CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE BEGGAR PRAYS TO GOD THAT SHE MAY DIE.

Oh, that old London, or new London, or even the world contained many such houses as that in May's Buildings, in which the old bone lodged with the kind-hearted Mrs. Harty. It was a peaceful sanctuary, in a densely populated neighbourhood, yet away from the world of discord and strife, and it contained naught but that joy which results from charitable action. Mrs. Harty did not keep a servant, but performed those duties which belong to cleanliness herself, assisted by her darling children. And they were indeed darling children, were the young Hartys, from the eldest downwards, inasmuch as they tried all in their power to create happiness in their limited circle. One cultivated flowers, and made the gentle plants send forth sprigs of promise by means of watering and so on, when they were placed outside the window, so that the poor folks might see them on the way to their several occupations. Another cultivated music-sweet, plaintive, heart-thrilling music-so that she might create in stubborn, and apparently unrelenting breasts peace and good will towards all men. Another painted the struggles of the heart and the affections upon stretched-out canvass, in order that one half of the world might learn, they lounged in picture galleries, to sympathise with the other half. Two or three went out daily into very poor people's houses, and ministered to the sick; whilst all of them looked steadily at the nasty sores upon the surface of beggars' skins, and lent handkerchiefs to the afflicted. There were no caged birds round about the apartments-oh no! because they had, all of them-yes, even the youngest had been into prisons where caged men were confined for horrible offences, which they thought resulted from their having been punished when they were striplings. Still, for all this, the family of the Hartys were not prodigies; they were anything but what is theatrically called a prodigy, for there was no presumption-no topping the world-no extraordinary action-but there was great simplicity and genuineness about everything they did, which took them far away from the land of prodigies.

Now, it may be asked, and naturally too, who lived next-door to Mrs. Harty? and really, such a question ought to be answered; but inasmuch as they did not know themselves, the matter must be left in oblivion, for they never asked their next-door-neighbour, or the person who lived opposite, or the parson who resided at the great house in the distance, what they should do; no, for they had a little fellow named Conscience to assist them in their deliberations-that is if they did deliberate; but really they invariably acted upon the first impulse, which, with them, was always the right one.

Street-musicians came with their cracked and discordant instruments; street-singers sang their inappropriate songs; Italian boys placed their brilliant eyes right against the windows of the house-and it was a curious chap that went away cursingly. Yet the neighbours never saw

one halfpenny thrown at their heads, or one loaf of bread jump into their mouths. Still, for all that, somehow or other, they were well repaid for their attention, for the Hartys knew their places of residence, and knowing visited them; so that this grinding upon the organ, or this singing with their cracked voices, or this storm of affection, might have been returned to the Hartys in the shape of heart-felt gratitude. To be sure, very early in the morning ragged chaps, men, women, and children, came with empty pitchers, and took away fat soup to glue up their empty stomachs for a time; and when night came on, an old door at the back of the house kept moving on its well-worked hinges, so that grey devils might enjoy the surly hospitality of the old bone as well as that of the Harty family. When they were all collected, as many as the large kitchen could contain, then the old bone would toddle down amongst the devilishly poor people, and grunt forth a word or two of unaffected sympathy; the family would fill the large white basins with a variety of gravies-really, it's too much to ask what the gravy was distilled from--when worn-out appetites would begin to take in theirs first and cramped throats afterwards; and God would force his way through all the cracks, and all the key-holes, and all the openings-ay, even down the chimney, and would smile-oh, such a smile-so full of blessing, and mercy, and goodness, that said, "Dear me, this reminds me of my own celestial kingdom, only that this is in the midst of other houses, which will not follow the example of this benign old bone, as well as these Hartys, whose places are already booked for heaven. Yes," the Almighty Father would continue; "Yes, and so are the poor, for they suffer enough in this world— quietly, tamely; so that when en their sores are healed by my best physician death, I will take them unto myself, and they shall be eternally happy."

God said this, then-ay, and He says the same daily, for it is not rich wine or venison which makes the oily world bow down their heads and lay down their unhappy hearts at the shrine of the Son of God, but it is hard penury-privation of every kind-bitter, thrice bitter contempt and want which inclineth the poor to look up towards the sky and say, with their yellow-bound eyes and wasted countenances, their praying figures and their unfed minds, "Oh, Father, Father, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven."

Now pray don't be angry, my best beloved companion, for thus picturing a mighty truth, and really, to speak the fact, I can't help it if you are; for, rather than you should curb the bent of this history, I would cut you off the list of iny friends immediately, and would count you my bitterest foe. But you will not, I am sure. Now, will you? No! Well then, upon that understanding, let what has been printed stand, and should aught afterwards swell out your black satin waistcoat, remember, that you will have to pay your tailor for a new one, so you needn't apply to Messrs. Saunders and Otley, in order that you may be made acquainted with the name of the house where my money is deposited. No, take all the responsibility upon yourself, mind that, and save yourself the expense of an omnibus. But to resume.

The beggar-woman, who was the mother of the small sore-eyed child which had called forth the old bone's sympathy, looked and

stared with all her shrunken eyes at the various scenes which she was obliged to see whilst she stopped under the roof of this eccentric family. She opened her mouth as well as her eyes as wide as it could stretch, and even wider if it were possible to suppose an impossibility, whilst her ears kept receiving the kindest words froin the whole of them. The little child, sore-eyed and weazened as it was, was taken out of her arms and nursed first by one and then by another, until it came to the old bone to do something, when he took out his pockethandkerchief and rubbed its little nose until it roared again, when, forgetting that any one was there, he put his thin lips against its shrunken cheek and kissed it, when the beauteous child-for all children are beautiful-yes, they bear the impress of beauty, the originality of innocence upon their childish faces; and it is only mixing with the world which transforms them to ugliness-when the beauteous child turned its eyes right full upon the wrinkled old chap, and laughed most merrily, then Mrs. Harty gave it food, and they all conspired-oh, what a lovely conspiracy!-to bless its young days, and to stamp its early impressions.

And days passed on-1, 2, 3, 4-Monday, Tuesday, and so on, but the beggar did not appear to lose her original astonishment; no, it appeared to increase with every little kindness. She went to bed, got up, eat, drank, and looked about her; then she made up her mind to wean her child. "Yes," said the beggar, "yes, I'm resolved on't. It's no use thinking I'll do it. I will." Then she weaned her child, and was proud to see it eat the artificial meats which we all hadn't much relish for when we were children.

Days passed on, when she yearned to go back to her old haunts, but what was she to do with that darling? "Oh," said the beggar, sorrow. fully, "oh, don't tell me about the pleasures of the world. Don't tell me about the pleasures of begging-why, they are nothing by the side of my hope for that sweet object. I can't leave her here, and if I do, I shall always be coming, which might tempt her. No! She has fallen into good hands, and they will bring her up well, and I shall see her, one of these days, happy. Why, I know what I'll do, I'll run away and leave her-I'll run away from myself—I will, that I will." After this beggarly reverie, the woman looked at her child, and gave one deep sigh, when, being alone, she knelt down by its side, and threw her head up towards heaven suddenly, as though she had feared to do so before, when she muttered something, and then got up as quickly as she had knelt down, kissed her child many times, and ran out of the house, as though she had been escaping from the Penitentiary. Without a bonnet, she wandered and asked charity of those who passed, but then she did it with an object. She got money and bought poison-she said, "God and the blessed save my child, as I am not fit to educate it," and swallowed the deadly extract, when the mother came strong upon her, and she rushed as fast as she could back again to May's Buildings, in order that she might see her only darling once again; but no! It was now too late-the beggar reached the house, and fell down dead upon the cold stone which was in front of it. There was a stifled sob, a scream, and all was over. I The old bone was not surprised-not he he had seen so much

misery; so that the body was taken to the workhouse and placed amongst the skeletons of the earth; whilst the child smiled in sleep upon a small couch in the old bone's bed-room, who now and then looked at it, when his aged countenance lighted up affectionately, and he said over and over again to Mrs. Harty, "Oh that all beggars' children were within my power, and out of the world of temptation! Why, they should accompany this little Jerico to see a pantomime now and then, and I would go with them. Why," he continued, "the child's face is the man's face, ain't it? and what the child sees the man sees, don't he? Yes, yes, the early impressions of joy or sorrow accompany us through the world. Oh, how I wish Jerico was old enough, I'd take her to see a pantomime; but she soon will be, when she shall go. Oh, I'm," the old fellow added petulantly, "Oh, I'm in a hurry to take Jerico to the pantomime, for smiling angels present themselves at pantomimes, to look upon and to bless all those who leave the copper and gold world, so that they may go back again to the days of heavenly childhood. Am I right, ma'am?" he asked, in a cross-examining tone, as though he wished to be answered in the affirmative. “Am I right, eh?"

"Why, to tell the truth," answered Mrs. Harty, "there is not anything in the world half so pretty as a child's face the first time-mind, sir, I say the first time-the darling looks at the stage when it is covered with a pantomime."

"Well, didn't I say so, ma'am?"

“Yes, sir, you did."

"Then, when Jerico is old enough, ma'am, she shall see a pantomime, and I will sit beside her, and you shall sit opposite; and all the world then shall see her clap her little hands, and screech out her joyous exclamations. Yes, it shall be so, ma'am."

"But, Mr. Howard, may I suggest?"

"No, ma'am, it shall be so, and it's no use suggesting anything, I can assure you, for Jerico shall see a pantomime."

CHAPTER XXXIV.

MISS STIFF SEWS TWENTY-SEVEN BONES INTO HER STAYS AND GOES TO THE WORKHOUSE.

What, twenty-seven? Yes, twenty-seven! fellow and says→- ~

“Mister?"

"Well!"

And then comes a

"Ay, mister, but it aint well, for how the devil can you know any thing about stays generally, or that young lady's in particular, when o' course you can't a been her husband, or else she would'nt be Miss, would she, mister, eh?"

"Possibly not, sir, possibly not; but still the matter stated is a clear fact, so you may rest assured about both the sewing as well as

the number of bones sewn; and as you have used the name of the devil, why you have put yourself out of the pale of any further explanation, and what is more, will not get any."

Miss Stiff stitched and stitched bone after bone all round and about her stays, until they stood bolt upright by themselves and without the assistance of anybody. It must be remembered that Miss Stiff was tall, so that she required a tall pair of stays; moreover, Miss Stiff was thin, so that she required a thin pair of stays. As they stood upon the table they were well worthy of contemplation, for more reasons than one; but what made them singularly worthy, was the fact of their representing young ladies' stays in general, for there were places to put the arms through, so that the hands might get to the hind pocket for the sake of charity-which covereth a multitude of sins, there was a kind of indentation towards the left, so that young ladies' hearts might throb, and beat, and jump up, and swell, and burst fifty times a month with ease, as well as with perfect impunity, and there were about twenty tag holes (are they called tag holes?) at the back, with a marvellously strong lace in them, so that young ladies might let themselves out or take themselves in, according to their own fantastic wills or eccentric pleasures. Still, still, Miss Stiff's stays were dif ferent from the stays of young ladies in general, inasmuch as Miss Stiff had twenty-seven bones in her stays, whilst other young ladies only have twenty-five; but then it must be remembered that she was about to begin performing the duties of her new office, so that it was actually necessary that she should have an extra bone or two to her stays— Matron!-Matron to!!-Matron to a!!!-Matron to a workhouse!!!! Oh, la, how grand, how gigantically imposing! Only imagine the butterman, as well as the butcher, as well as the coal-merchant, as well as the dustman, as well as the parson, staring at Miss Stiff all at one and the same time, and calling her the Matron in a breath. Then, only picture the terror and consternation, and fear and trembling of the postman as he rapped with one hand and held within his other letters bearing the superscription, Miss Stiff, Matron of the Workhouse! Why the clerks at the post-office must surely have rattled their teeth out entirely, and the mail coachman must have taken twenty-nine glasses of brandy grog lest he should tumble from the coach-box.

Going on a little, there were all the menials connected with the workhouse; and then came the paupers themselves.

"Paupers! paupers!! I'll paupers 'em," said Miss Stiff, musingly, "if they ever look at the Matron, that I will."

Then she put on her stays, and corded them up tightly, until they threw a portion of the breath out of her body, when she tied the knot fast on her outside clothing, looked at herself over and over again in the glass, which reflected back none other than what she then actually was, a stiff starched, upright, perpendicular young lady, just suited for the office she was fated to fill; ay, whether it was to be in England or any other part of the United Kingdom.

Well, Miss Stiff finished her toilet, when she descended the stairs of her little house, and having opened the door, went forth into the street with all the dignity which naturally belonged to Matrons of Workhouses. Miss Stiff walked along the street and cast her eyes carelessly