CHAPTER CXLIX.

A STRANGE NARRATIVE.

The nurse was a tall, middle-aged, powerfully-built woman, with

brawny arms, and a countenance that indicated a slight affection for

an occasional drop of “something short.” In fact, it was observed

by the Brethren on whom she waited, that she never looked sulky when

requested to repair to the public-house to order any thing in the

shape of beer or spirits; but if entrusted with an errand of another

kind--such as the purchase of half a quire of writing-paper or a stick

of sealing-wax--it was a very great chance if she would be seen any

more until the next day. Her manners were of the free-and-easy school;

and she was accustomed to address the Poor Brothers in a half-pitying,

half-patronising style, as if they were patients in a hospital or in

the infirmary of a debtors’ gaol. If wearied, she would unhesitatingly

seat herself without being asked, and glide imperceptibly into a

familiar kind of discourse, while wiping the perspiration from her

rubicund face with her blue checked cotton apron; and if it were in the

cold weather, she would wait upon her masters with a black bonnet, like

an inverted japan coal scuttle, on her head--the propriety of leaving

the tegumentary article in the passage outside, never for a moment

striking the ingenuous and simple-minded creature.

If this excellent woman had any special failing,--besides such little

faults as drunkenness, inattention, slovenliness, cool impudence, and

deep hypocrisy,--it was a propensity to gossip and a love of scandal.

If she were only carrying a pail down the stairs, and met another nurse

with a pail coming up the stairs, they must both set down their pails

on the landing, and stop to have a quarter of an hour’s chat on the

affairs of their respective masters. Then one would whisper how Poor

Brother Smith was the meanest skin-flint on the face of the earth; and

the other would declare that it was impossible for him to be worse than

Poor Brother Webb, who was always complaining and yet never gave her

even so much as a drop of gin;--and in this manner the two women would

unburthen their minds, to the sad waste of their time and the neglect

of those whom they were well paid to render comfortable. But Mrs.

Pitkin--for that was the name of the nurse who waited on Mr. Scales

and the other gentlemen living in the chambers opening from the same

staircase,--Mrs. Pitkin, we say, was a more inveterate gossip than any

other charwoman in the place; and, as a matter of course, when she

had no trifling truths to retail or make much of, she deliberately

and coolly invented a pack of lies, purporting to be the most recent

sayings and doings of her masters. The consequence was, that a great

deal of mischief resulted at times from these playful exercises of Mrs.

Pitkin’s imaginative qualities; and more than one poor Brother was

looked upon as an habitual drunkard, or as a sad old fellow amongst

the women, without any other ground for the entertainment of such an

opinion than the mysterious whispers of Mrs. Pitkin.

Well, it was this same Mrs. Pitkin who made her appearance, as already

described, to lay Mr. Scales’s cloth and get the dinner ready.

“What o’clock is it, nurse?” asked Mr. Scales suspiciously.

“Only a little after two,” she replied: but scarcely were the words

uttered, when the Charter House bell proclaimed the hour of three.

“Well, I’m sure!” she cried, affecting the profoundest astonishment; “I

never could have believed it were so late. Deary me! deary me! But it’s

all through that disagreeable Mr. Yapp, who would have his cupboard

washed out this morning--though I told him it wasn’t near six months

since he had it done last.”

“Well--where have you put the potatoes to boil?” demanded Mr. Scales.

“The taturs, sir? Lor, sir--did you order taturs?” asked Mrs. Pitkin,

now pretending to seem more astounded than ever. “Well, I’m sure I

thought as how you said you’d have your chops without any weggitables

at all!”

“Chops!” repeated Mr. Scales, now waxing positively wroth: “I ordered

steaks----”

“Steeks!” cried the woman, holding up her hands as if in amazement.

“Why--how could I ever have misunderstood you so? But it’s no matter--I

can just as well get steeks as chops; and one don’t take much longer

cooking than another.”

“Then, am I to understand that you have as yet got neither chops nor

steaks?” asked Mr. Scales, subduing his anger as much as possible.

“Lor, sir! how could I go to the butcher’s when there’s three of my

masters is inwalids and dines in their own rooms to-day? But I’ll be

off at once--and you shall have dinner in a jiffey, I can promise you!”

Thus speaking, the woman walked lazily out of the room; and when the

door was closed behind her, Mr. Scales, turning to the captain, said;

“Now you perceive how we Poor Brothers are waited upon by these nurses.

You heard me give her specific orders to have a steak and potatoes

ready for us at two. She comes in at three, and has totally forgotten

all about the dinner--for _that_ is the English of it. And yet I dare

not complain against her: I dare not even speak harshly to the woman’s

face. But should you not imagine that, after her neglectful conduct,

she would make all possible haste to get the meal ready? No such thing!

Look there,” continued Mr. Scales, motioning Captain O’Blunderbuss

to the window: “she has fallen in with another nurse, and they are

stopping to have a gossip. Now they are going out together; and before

we shall see Mrs. Pitkin again, she will have paid a tolerably long

visit with her companion to the bar of the Fox and Anchor.”

“Be Jasus! and shall I be afther her, my dear frind?” demanded Captain

O’Blunderbuss, rushing towards the door.

“It is useless,” said Mr. Scales, holding him back: “we must have

patience. But do you see that old man, standing apart from the rest----”

“And laning on a stick?” cried the captain.

“The same,” returned the good-natured and communicative Brother.

“Observe how pensive--how melancholy he seems! That is Brother

Johnson--late Alderman and once Lord Mayor of London.”

“Be Jasus! and I ricollict!” exclaimed the captain: “’tis the hero of

the Romford Bank affair.”

“Precisely so,” responded Mr. Scales. “And now do you perceive that

short, stout, elderly gentleman, leaning on the arm of a friend from

outside----”

“He walks as if he was blind,” interrupted the captain.

“And blind he unfortunately is,” said Mr. Scales: “but not irremediably

so. There is every prospect that, with care and good medical advice,

he will recover his sight. He is a man who has made some noise in the

world--but with high honour to himself: in a word, he is Valcrieff, the

celebrated dramatic author.”

“And a most rispictable-looking gintleman he is,” observed the captain.

“I’ve laughed many times at his farces, and little thought I should

iver have the pleasure of seeing the writer-r himself, even at a

disthance.”

“There is one inmate of this establishment,” said Mr. Scales, quitting

the window and returning to his seat--an example followed by the

gallant officer,--“there is one inmate whose early history is very

peculiar; and the most extraordinary circumstance connected with

the matter is that he believes the events of his younger days to be

entirely unknown and unsuspected within these walls. I should not point

him out to you, even were he amongst the loungers in the court at this

moment: neither shall I mention his name--or rather the name by which

he is here known. But I may state that thirty years ago I knew him by

the name of Macpherson. We met in Paris, shortly after the peace--and

he was living, with a beautiful French woman as his mistress, in very

handsome apartments. Her name was Augustine; and she certainly was the

most lovely creature I ever saw in my life. Macpherson adored her; and

while he believed that she worshipped him in return, her infidelity

was notorious amongst all his friends. He had succeeded to a small

fortune, by the death of an uncle; and, on visiting Paris, had fallen

in with this young lady, whose charms immediately enthralled him. She

was a banker’s cast-off mistress, and was glad to ensnare a handsome

English gentleman in her meshes. Her extravagance was unbounded; and

in less than a year Macpherson’s resources were completely exhausted.

It would appear that Augustine at that period introduced to him a

Frenchman whose real name was Legrand, but whom she passed off as

her brother. This Legrand was elegant in manners and agreeable in

conversation, as well as handsome in person; but he was unprincipled,

dissipated, and of broken fortunes. From all I subsequently learnt, and

from the knowledge I had of Macpherson’s character, I feel convinced

that Legrand made my English friend his dupe and victim; and that

Macpherson was entirely innocent of any intentional complicity. Certain

however it is that one morning I was thunder-struck by the tidings

that Macpherson had been arrested on a charge of forgery. I hastened

to him in prison; and he declared most solemnly that he was guiltless.

It was true that he had negotiated the instrument which was discovered

to be fictitious: but he assured me that Legrand had induced him to

do so. The examination before the Judge of Instruction led to the

arrest of Legrand; and it was confidently hoped by Macpherson and his

friends that the real truth would transpire at the trial. But when

the case came on, Augustine--the faithless, treacherous, ungrateful

Augustine--gave such evidence as entirely to exonerate Legrand and fix

all the guilt upon Macpherson. She committed perjury; but her tale

was believed,--for it was consistent, though false--delivered with

plausibility, though based on the most damnable deceit. In fact, the

vile woman sacrificed the Englishman whom she had ruined and never

loved, to the French paramour whom she had passed off as her brother;

and Macpherson, being pronounced guilty, was condemned to be exposed

and branded upon a scaffold on the Place de Grêve, and to be afterwards

imprisoned for a period of five years at the galleys at Brest. Myself

and another English gentleman drew up a memorial to the King, setting

forth a variety of circumstances in favour of Macpherson, and imploring

the royal mercy on behalf of our unhappy fellow-countryman. Louis

the Eighteenth referred the petition to the Judges who had condemned

Macpherson, and as they stated that they had taken every thing into

consideration when they pronounced his punishment, the Minister of

Justice and Grace could not hold out to the petitioners any hopes

of a commutation of the sentence. We had endeavoured to obtain the

remission of that portion of the sentence which condemned Macpherson

to be publicly exposed and marked with a red hot iron--but, alas!

this indignity could not be spared the unhappy sufferer. Well, the

fatal morning arrived, when this dread public ceremony was to take

place. Macpherson rose early, and devoted unusual care to his toilet.

His countenance was ghastly pale--his eyes were fixed,--his lips

compressed. He did all he could to appear calm, and endeavoured to meet

his punishment with firmness. But to be condemned for an offence of

which he was innocent;--to see the fairest years of his youth destined

to be passed in a horrible state of servitude;--to know that he was

about to be branded with an infamous mark, which he would carry with

him to the grave,--all this must have been beyond human endurance.

Had he been really guilty, his sufferings would not have been so

acute;--had he deserved his punishment, he would have bowed to those

destinies which he would have thus prepared for himself. But he was

innocent--innocent; and the world did not know it:--only a few faithful

friends consoled him by the assurance that they believed in his

innocence. On the fatal morning which was to consummate his disgrace,

I visited him early; but when I found him so apparently resigned and

calm, I did not offer those consolations which I would otherwise have

tendered, and which were all I had now to offer.

“It was about eleven o’clock, in the forenoon,” continued Mr. Scales,

“when Macpherson was summoned to the lobby of the prison. Two gendarmes

were waiting there to conduct him to the Place de Grêve, where he

was to remain exposed for two hours, and then be marked. He resigned

himself to their custody, and, accompanied by myself, proceeded towards

the great square where the hideous ceremony was to be performed.

Immense crowds were collected in all the avenues leading to the Place,

which was itself thronged to excess. Two lines of soldiers kept a

pathway clear for the march of the prisoner up to the foot of the

scaffold. He did not cast his eyes downwards:--nor did he glance to the

right or to the left; but he kept them fixed upon the scaffold towards

which he was advancing. He ascended the ladder with a firm step,

accompanied only by the gendarmes; for I was compelled to remain below.

The moment he appeared upon the platform, a tremendous shout arose

from the thousands and thousands of spectators assembled to witness

his punishment; but no indignity of a violent nature was offered to

him. He cast a hurried and anxious glance around: the whole square

seemed literally paved with human faces, which were continued up every

street communicating with the Grêve, as far as he could see. The quay

behind him, the bridges, the windows and roofs of all the houses, and

even the towers of Nôtre Dame and the parapet of the Hotel-de-Ville

were crowded with human countenances. Macpherson remained exposed for

two hours, seated upon a chair on the scaffold, while the populace,

with hyena-yells and laughter, were contemplating him as if he were

a wild beast which they delighted to see, but of which they were

afraid. The idea, whether this penalty were deserved or not, never

entered the head of one single individual in that vast multitude;--all

that they cared about was the man and his punishment--and both were

there! At the expiration of the two hours, the crowd suddenly opened,

and the public executioner, attended by his two sons, appeared at

the foot of the scaffold. One of the lads carried a small iron pot,

at the bottom of which there was a grating: in this vessel was a

bright fire of red hot cinders and charcoal. The other boy carried an

iron implement in his hand. It was like a very small shovel, with a

tolerably long handle. The three wretches ascended the ladder, and the

shouts and the hootings of the mob recommenced with increased violence

as the public functionary bowed jocosely to Macpherson. A horrible

laugh issued from those who stood nearest, and who comprehended the

fashion of the executioner’s salute. This individual then arranged his

_paraphernalia_ in a convenient manner. He placed the brazier close

to the convict’s chair, and put the shovel-looking implement into the

fire. He next proceeded to inform Macpherson that he must take off his

coat and other vestments from his left shoulder. The prisoner obeyed

mechanically. He doffed his coat and his waistcoat on the left side;

and the executioner instantly cut a large square piece out of his

shirt, just above the left shoulder-blade, immediately above the curve

of the shoulder. The most breathless suspense now prevailed; and not

a cry--not a murmur was heard throughout the dense masses of people

wedged together around. ‘Take courage, my boy,’ said the executioner,

half ironically and half in pity; ‘it will only be the affair of a

few moments.’ I heard him make these remarks--for I was close by the

scaffold. He then proceeded to strap the convict tightly down in his

chair, confined his arms and legs, and twisted the cords in such a

manner around his body and the back of the seat that he was rendered as

motionless and powerless as if he were a statue. Ten minutes elapsed,

and the thick part of the iron was by that time red hot. This was the

crowning moment of the whole day’s amusement--an amusement provided

by the law that forbade bull-baits and punishes cruelty to animals!

The executioner stooped down, seized the iron, and applied it to

Macpherson’s flesh--to that bare part which the square cut out of the

shirt had left exposed. The iron hissed on the young man’s shoulder;

and a fearful yell escaped his lips. The iron remained upon the flesh

for two or three instants: the sufferer writhed in agony; but only that

one loud, long, and piercing cry escaped his lips. The implement was

withdrawn;--one of the executioner’s sons placed a cup-full of water

to the convict’s lips, and thus saved him from fainting in the chair.

The cords were then unbound,--the young man’s dress was adjusted,--and

the gendarmes told him that they were ready to convey him back to

prison. As he passed through the dense multitude that had witnessed

his punishment, he now hung down his head--abashed and ashamed. Even

had he not felt the smart of the burn upon his back, the knowledge

that he was branded with the mark of infamy would have been sufficient

thus to humble and subdue him. Women held up their children to gaze

upon him as he passed along;--he heard an old father bid his son take

warning from the example he had just witnessed; and as he emerged from

the crowd, and entered a comparatively deserted street, on his way

back to prison, he caught the following words which were uttered, with

a laugh, by one spectator to another,--‘Oh! there’s the man who has

just been marked!’--‘Marked! eh--and with a scar that he would carry

to his grave!’ thought I, shuddering from head to foot. He returned to

the prison of La Force; and the moment he entered the lobby, he fell

into my arms; for I had walked by his side from the Place de Grêve.

The courage of the man now failed him altogether; and he burst into a

violent passion of grief. The tears flowed in torrents from his eyes;

his breast heaved convulsively. I endeavoured in vain to console him;

and then I thought it best to allow his agony to have full vent, and he

would feel relieved. The truth of this opinion was speedily confirmed;

and, when Macpherson dried his tears, he exclaimed, ‘Now that the first

bitterness of my career of misery is over, I feel nerved and resigned

to encounter the ills which heaven has in store for me.’--‘My dear

friend,’ I said, ‘you must yet hope for many happy years: the term of

your incarceration will soon pass away, and you will then hasten to

England, where friends will be prepared to receive you with open arms,

and enable you to forget the sorrows that will then be over!’--‘Alas!’

he cried--and the words still ring in my ears,--‘how can I forget all

this degradation and infamy? How can I ever again appear in the great

world, every member of which will have read my trial, and many of

whom have this day seen me writhing beneath the hot iron in the hands

of the public executioner? Even supposing my innocence be eventually

proved, and that all moral infamy be separated from my name, who will

remove the scar from my shoulder? who will not remember that for five

years I shall have herded with the refuse of mankind? who will believe

that, even if guiltless I went to the galleys, uncontaminated I have

been released from them? What father will entrust his daughter to

the convict? what mother will consent to the union of her child with

a man who has been publicly marked upon the scaffold? what brother

would allow his sister, pure and chaste, to link herself to one whose

outset in life has been so horribly characterised as mine? And lastly,

lastly,’ added he, sinking his voice almost to a whisper, and clenching

his fists and grinding his teeth as he spoke,--‘and lastly, who can

remove the deep, deep scar from my heart, even should there be a

physician skilful enough to efface the one upon my shoulder?’--I was

then compelled to take leave of him; and, on the following day, he was

removed to Bicêtre, and lodged with the other convicts who were about

to travel the same road together. He now found that his situation was

wretched indeed. Compelled to associate with men who had been guilty

of the most horrible crimes, and who gloried in their infamy, his

ears were offended with their obscene conversation and their fearful

blasphemies; and he was ill-treated by his fellow prisoners, because he

would not laugh at their jokes or join in their revolting discourse.

If he threatened to complain, he was reviled and mocked. But I shall

hasten to the end of my story--or at least to this part of it. The day

for the departure of the Chain of Galley-Slaves arrived; and I took

leave of my unfortunate friend. He was conducted to Brest, where he

worked on the port for a short time; and then, on account of his good

conduct, he was made a clerk in the office of the Governor. This was

the last account I heard of him while he was at the Galleys; for just

at that period the death of a distant relative called me to England,

and the inheritance of some property was accompanied with the condition

that I should change my name to that of the individual whose fortune

thus devolved upon me.

“Six years had passed,” continued Mr. Scales,--“six years since the

events which I have just related to you, when accident enabled me

to obtain a complete assurance of that which I had all along fully

believed,--namely, the innocence of Macpherson respecting the forgery.

I was passing down Aldersgate Street late one evening, when a sudden

shower began to fall; and I entered a gate-way for protection, having

no umbrella with me, and there being no hackney-coach stand near.

Almost immediately afterwards, a gentleman in a cloak took refuge

in the same place; but as I was standing farther in the gate-way

than he, and as it was pitch dark there, we did not observe each

other’s countenance. Presently he stepped out into the street to

see if the rain continued; and I noticed that he was accosted by a

female, dressed in gaudy attire, and who murmured something to him

in French, to which he did not however pay immediate attention. But

an exclamation from her lips--an exclamation of surprise, which was

instantly followed by the mention of his name--aroused him from his

reverie. He gazed at the female who thus appeared to recognise him;

and, by the light of the adjacent lamp, the well-known but somewhat

altered countenance of Augustine was revealed to him and myself at the

same time. Amazement rooted me to the spot, and compelled me to become

a listener. ‘What, Augustine!’ cried Macpherson--for he it was: and

all the while my presence was unsuspected.--‘Yes, Augustine--that is

my name!’ said the young lady, somewhat flippantly, ‘But what are you

doing in London?’ she asked immediately afterwards, and in an altered

tone.--‘How can you ask me, Augustine, after my present pursuits or my

future prospects, when you were the principal agent in consummating

my ruin in Paris?’ demanded Macpherson. ‘Oh! you know not the serious

injury--the irreparable injury which you have inflicted upon me. All

my hopes, all my endeavours, have one after another been defeated

and destroyed by the consequences of that fatal period. My life is a

series of misfortunes, of strugglings against adversity, of ups and

downs, of long intervals of misery, with short and distant gleams of

happiness; and this career of sorrows and disappointments, was prepared

and marked out by the infernal schemes of yourself and Legrand. Oh!

inauspicious was the day on which I first became acquainted with you

and the miscreant whom you represented to be your brother?’--‘And will

you believe me when I assure you that I have never known a moment’s

peace since the fatal moment when I bore false evidence against you

in the French tribunal?’ exclaimed Augustine emphatically. ‘I was

compelled to take that step, although repugnant to my feelings; for

I had not then lost all principle,’ she added mournfully. ‘Legrand

possessed such power over me; and I also knew that he was as capable of

sacrificing me as well as yourself to his own interests, if I did not

fall into his views. That false step on my part has reduced me to my

present state of degradation; I became reckless and ceased to sustain

even the appearance of respectability which I had observed while I was

living with you. Legrand was killed in a quarrel at a gambling-house;

and I then became the mistress of----.’--‘Oh! distract me not with a

catalogue of your vices, Augustine,’ exclaimed Macpherson, interrupting

her recital. ‘Can I sympathise with you, who have caused my ruin? can I

commiserate with one whom, were I vindictive, I should crush beneath my

heel? Oh! could you speak to me of the means of redeeming my character,

which is lost--innocent though I am, as well you know,--could you give

me back my peace of mind, my self-respect, my confidence in myself,

the esteem and respect of men, and the enjoyment of an unsullied

name,--could you efface the mark from my shoulder, Augustine, and wipe

from my memory the dread impression of the exposure in the Place de

Grêve with the five long years’ sojourn at the galleys,--could you do

all this, Augustine, I would throw myself at your feet, I would forgive

you the wrongs I have endured, I would almost worship you!’--‘There is

something which may yet be done,’ said Augustine, after a long pause,

‘which would partially remedy the evil, and which would at all events

prove my contrition for the part that I enacted in the matter.’--‘And

what is it that you propose?’ demanded Macpherson: ’to what do you

allude?’--‘I would willingly make a confession which would establish

your innocence, and so far retrieve your character in the eyes of the

world,’ said Augustine.--‘But the world reviles me, and cries shame

upon me, without waiting to ask itself if I am really guilty!’ returned

Macpherson, bitterly.--‘The thinking portion of the community,’ began

the frail woman earnestly, ‘will ever----’.--‘That is a mere idle

phrase, Augustine,’ interrupted Macpherson. ‘There is no thinking

portion, as a complete section, of any community. Ask any individual

singly and alone, if he would scorn and shun a man who had endured an

infamous punishment, but who was innocent of the crime attributed to

him, and he would launch forth into an eulogium of the liberality of

his own views, and indulge in a tirade against the narrow-mindedness

of his neighbours. He would say, “_Prove your innocence, and I will

be your friend._” So would reply every one whom you thus questioned

individually. But take all those persons together--assemble them in one

room--invite them all to a banquet--and then introduce amongst them the

man concerning whom they had singly expressed so much liberality of

opinion; and collectively they would scorn--they would shun him,--they

would hunt him from their company--they would expel him as if he were

infected with a pestilence! Where, then, is the thinking portion of

society? of what men is it composed? who can separate the section from

the mass? Talk no more of proving my innocence, but let me now ask you

a question relative to your own position.’--‘My position!’ repeated

the young woman bitterly; ‘oh! I feel its degradation so thoroughly,

that it appears to me as if every body must see and appreciate it

also! My shame clings to me, like a mass of dingy cobwebs to a wall:

I cannot shake it off; I cannot divest myself of the sense of its

utter loathsomeness; for if I seek to brush it away with one hand, it

clings to the other. I dare not go to church to seek the comforts of

religion:--a prayer in my mouth would be pollution;--I dare not even

implore heaven to change my condition, so thoroughly degraded am I in

my own estimation! And there are some of us--and when I say of _us_,

you will fully comprehend to what sad sisterhood I belong--who are

young, beautiful, and even educated; and from their lips--their red and

inviting lips--issue imprecations and blasphemies at all hours. But

I am not so bad as that;--nor do I drink as they do! God only knows,

however, to what abyss I may fall!’--With these words the wretched

creature hurried away in one direction, while Macpherson slowly

pursued his path in another. I did not think it right to follow him;

for I fancied from the tenour of his bitter outpourings to Augustine,

that he wished to be forgotten by the world, and pass as a stranger

in the mighty city. Well, years and years elapsed; and misfortunes

overtook me. I lost all my property save a very small annuity--a mere

pittance insufficient to keep body and soul together;--and through

the interest of a friend I obtained a berth in the Charter House. To

my surprise I found, on my entrance, that Macpherson was already a

Brother;--and thus, after a separation of five-and-twenty years--for it

is five years ago that I came hither--our destinies cast us into the

same asylum. But, though I recognised him, he knew not me. You must

remember that I had changed my name, and my personal appearance had

undergone an immense alteration; and therefore it was not singular that

he should fail to perceive in me the friend who had consoled him in

his misfortunes at Paris in 1816. I have never revealed myself to him

within these walls--and never shall. It would doubtless embitter his

sorrowful existence were he aware that his secret was known to a living

soul in the establishment which his necessities have compelled him to

make his home, and from which he will remove to no other abode--save

the tomb. Here, then, we dwell--he brooding over the undying sorrow

that fills his heart,--I not daring to call him friend and console him.”

At this moment the clock struck four, an hour had elapsed since Mrs.

Pitkin had departed with a promise to return “in a jiffey;”--and she

now reappeared, her countenance much flushed, and her breath exhaling

the strongest perfume of the juniper berry.

She however had her excuse: the matron had sent for her on particular

business!

“If so, it must have been at the Fox and Anchor,” muttered Mr.

Scales: but perceiving that she had brought up a cooked steak in a

covered dish, he suffered himself to be appeased by the prospect of

dinner;--and it was agreed both by himself and the captain to dispense

with potatoes, Mrs. Pitkin having again quite forgotten that they were

ordered.

The repast was now served up; and it must be taken as a proof of

contrition for previous neglect on the part of the worthy woman, that

when she sallied forth for the beer and spirits she only remained a

short half-hour away--it being usually calculated in the Charter House

that a commission which one might perform for himself in five minutes,

occupies a nurse exactly fifty-five to accomplish.

At last Mr. Scales and the captain were enabled to make themselves

comfortable; and when the dinner-things were cleared away, hot-water

was speedily procured by the aid of a batchelor’s kettle. The poteen

was first-rate;--the two gentlemen were in excellent spirits; and the

hilarity of the evening was soon increased by the arrival of Mr. Frank

Curtis, who had duly received his friend’s letter at Mr. Bubbleton

Styles’s office in the City.