must have killed her on the spot, and as it was, there were all the wicker work ribs of the thing broken in, so that it was impossible ever to think of letting her sleep in it again, for really and truly, it looked more like an old hamper than a respectable baby’s bassinet.

As for the party, it was next to madness to think another moment about that, for when you hadn’t a piano, or a window on the staircase left, I should like to know how it would ever be possible to have a nice comfortable dance; so after I had given it to Mr. Dick Farden well, and told him that I should certainly make a point of stopping the piano out of his wages, and after I had packed Mr. Jim off home to his family with a flea in his ear, there was I obliged in my state of mind to sit down, and scribble off a lot of story-telling letters to all the friends I had invited, saying, that owing to my sweet Kitty’s having been taken suddenly and dangerously ill, I regretted to say that I was compelled to postpone the pleasure of seeing them until some future period, and bundling Mr. Dick Farden into a cab, told him to make as much haste as ever he could and deliver them, though I do verily believe, that from the number of knocks and cabs and hackney coaches that came to the door that dreadful evening, that he put the better part of the fare in his pocket, and never delivered many of them at all; and there was I, obliged to come down every five minutes, from ten till twelve in the evening, and put on a very long face, and tell a pack of taradiddles about the sufferings of my sweet little angel of a Kitty, and how we didn’t expect her to live the whole night through, when actually the little pet was fast asleep in my bed and as well as she had been ever since she was born; and upon my word, it really made my heart bleed to have to send the dear creatures home again, when I saw how nicely their hairs were done, and the expense they had gone to about their dresses, for they had evidently come out determined upon spending a very pleasant evening.

Edward, on his return home, I regret to say, forgot himself as a gentleman and my husband. At one time I thought he had gone clean out of his wits, for he had the impudence to say, that I seemed to take a delight in throwing twenty pounds in the dirt, and that it was all my fault, and none of it Dick Farden’s, and that he would take good care that if ever I wanted any more music, I might whistle for it; and that as for any more pianos, that the next one I had, should come out of my own pocket. As I saw that he wouldn’t be happy until we had had a good quarrel, I thought it best to go off into hysterics, and laughed and sobbed in such a dreadful way that I soon brought him to his senses, and made him begin kissing me, and calling me his dear, foolish, thoughtless Caroline, and telling me to calm myself for heaven’s sake, or I should be laying myself up. But then it came to my turn, for I wasn’t going to let him abuse me like a pickpocket one minute, and make friends with him the next, and I do think that I never should have opened my lips civilly to him again, if he hadn’t brought me home a beautiful Gros de Naples dress, and so showed that he felt he was in the wrong, and was sorry for what he had done.

It was a hard struggle for a person like me, to bring myself ever to look upon that Dick Farden with any pleasure again; for I declare the next morning when he came into the house, I thought I never saw such a nasty, low, vulgar, mean, sly, disreputable looking face in all my life, with his ringlets dangling at his temples, and which he seemed to be as proud of as a life-guardsman is of his moustachios; positively the man was always twiddling either them or his whiskers, and what on earth a fellow like him could ever have wanted with a couple of corkscrews at the side of his forehead is more than I can say; and, la! if they were not as greasy as though they had been twisted round tallow candles! It wasn’t only the fellow’s looks, too, that I had to complain of; but, drat the man! do what I would, I could never prevent him from going about the kitchen, or standing in the knife-house, whistling his “Jim Crows” and “Such a getting up stairs,” and a pack of other low, unmeaning “nigger” songs, that I’m sure I never could see either the fun or the beauty of. Again, if ever I gave him any of Edward’s clothes to brush, there he would be, hissing and fizzing away over them like a bottle of ginger beer in warm weather; and indeed it always was and ever will be a riddle to me what those boots and ostlers can want making all that fuss and noise over their work, as if they were slaving as hard as steam-engines, and obliged to let the steam off, for fear of bursting. I declare whenever I hear them doing it, I feel as if I could go up behind them and give them a good shaking, that I do. It’s nothing more than “great cry and little wool,” and that’s the plain truth of it.

I can assure the reader it would have been much better for me in the long-run, if I had packed the fellow out of the house immediately after the accident, (as indeed I was as near doing as two pins.) Only, of course, in my stupid, kind way, I must go letting my good-nature get the upper hand of my judgment, and endeavouring to read the gentleman a strong lesson, just to teach him how to lift a simple piano for the future, by making him pay a good part of his wages towards buying me a new one in the place of that which he had so wickedly broken. For I’ve always made it a rule to make my servants pay for breakages, as it’s all very fine for a parcel of wiseacres to tell you that we are every one of us liable to accidents, but my answer to such stuff as that, has always been, “Don’t tell me, I know a great deal better--and that servants, one and all, are never happy unless they can be knocking your things about like ninepins, and the only way to let them understand that they cost money, is to make them pay for what they ‘_couldn’t help_’ breaking.” (Couldn’t help it, couldn’t they--I never knew such couldn’t helps!) Besides, who ever heard of ladies banging the teacups and wineglasses about, as if they were made of cast iron, or pouring boiling water into your very best decanters as though they were foot-baths. Now look at me! why I’m sure that without exaggeration, the things I’ve broken in my time might be put in a nut-shell--but then _I_ knew that they all cost money, and consequently, never was a “butter-fingers.”

However, to talk of another object; I’d been having a whole string of nasty little draggle-tail girls in to nurse my little Kitty for me of a day, but I declare they were all the very counterpart of that “La petite Saqui,” and as dirty and slovenly as dirty and slovenly could be--with their nasty, rusty little old shawl just thrown over their necks, and their cotton gowns with all the colour washed out, excepting where the tuck had been let down, and there it was bright enough, heaven knows! Upon my word, too, they were as careless of my poor little dear, as though it had been a doll made out of wood; and the worst of it was, they were all of them so sly and deceitful, and always kissing and fondling the little pet to my face, though directly my back was turned, they would go knocking it about, and eating up, like a set of greedy pigs, all the sugar I had given out for the angel’s pap. I declare to goodness gracious, whenever they took the child out for an airing, it was a perfect agony to me, for I used to sit upon pins and needles, expecting every knock that came to the door, would be my little cherub brought home on a shutter, and I should find out that it had either been run over, or dropped into the canal, or tossed by a mad bull, or something equally pleasant to a fond mother’s feelings. So I told Edward very quietly, that for the sake of a trumpery five-pound note a year, I wasn’t going to be torn to pieces in the manner I was every hour of my life; and that I had made up my mind to have a regular nurse, who, at least, would be some credit to the family, and on whom I could place some little dependence. Besides, I said with great truth, I was certain we should find a decent, clean woman would be a positive saving in the long run, if it was only in the matter of the baby’s washing--which really seemed to be an expense that there was no end to--for even if I were to put ten frocks on the little angel every day, I assured him it would be as grubby as a chimney-sweeper’s child, all the same; and as for the matter of eating, I would back a good strong growing girl, that’s out in the open air half her time, to get through twice as much, if not more, than a full-grown respectable woman, any day.

Accordingly, I set about looking out for a nurse, and as I had several times, when I had gone out to take a walk and look at the shops in Regent-street, noticed what seemed to me a very nice servants’ institution in Oxford-street, and although I had never tried anything of the kind before, still as I knew they professed a great deal, and made out that they were a great protection to housekeepers against fraud, and said a whole host of other grand things into the bargain--why, I thought I might as well just try that means of getting a servant for once--though I couldn’t help saying to myself at the time, “Fine words butter no parsnips,” but, for the matter of that, how any other kind of words could, was always a mystery to me. Besides, it is such an expense putting advertisement after advertisement in the _Times_, and certainly the “Institution” would save me a deal of trouble, as well as four or five rows of postage stamps, in writing, prepaid, to a whole regiment of A. B.’s, who, after all, might never suit you.

However, before I set about taking any steps towards suiting myself with a nurse, I made up my mind, that I would have a grass plot laid down in our garden at the back of our house, where the nurse could let the child roll about, and no harm could possibly come to it, as I should always have the little pet under my own eye, instead of being obliged to send it a quarter of a mile off at least, to that bothering Regent’s Park, where the soldiers and a parcel of other idle good-looking vagabonds made it quite as dangerous for the nurse as it was for the child. Besides, it wasn’t as if that garden of ours at the back of the house was of any use to us, and goodness knows if it wasn’t useful it wasn’t ornamental, to say the least of it! I declare it was almost a match for the plantation in Leicester-square, and mercy me! I never saw such a place as that is--with its grubby shrubbery, and its trees dingy--for all the world like so many worn-out birch brooms with an old tea-leaf or two sticking to the end of them--and that sooty statue on horseback perched up in the centre, and looking just like a coalheaver of the Dark Ages astride one of his master’s wagon-horses--for who else it can possibly be, no one can tell, and the only way to solve the mystery would be to have a chimney-sweeper in to sweep the gentleman, and then perhaps somebody might find out.

Upon my word, I do really believe that if there was a pin to choose between Leicester-square and our back garden, certainly the Square had the best of it. For the fact of it was, that stupid, though respected, mother of mine would go making me believe when first we came to our house, that the air up in our neighbourhood was pure enough to grow anything, and that with the ground we had at the back of us, we might very easily get enough vegetables to keep the family all the year round, adding, then we should be sure to have them so sweet, and fresh, and good. Sweet, and fresh, and good, indeed!--upon my word! the whole of our first year’s crop consisted of only about four nasty, smutty, two-penny-halfpenny cabbages, that must have cost us a matter of ten shillings a piece if they did a farthing--and they were all eaten away, and their leaves were as yellow and full of holes as the seat of a cane-bottomed chair; so that I began to find out, after we had been gardening away fit to kill ourselves, for I can’t say how long, that really and truly we were doing nothing more than keeping a small preserve of slugs, snails, and caterpillars. Do what I would, and slave as I might, I could _not_ keep the filthy things away. Cupful after cupful have I taken off the plants of a morning, and yet the next day there they were again as thick as ever. I declare the better part of my day used to be occupied all through the summer, with looking after those plaguy greens, (which, water them as I would, I could not get to be anything equal in colour to the caterpillars that were always in them,) till, ’pon my word, my poor neck was as sunburnt as ginger.

As I couldn’t manage any cabbages I thought I’d try and raise a small crop of peas; but, bless you! then I was nearly driven out of my mind by those impudent vagabonds of birds, the London sparrows--and catch _them_ letting any peas come up (even if they would) within five miles of the General Post-office. As for frightening them away, I declare they were as bold as brass, for if they don’t care for those mischievous monkeys of boys in the street, was it likely that they were to be intimidated by a respectable married woman like myself? Positively, I put up an old bonnet of mine on the end of a stick, which I should have thought would have scared even a philosopher off the premises--but, bless your heart! they only came and perched right on the crown of it, and chirped away as if they were comfortably at home in their nests in Red Lion-square. And just when my lovely peas were beginning to break ground and poke their nice little green heads up out of the earth, I have often gone out into the garden and found a hundred of the young feathered ogres hard at my beautiful Prussian blues, picking away, and making noise enough for an infant school; and though I’d go down to them, sh--sh--sh--, sh--ing away, and shaking my apron as hard as I could, I declare, it wasn’t until I got within arm’s-length of them, that the brazen-faced little chits would condescend to take the least notice of me, and then they’d only just hop up on the top of the wall, where they would stand, with their heads cocked on one side, and looking out at the corners of their eyes at me, and chirping away just as if they were saying, “Peas, peas, peas”--drat ’em!

Though, to be sure, I had this consolation--I wasn’t the only sufferer, for not one of the neighbours could do a bit better than I did--no, not even poor Mr. S--mm--ns, and he tried hard enough, goodness gracious knows! I declare he used to be out in the broiling hot sun all day, digging away in his shirt sleeves, until his poor bald-head used to look like the top of a beef-steak pudding--and, what for, I should like to know? just to raise, in the course of the year, as many radishes, and cauliflowers, and greens, and rhubard, as he might buy any fine morning in Covent Garden market for a mere sixpence, or a shilling at most. Though he tried his hardest to force a cucumber or two, under a broken ground-glass lamp shade, and spent a little fortune in manure, still the only one that came, of course, was nipped in the gherkin; and, notwithstanding some of his beds were covered with old tumblers, just for all the world like a sideboard, yet I’m sure I never could see the good of them, for his crop of lettuces wouldn’t have made more than one good-sized salad after all; while the gooseberry and currant bushes, that he went to the expense of having put all round his garden, never bore more than a pie and a small pudding in the best of seasons--and that not till the middle of November. In fact, I’ve made up my opinion long ago, that gardening in the suburbs of London is a wicked and wilful waste of time and money. Really and truly the whole atmosphere of the place is so dreadfully smokey, that, without joking, one might just as well try to rear cauliflowers all round the top of a steam-boat funnel, as to think of getting one’s vegetables out of a metropolitan hop-skip-and-a-jump kitchen garden. Vegetables for the family, indeed! “chickweed and groundsel for fine singing birds,” more likely.

So, as I said before, I made up my mind, not to go making a stupid of myself any longer, playing at market-gardening, and turning myself into a manufacturing green-grocer and fruiterer, by trying to convert a trumpery band-box full of mould and gravel into a productive orchard. Accordingly I determined to root up the whole of those rat-tailed stalks of cabbages, and have the place nicely turfed in the centre, and a few pretty rose-bushes, and geranium trees, and other odd things, that at any rate would be pleasant to one’s eye and nose, put round the sides. Consequently I had up Mr. Dick Farden, and asked him whether he thought he could manage _that_ for me without spoiling it; but really the fellow was so conceited, and fancied himself so clever, that, of course, he was as confident he could do it for me as he was that he could move my piano--(and a pretty mess he made of that--as the reader knows!) He couldn’t, however, merely give a simple answer to a simple question, and have done with it, but must go on talking his head off, and speaking to me as familiarly as if I was one of his pot-companions, saying that it was very easy to lay the ground out, but he was afraid I should find it quite as hard to raise a nosegay as a salad “in the first city of the world.” For, in all in his experience, he had noticed that Cockney roses were not to be forced beyond the size of grog-blossoms, and he would defy even Mr. Paxton himself to get London tulips any bigger than thimbles. He said that the beautiful climate of Brompton itself, which all the house-agents and physicians cried up as the Devonshire district of London, would only produce hollyhocks in the flower line, and mustard and cress in the vegetable ditto,--and from all he had seen in his time, he had come to the conclusion, that trying to get roses and lilies, this side of Richmond, was really the pursuit of flowers under difficulties; for it appeared to be as if Providence had originally designed that the soil of London should bear nothing beyond bricks and mortar. Though it was not so much the fault of the ground as it was of the cats--and them he could not, for the life of him, help looking upon as the young gardener’s worst companion--for as fast you put in the seed, just as fast would they scratch it up again; and, of course, nothing would satisfy the creatures but they must go lying in your beds of a night. Indeed, the Toms of London seemed, like young Love always to prefer sleeping among the roses. Now, he remembered, he told me, about the time when Walworth went mad about dahlias, and offered a prize of a hundred guineas for the finest specimen that could be grown within two miles of the Elephant and Castle,--he was sure any one might have heard the amateur gardeners firing at the cats, and the guns going off there of a night, for all the world like a review in Hyde-park; but all to no good--for, after all, the prize was carried off by a clever young gentleman, who had no garden at all, and grew the choicest specimen there was at the show in an old black tea-pot, out of his two pair back.

However, I wasn’t going to sit there all day hearing him try to persuade me against what I had set my heart and soul upon, and railing against everything just like an old East Indian with half a liver, for I could easily see that all my fine gentleman wanted was, to save himself the trouble of doing up the garden, and wished, of course, to take our money without doing a single thing for it; but I wasn’t going to encourage him standing all day long with his hands in his pockets--not I indeed. So when he found that I wasn’t quite such a stupid as he seemed to take me for, and was determined upon having the thing done, willy-nilly, then, of course, he must needs try his best to advise me to go to the expense of a lot of box-borders for the place. But I wouldn’t listen to it for a minute, for, as I very plainly told him, I was sure that oyster-shells would be quite good enough for us, especially as dear Edward was so fond of having a dozen or two of Natives before he went to bed of a night, and I knew that I should get a very pretty border out of his suppers in less than a fortnight.

However, upon second thoughts, it struck me that, whilst I was about it, I might just as well have a few really good plants put in, particularly as Mr. Dick Farden said he knew a florist in the neighbourhood, who would do the whole thing for a mere nothing for me, and attend to it afterwards, either by the day, month, or year, on the most reasonable terms. So, as I couldn’t see any great harm in hearing from Mr. Dick Farden’s friend himself what he might consider “a mere nothing,” I arranged in my own mind that the best way would be to let Farden call upon him, and send him round to me on his way down to deliver the letter I intended to write to the director (for there’s nothing but directors now-a-days) of the Servants’ Institution. Accordingly, having scribbled a note to the institution--saying that, as I was in want of a nurse, I should feel obliged if they would send one of their young men round to me _as soon as possible_, from whom I could learn the terms and advantages of the establishment--I told Mr. Dick Farden to take it to Oxford-street, and, while he was out, to run round and tell his friend the florist to call on me _in the evening_, so that I might talk over with him about the flowers.

When that precious beauty of a Dick Farden came back, he told me he had brought with him the gentleman I had sent him for, who, he said, had written down a few of the names of such articles as he thought would suit me, and which he could recommend, as they had all been in the _nursery_ a long time. Of course, I imagined the stupid fellow was alluding to the maid I wanted for my little Kitty, and not to a pack of bothering flowers, as I afterwards found out, to my great horror; and there was I going on for upwards of twenty minutes asking all kinds of odd questions of the stranger, fully believing that he was the person from the Servants’ Institution, and not that trumpery friend of Mr. Dick Farden’s, who was in the gardening line.

When the man came in, I said to him, very naturally, “My man-servant tells me that you have brought with you a few of the names of such as you think will suit me. They have all been in the nursery a long time, I believe; and what kind of places have they been accustomed to?”

“Oh, a very nice place,” he replied; “about the same as yours might be, mum. They had a warmish bed, and have always been accustomed to be out in the open air.”

“Yes, I should want them to be out in the open air a great deal,” I answered, though at the time I couldn’t help fancying that it was very funny that the man should allude in particular to their _warm beds_. “Now I should like you to recommend me one,” I continued, “that’s healthy and strong, and likely to remain with me for some time, for it is so distressing to have to provide yourself with a new one every year.”

“So it is, mum,” he returned. “I think I know the very one you want, mum. It’s a remarkable fine colour, mum.”

“That certainly is a recommendation. I like them to look healthy,” I replied, thinking, of course, that the man was only talking about a nursery maid, and not of some trumpery rose he had got at home.

“It’s a very dark coloured one, mum; indeed, very nearly a black,” he answered; “and of a summer’s evening smells wonderful, I can assure you, mum.”

“Lord a mercy!” I cried out, believing the man wanted to recommend me a negress. “Oh la! all the blacks do, and I wouldn’t have one of them about my house for all I’m worth.”

“Then may be, mum,” he continued, “you’d like one a trifle gayer. Now, there’s a Madame Pompadour we’ve got that I think would just suit you. That’s a remarkable showy one, to be sure, and likes a good deal of raking.”

“Oh, I see,” I replied; “a French bit of goods. No, thank you; they are all of them a great deal too gay by half to please me.”

“Well, mum, if that wont suit you,” he replied, “what would you think of a nice Chinese? We’ve got a perfect beauty, I can assure you--just the very thing for you, mum--climb up anywhere--run all along the area-railings, mum--crawl right over your back-garden door--then up the house into your drawing-room balcony--almost like a wild one, mum.”

“Like a wild one!” I almost shrieked, horror-struck at the idea of intrusting my sweet, little, helpless angel of a Kate to the care of a creature with any such extraordinary propensities. “Too like a wild one for me. I don’t want any such things about my house.”

“But if you object to their running about so much, mum,” he went on, “it’s very easy to tie them up and give them a good trimming occasionally, and then you can keep them under as much as you please.”

“I don’t want one,” I replied, “that will require so much looking after, but one that you know could be trusted anywhere--especially as there will be a little baby to be taken care of.”

“A little baby! Oh! then, if that’s the case, mum,” he had the impudence to say, “I should think you had better have a monthly one while you are about it.”

“A monthly one!” I exclaimed, thinking he was referring to a second Mrs. Toosypegs, instead of a rose; “what can you be thinking of? I tell you I don’t want anything of the kind.”

“Yes, but I’m sure you don’t know how hardy they are, mum,” he added, quite coolly. “I can give you my word, we’ve got one that’s out now, mum, that went through all the severe frosts of last winter with nothing more than a bit of matting as a covering at night-time. Though, for the matter of that, almost all our monthlies are the same, and don’t seem to care where they are put, for really and truly I do think that they would go on just as well, mum, even if their beds were chock full of gravel.”

“I tell you I don’t want anything of the kind,” I said, half offended at what (thanks to that blundering Mr. Dick Farden,) I thought very like the man’s impudence.

“I hope no offence, mum,” he replied; “but you see I must run over what we’ve got. Now, there’s polianthuses. I’m sure you couldn’t have anything much nicer or quieter than that, mum.”

“Polly who?” I inquired.

“Anthus, mum,” he replied.

“Well, what’s that one like?” I asked.

“Oh! the sort is common enough, mum,” he continued--“not very tall, and rather delicate, and will generally have five or six flowers in a cluster at the head--wants a glass, though, if the weather sets in very cold, mum--and----”

“There, that’s enough,” I interrupted, “I’m sick and tired of those common kind of things--they wouldn’t have a glass here, I can tell them.”

“Maybe, then, mum,” he went on, “as it don’t seem as we can suit you with any of those I’ve mentioned, perhaps you don’t want such a thing as an old man.”

“Old man!” I cried. “No, what on earth should I ever do with any old man here, I should like to know?” of course, little dreaming that he was alluding all the while to the plant of that name.

“Oh! I beg your pardon, mum,” he replied, “but I thought yours was just the place for a very fine, and remarkably handsome one that we’ve got, and it struck me that you might have a spare bed that you would like to fill, especially as it would be little or no extra expense for you.”

“No, no, no!” I answered; “I tell you once for all, I’ve no room for any old man here; and, besides, if I had, a nice thing it would be to have him dying directly the cold weather set in.”

“Oh, bless you, mum,” he replied, “a good healthy old man will never die, and look quite lively all the winter through. However, mum, perhaps you’d be kind enough to step round some day to our place, and then we could show you what we’ve got, and you could choose for yourself, mum.”

“Yes,” I answered; “perhaps that would be best, and then I can please myself.”

When the man had gone, I said to myself: “Well, my fine gentleman, I shall never trouble you again,” for I declare that of all the servants I ever heard of, his seemed to be the worst; for, of course, how was I ever to be able to tell that he was only talking of a set of trumpery plants that he had got for sale. I’m sure, if he had two grains of common sense, he ought to have seen that there was some mistake somewhere; though, for the matter of that, I don’t suppose I should ever have found it out myself, had it not been for the gentleman from the Servants’ Institution calling to see me, scarcely half-an-hour afterwards. And then, bless us and save us, if I didn’t go taking him for the nurseryman, though I certainly must do myself the justice to say that I couldn’t help thinking that he looked rather grand for a gardener, with his white cravat, and black coat buttoned up to his chin, and black kid gloves, with the fingers all out, and looking as crumpled and shrivelled as French plums.

No sooner had Mr. Dick Farden told me that the other gentleman that I had sent him for had come, than I had him into the parlour, and told him that if he would step with me into the garden, I would arrange with him what I wanted done to it, and he could let me have his opinion about it. The man opened his eyes, and looked at me as wise as an owl; as, indeed, he might; for what on earth could what my garden wanted doing to it, be to him? When we got there, I declare he must have thought me mad, for I took him right up to the middle of it, and told him, I had made up my mind to have a nice grass plot laid down in the centre, so that my dear little pet might play about on it, without coming to any harm. But he only stared the more, and said, “Very good;” though, of course, if he had spoken his real opinion, he would have said “very strange.” Then I told him I had settled upon having some nice flower-beds all round the sides, and said I thought it would look very pretty; on which he looked at me for a short time, with his mouth wide open, as much as to say, “Surely the woman must be out of her mind;” but he only answered, “Indeed.” After that, I asked him what plants he would advise me to have, and whether he thought the soil would be rich enough for dahlias? But, without looking at the ground, and keeping his eye fixed intently on me, he answered, “Certainly;” and then clutching the handle of his umbrella as tight as he could, he retreated several paces off, in a way that I couldn’t for the life of me understand at the time, but which--now that I come to think of it--clearly convinces me that the poor man must have fancied that I had broken loose from Bedlam, and that he expected every minute I should seize hold of the spade, which was within arm’s length of me, and race round the garden after him with it. When I told him that most likely he was not aware of how hard the ground was, and I stamped on it two or three times, and raised myself up on my toes, just to show him that I couldn’t make any impression upon it, the stupid ninny began jumping about and dancing away, and staring at me, till, I declare, his eyes looked for all the world like two farthings. Coupling this with the whole of the man’s previous strange behaviour, upon my word, I thought _he_ had gone stark raving mad, though it’s quite plain to me _now_ that he thought the same of _me_, and was only playing those antics just to humour me. I seized the spade and he opened his umbrella, and there we stood, face to face, thrusting away at one another as hard as ever we could, and all the time jumping and skipping about, like two _dancing_ bears. I gave a loud scream, and he, poor man, retreated as quick as he could do so backwards to the door, where he met with that scoundrel of a Dick Farden, who had been the cause of it all, and whom I no sooner saw than I told him, for Heaven’s sake, to seize that mad friend of his. Then, lawk a daisy! out it all came; and I learnt, to my great horror, that I had been confounding the two men. Of course I apologized to the gentleman from the Servants’ Institution as a lady ought to, telling him that I was extremely sorry that I had mistaken him for a gardener and a madman; but the man went as red in the face as a tomata, with passion, declaring that he had never been so insulted before in all his life, and vowing that he would make me pay for having dragged him all that way, through a broiling sun, upon a fool’s errand; and then out of the house he bounced, like a human cracker.

When the man had left, I declare I was so vexed at having been made such a stupid of, by that shameful vagabond of a Mr. Dick Farden--for, of course, if it hadn’t been for him, the mistake would never have occurred, and I shouldn’t wonder at all if he hadn’t brought it about intentionally, just so as to have a good laugh at me, out of sheer spite at my stopping his wages--I was so vexed with the fellow, I repeat, that I had him up then and there, and told him that he had better not let me see his face within my doors again, or, as sure as his name was Mr. Dick Farden, I would give him in custody. Then it was that I found out what kind of a person I had been harbouring in my house, for although, up to that time, he had been so civil-spoken and respectful, that one would have fancied that butter wouldn’t have melted in his mouth, then, of course, because it no longer answered his purpose to behave himself, he turned round and abused me like a pickpocket, until I declare I was so mad that, if I hadn’t been a perfect lady, I should have dusted his jacket and combed his hair nicely for him, that I should--a nasty, good-for-nothing, double-faced, clumsy, cowardly, foul-mouthed monster! Augh! if I detest one thing more than another, it’s people that can’t keep a civil tongue in their heads.