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fairly put my monkey up to see them peeping, like | much as I did. He swore he'd stick by the olddetective police, over my ground. Well, when fashioned way, and I swore I'd drive the Blazer I seed the impudence of them chaps, I gave the so long as he rode with me. Well, one day somenear wheeler a lash, and the far leader another, thing came into his head that he would go by and spun past them like Jericho. On the near side rails; the Devil must have put it into his noddle, of the road, there was a fellow standing like a I'm sure it never came in by itself. Well, on that great gaping goose, as he was, with a poll in his day, as sure as I'm a sinner, I drove out and in as hand as stiff as a milestone. I just tipped him empty as a whistle. Thinks I, It's all up, the with the end of the lash on the ear as I passed, Blazer's done for now; and I went into the stable and told him to get more 'spectable 'ployment. and roared like a bull. That the Blazer should be I laughed the matter off as well as I could; but, forced to knuckle under to them ere rails! and I for all that, they began to make a rail over my roared again. I should have died that night as ground, and all the time they were a-making sure as eggs, but for gin-and-water. I sold my on't I never could think it would ever be made. team off next day, and stopped in the bar-parlour A bit out of Tappington there is a great hill, and for a fortnight, and never spoke a word to nobody th' rails had to go through it. Rails can't go up-but a reduced coachman as was on the tramp, and hill like the Blazer, thought I; and through that he stayed with me two days, and a rare gloomy rant hill they'll never get, that's flat. Still they wrought we had on't. We cried and sung melancholy songs on, night and day, day and night, like rabbits in a turn about. I felt a lightening like, to meet with warren, for a year or two; so long that I was cock-a man as miserable and as badly-used as myself. sure that they'd never get through it. I often God help a coachman on tramp! he meets with joked the chap that managed the consarn, and no friendly uplifted elbow now. They have no always asked him when I met him how he was club-houses-no nothing, in fact; and they never getting on with the rat-hole. That same chap beg. No, no; no coachman ever came so low as could never look me straight i' th' face. He knew that. People wonder where they all went to. I he was touching me in a wital part. A guilty man can never look the aggravated man plump straight i' th' eyes.

One day, if a great lump of stone and stuff didn't fall in and kill a matter of half-a-dozen on 'em that wur working in that 'ere tunnel. I was never so glad at anything in my life. Not that I bore malice again' the chaps that were killed; I was sorry for them, in a way, but, somehow or other, not so sorry, I believe, as I ought to have been. I thought they might have had more gumption, and looked out for a more 'spectable job than boring holes through hills to drive such a coach as the Blazer off the road. Didn't I get jolly that night! If I did'nt it's a pity. "They are done for now," says I; "their goose is cooked!" But, no; the railfolk went on as if they meant mischief to the Blue Blazer-hammer and tongs, as if nothing had happened. At length they managed through the hill, and I thought my heart would have burst when I heard on't. But I took an extra glass, and said, “Let them run their infernal puffers, they'll never run the Blazer off the road so long as I live." The rail wur opened at last, and there wur a grand dinner given, and all the nobs at the head o' the consarn wur there. And if that whippersnapper that managed the rat-hole, as I called it, didn't send me a ticket, I wish I may choke-drat his impudent soul! If I could have managed it, I'd have poisoned every soul on 'em, like as many rats; if I wouldn't, I'm ! I'd have done it, if I'd swung for it.

Trains began a-running in opposition to me at lower fares, so I lowered too. You've not beaten the old Blazer off the road, my fine covies, thinks I; so I drove away harderer and harderer than ever. But somehow or other folks would go by rail, and my fares wur getting scarcerer and scarcerer every day, till at last I had only one passenger to depend on. He was an old friend of mine, and hated all rails and new-fangled ways as

know. All folks found dead for years past, and nobody owned them, were coachmen! It's a factthey are rail wictims !

One morning, a few months after I'd sold my team, there wur one of the most splendidest smashes on that ere rail as ever wur. Farmer Todd had a bull that brake into the rail-and Todd's bull wur always a good 'un-saw th' train a-coming, and thought it some outlandish varmint, I suppose. Well! what does bull do but runs slapbang into th' engine, and was knocked down, and the wheels went over his head, and threw train off th' rail, and away went th' engines and carriages topsy-turvy over the 'bankment, smash-dash as horrible to see. I was sorry to see the poor folks-how they wur mangled and hashed! When they had gathered them up, and put them in th' station-house, it wur just like a butcher's shop. One poor chap had his head cut off as clean as a turnip. There wur legs here, and arms there, and trunks in t'other spots. They gathered up the heads and legs and bodies as well as they could, and fitted them on to the bodies by guess. There wur a matter of a dozen killed, and twenty or thirty wounded. I wur sorry, in a kind of way, for the folks killed; but dang me if I wur not far sorrier for Farmer Todd's bull! It was the best bull i' th' parish, and had pluck for anything. It was like me-I had pluck for aught. I ran 'gain rails, and wur beat; it ran 'gain them too, and was killed. I'd give a sovereign for a picture of that bull just now.

It was my time to crow now. I said I knew how it would be, and that no better could be expected from oppositioning the Blue Blazer. Travelling by rails is a flying in the face of Nature. If God had intended man to go at the rate of fifty miles an hour, he would have given him horses fit for the speed. I never saw a right living devil as I know on; but if a steam-engine, with its great blazing crimson eyes, puffing and yelling as if it

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No, no! Their horses are iron horses, and their men are iron men, with iron hearts and iron soulsthe whole boiling of them, directors, clerks, guards, and porters, every mother's son of them. Pink's husband may be as good as any of them, but bad's the best of them, I say.

were a bullock in asteric fits-if it is not a good imitation of a devil, I don't know what a devil is, that's all. The Bible says that man was made upright, he has found out many inventions, but of all the inventions that ever wur invented the rail is theI told folks how I had told them how it would be, and that no better could be ex- I recollect the last night I drove the Blazer. pected for oppositioning the Blue Blazer. I told It was a cold, sleety night. I had not a single them they were served right for forsaking an old fare. I was frozen to the box, and not a soul to decent coach like mine for such new-fangled fal- speak to me. I don't know what folk feel when de-ral machines. It reminded me of folks leaving their hearts are breaking, but if mine did not the Church to go among Ranters, Methodists, and crack with sorrow that night I'm mistaken, that's Latter-day Saints, and such like-there was never all. I pulled up at the Primrose, and the landno good come of that. People were now frightened lady saw how it was, and made a stiffer glass than to go by rails, and a disposition of neighbours usual that night. She didn't say much, and I said waited upon me, and wanted me to start the Blazer nought. I saw the tear in her eye at the time, again. So I started the Blazer again, and turned and she began and talked kindly to me, and I felt out in 1st of May style with a man to play the her words do me good. Then she pitied me. My clarionet. And didn't he play "See the conquer- heart filled, and I thought I should have choked ing hero comes" as we passed the station-house! and about the throat. I could stand kindness, but the railway-chaps looked at me as savage as razor-dang my buttons if I could stand pity! I could grinders. For a week or two I did middling-like. not help it, but blubbered like an infant. I rushed I got the waiter at the Queen to cut all railway-out of the house, mounted the box, and roared and accidents out of the papers, which I read or gave cursed the rails all the way home, which was some to passengers on the road. But it wouldn't all do; relief to me. folks wur determined to be killed. They would go by rails, and again I was done up.

I

After this I didn't well know what to do. thought once of emigrating to New Zealand, or some dissolute island that had no rails; but hang me if I could leave Old England. So I retired into private life, and took a public-house. I was a widder then, as I am now. I had a daughter. I called her Pink, but her right name was Rose. I called her Pink after a favourite leader I had, as fine an animal as ever ran before a coach-box. Well, a chap came courting of Pink; but I never thought there was aught in't. He came from a distance, and was considered a 'spectable young

man.

After I got home I began a turning things over in my own mind like, to see what must be done to stop these rails. All at once there was something whispered in my ear, "Stop their yelling and puffing. Throw a stone from the top of the bridge, and see if that does not put their pipe out." As sure as a gun if I didn't go out that night, and loosen a large stone on the ledge of the bridge just over the rails. The train was coming, the stone was ready to tumble over. It was just going when something said, "Don't!" and I didn't And then I thought how many poor folks might be killed, and all along of me, and what I should think of myself after. I know it is a crime to ride-on rails-a great crime; but not so great, I thought, as to deserve smashing in such a way as I had seen some before. But had that train been full of directors, contractors, and engineers, that stone should have gone over that bridge, as sure as my name's John. I'd have sent them all to kingdom come, if I'd swung for't. They'll all get a cheap trip some day, and if it bean't a DOWN train I'm no judge.

At last, he would have Pink, and Pink would have him. I didn't like to go against her too much, for women are women. They are just like ill-tempered, restive horses, that will neither go nor stop but when they will. If they think they won't, they won't; neither corn nor hay, whip nor spur, will make them. Well, they got married at last; and what do you think the villain turned out to be? You couldn't guess! Had he proved to be a decent horse-stealer, or a 'spectable T'other day I met a chap as had never seen a highwayman, like Dick Turpin, I would have stage-coach, a Cockney; and precious spooney he thought less of the matter; but the swindling rascal wur. "You are to be pitied," says I; and I told him was nothing more nor less than a railway-guard! all about the old ways, and I'll be whipped if he That cut me to the witals worse than all. To think, could understand me. I suppose next generation too, my daughter Pink should be deluded away by will have forgotten what a wheelbarrow is like. a rail-chap made my blood boil like a set pot. He talked about sending me to the mewseeum, or And then to think of being grandfather to a lot of some such-like name, and have me becalmed as a young stokers! I'd rather have buried Pink be- spicey man of a distinct race. But here I am, and side her mother than she should have disgraced here I'll stay, so long as I'm out of earshot of them the family with connecting herself to a railway-infernal whistles. As the black Indians have been Folks say the man's decent enough, but I driven back and back into the woods by white can't believe it. Its again nature for a rail-chap men, so have I been driven from corner to corner to be a good man. Is not an engine unnaturable? by these puffing devils. I suppose there won't be Everything about rails are 'gain nature. Rail- a spot in all England out of their sound soon folks are not like other folks. Did you ever know Then will my last stage be done. I'll and lay one of them give a ride to a poor, way-worn, foot- my neck on the rail, and say to the engine, "You sore traveller, who had no brass in his pocket? have done your worst at me, now do

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I believe I rave at nights about the rails. I dreamt one night I was an engine, and they fired me up, and I boiled, and bubbled, and snorted, and whistled like a mad engine, and away on the rails

I went like an earthquake, and I awoke puffing and blowing, and as wet as a sop. Mark my words; if there's a last coachman, the time will come when there will be a last stoker. Mark that!

THE

"POPINJAY"

VINDICATED.

found ourselves, the other day, opposite Mr. Elmore's elaborate picture representing the scene between Hotspur and him whom the hot-headed gallant has been pleased to gibbet to eternal infamy by terming "Popinjay." Mr. Elmore has followed in the wake of public opinion, and the grinning baboon on his canvass is the result. Now, we propose to demonstrate beyond power of contradiction that never was sobriquet so little merited; but, first, we must be permitted a remark or two as to the traducer of this excellent man whose name should have lived for ever. The able critic, whose paper on the Fine Arts formed so attractive a feature in our June Number, complains that Mr. Elmore has made Hotspur "too much of the Tipton Slasher, the mere bruiser, hacker, and hewer of his fellow-men. Woman's fondness twines itself round strange objects, but no Kate in the world could ever have called this red ruffian ' a paraquito,' or threatened to break his little finger,' or uttered that loving lament over such a 'sweet Harry!"

Tempus edax rerum. Pooh, pooh! Out on the closet only has such justice been awarded. On the philosophy that devised such shallow aphorism-stage he is still permitted to be the butt of moona sheer fallacy promoted by world-hallowed igno- calfing idiots in the upper galleries. Now, with rance! The stern old monster, like his grim these sage reflections fermenting in our brain, we friend, by no means deserves to be painted in such swarthy hues. True, we allow his insatiate maw; we admit him to be omnivorous; but we regard him with the pity we bestow on a lunatic who, conscious during his lucid intervals of the coming fit, bids his friends be on the look-out to prevent mischief. So is it with old Chronos. He feels the cravings of his appetite strong upon him, and he enlists with all due speed sundry and divers allies to obviate the ills those horrid cravings might else engender. But for such timely and kindly warning, the works of poet, painter, artist, and architect had perished and passed away for ever. Is the poet threatened, Fame interposes her ægis betwixt him and the ruthless monster. The temple lies in ruin, still some pious hands have preserved enough to tell of glories past. It must, however, be conceded that he whom mortals falsely, scandalously, and maliciously term the "fell destroyer" is not always happy in his recruits for his work of saving mercy. At times, either from emergency or perverted taste, he selects them from the band of scavengers. Let picture-fanciers correct us if we have employed too harsh a term. Sacred it may be, but solid, at any rate, is the dust that has scared the voracious ogre from canvass graced with the loftiest conceptions of art. This we cite simply as illustrative of our theory. We purpose to take up a line somewhat more æsthetical, and show how grand creations preserved, thanks to the equivocal aid of the awkward squad aforesaid, have been misconceived and misunderstood for lack of a friendly besom to restore their pristine merits.

6

With every deference to the gifted writer, we fearlessly assert that in this respect, at least, Mr. Elmore is free from sin. Why, he was a “mere bruiser," &c.; nor is there aught inconsistent with the spirit of that age that gentle Kates should have talked pretty to such burly, brawny monsters. Ladies in those brave days of old loved your odious big brutes, who could cleave you a fellow to the brisket with one arm, whilst the other brandished aloft, it might be, a brace of damsels, ravished or rescued, as the case happened. And was not "sweet Harry" a barbarian who despised poetry and the fine arts as much, no doubt, as he prized the black-jack and powdered beef; could hardly bestow a civil word on his doting wife; and, in fine, and to sum up all, didn' know a gentleman when he saw one?-for, preeminently, a gentleman and a courtier was the object of his foul abuse. Bear with us, gentle reader; put thy prejudices in thy pocket, and we promise thee thyself shalt share our conviction. Let us consider the mission of our hero, to whom directed and by whom intrusted. Now, it comes to the ears of our fourth Henry, good, easy man if ever there were one whose

This is more particularly discernible in the case of characters, dramatic or otherwise. Blinded by the dust raised by prejudice and the bigotry of foregone conclusions, we dare not open our eyest o consider for ourselves whether the verdict, passed as it were by common consent, is righteous or correct. To confine ourselves, for the present, to the works of Shakspeare, we boldly aver that at least one-third of his characters is misunderstood and misrepresented. We could find circonstances atténuantes even in the case of Macbeth and his truculent dame, and could fill page after page with dissertations on the character and individuality of each and all the Fools. Tardy justice has at length been doled out to poor Polonius-that grande âme incomprise that Gamaliel at whose feet many a father might sigh to place his son. But in the that the mettlesome blade, Harry Percy, has been

-blood hath been too cold and temperate
Unapt to stir at these indignities,

And you have found me; for, accordingly,
You tread upon my patience-

guilty of conduct highly unbecoming an officer | glaring and absurd. He takes an extended, a philoand a gentleman, inasmuch as (after the Battle of sophical view of the subject. He enters into that Holmedon)

-the prisoners,

Which he in this adventure hath surprised, To his own use he keeps. Now, supposing Shaw the Life Guardsman to have captured Napoleon, he might with equal justice have urged his right to make his imperial prisoner black his boots or clean his accoutrements. To suffer this indignity, the old king felt, would be to establish a dangerous precedent; and therefore it was imperative to gain custody of the prisoners. Now Henry knew full well, from personal experience, that wild colts will have their fling, and that boys will be boys to the end of the chapter; and so, like a good-natured, kind-hearted man with a spoilt child of his own, he resolves upon letting Master Harry down far more gently than he deserved; and to that end, in lieu of despatching to the recusant a grim sergeant-at-arms, a Bow-street runner, or corporal's guard, he very considerately intrusts to a gentleman from his own court (in all probability an old chum of Hotspur) on whom he could rely, a very disagreeable errand, to be executed in the least uncourteous and offensive manner. And he chose wisely and well; for never did envoy yet do his ministering more gently or gracefully. Arrived at the scene of action, he finds Hotspur wiping his well-fleshed sword, and smarting from his wounds. Does he tap him on the shoulder, and in a loud, authoritative voice, or in deep sepulchral tones, show him up before all the men by bidding him deliver up his prisoners in the King's name? Had he done so, the petulant soldier might have had some cause to complain. The Times of the day would have taken up his case, and he would have been sublimated to the rank of that character so dear to the heart of an Englishman—a man with a grievance. No, his object was conciliation; he perceives that young Percy is in a flushed and excited state, and he resolves to give him time to cool and listen quietly. With that laudable end in view, and being gifted with the grand art proprie communia dicere, he launches forth into a stream of gossip, tells the last story of court scandal to his irritable friend, “with many holiday and lady terms," and refrains from entering upon any disagreeable topics until Hotspur should have recovered his normal state. Could aught be more judicious? But Hotspur turns a deaf ear to his pleasant chat; so, perceiving that the ill-tempered soldier does not relish his pleasing prattle, he very dexterously shifts the subject and turns the conversation to that which he naturally presumed to be upmost in the mind of his sulky listener, viz., battles. And as he handles this topic, how exquisite is the tact he displays! Had he discussed military manoeuvres with one so thoroughly versed in all their mysteries, or offered any opinion as to whether troops should advance in line or column, he would have been guilty of gross impertinence and bad taste, and we should have held with his interlocuteur, that his "chat" was "bald and unjointed." Never was man less likely to commit solecism so

oft-debated and vexata quæstio, as to how far is the human race benefited by the philanthropical invention of Friar Bacon, and taking a hint from the sword in Hotspur's hand, he delicately insi nuates that, for his part, he prefers to fight as his fathers fought before him. Alas for the shortcomings of frail humanity in a pet! Would it be credited that one bearing the name of Percy could have his nobler instincts so distorted by infirmity of temper as to infer from the manly line of argument adopted by his polished friend that such friend was a COWARD? What is this imputation to rest on a man because he prefers to look his foe in the face, to feel him at his sword's point, to do all that determined valour can effect to win, and should that valour prove unavailing, to recognise with his latest breath the superiority of him who has stretched him low? Is such man a coward? Is he who objects to be shot down like a dog by some skulking scoundrel behind a hedge a poltroon? Invoke the shades of Leonidas or Horatius Cocles, poll the Knights of the Round Table, and, the Koh-i-noor to our steel pen, that they share our hero's sentiments, and recognise in him a kindred spirit. But we will suppose that our friend delivered his opinions with that playful affectation, or, further still, with the courtly drawl that has descended to our times, which in boudoirs is termed persiflage, whilst to the vulgar it is better known, as chaffing; well, is he any more of a (we won't repeat the odious word) for that? When the Tenth declared that they didn't dance, did any one presume to tax that gallant body with aught unworthy the arms they bore, or the gentle blood they boasted? And don't we all remember how the mincing ensign in the Guards, who wouldn't face the rain for fear of wetting his feet, cut down two men at Waterloo with his own sword? But enough on this point. Turn we now to render a graceful tribute to the noble and tender heart of our gallant courtier. He sees carried by him the fearful victims to a discovery he so feelingly deplores; as he looks on the "good, tall fellows," he is sensible of a choking in his throat, He tries to laugh it off; no, nature prevails, and he turns aside to conceal his generous emotion under the transparent pretext of taking a pinch of snuff. But spite of his feelings, and whilst grave, gay, and graceful by turns, does he lose sight of his unpleasant mission? Far from it, ever and anon he drops a hint, gentle but expressive, and not to be mistaken, touching the King's behest, till at length, finding how thoroughly impracticable is the charac ter he has to deal with, he desists from demands be has no instructions to enforce, and, taking off his hat, leaves the ill-conditioned soldier to himself and the sulks. Apropos of "hat," is it worth our pains to allude to Hotspur's childish comments on our hero's costume, "neat, trimly dressed?" Heaven help the man! why, of course he was. Would you have had him come in his dressing-gown and slippers? When one gentleman, who is a gentleman and no sloven, visits another, it is generally after, and not before, the operation of shaving. Would

you rather the King had sent an untrussed groom, or a slip-shod serving-wench? Harry Percy, we blush for you! Sensible of your delinquencies, well aware that your treasonable conduct admits of no palliation, you condescend to scurrilous abuse and vile chicanery. Utterly without defence, you have recourse to a pettifogging subterfuge, and bully and fall foul of "the plaintiff's attorney." Fie, fie!

And now, gentle reader, if in our honest anxiety to fly to the rescue of injured innocence we have somewhat trespassed on your patience, suffer us to plead our motives in justification; remember how

dense, of how long standing the dust that had accumulated on the picture we have undertaken, not vainly we hope, to cleanse. Much, very much more, could we have urged in behalf of the victim of the grossest malignity, the vilest aspersion; but we are well content to leave to your abler judgment the consideration of one, doubtless "the courteoust knight that ever bare shield, the truest friend that ever bestrode horse, the kindest man that ever struck with sword, the goodliest man that ever came among press of knights, and the meekest and the gentlest that ever eat in a hall among ladies." Peace be with his ashes!

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66

LAUNDRESS.

Good old soul! she laboured under an idea that

How wonderfully elastic is the English language! The same old lady scrubbed my bronze coffeeOld Bailey (not the place where they try pick-pot (on which I particularly prided myself) with pockets and eat boiled beef, but the Qixóoyos" as sand-paper, and expressed, with half-a-dozen he calls himself) derives the word laundress from curtseys, her regret, that though "she 'ad bin 'ard lavatrix, Johnson from Lavandière, and the latter at it for 'arf a nour, it warn't bright yet." interprets it as meaning "a woman whose employment is to wash clothes." Now, as a still more t. r.o.u.d.e. s. spelt trousers, and t. o. u. 1. s. towels; modern authority has vouched, it means a woman and as words and letters are mere arbitrary signs, who never washes anything, not even her own for anything I know she might be right. At any hands. They are a "peculiar people," those rate, I understood what those enigmatical entries Temple laundresses. Each one looks after a meant when they appeared, as they regularly did certain number of sets of chambers, and is possessed, in my quarterly bills, followed by ciphers as mar"as of her own property," of three or four liege vellous. I have been told, though I do not believe subjects of her Majesty, whom she designates as it, that, in their weekly accounts, some laundresses "her gentlemen." So absolute is this right of pro- spell "beer" with the same letters that stand for perty that an eminent Queen's Counsel was not black-lead," "fire-wood," and "soda." long ago sold, body and bag, by one laundress to another for the consideration of one sovereign of lawful money of the realm, the receipt whereof the vendor duly acknowledged, &c.

They are jealous of the honour and glory of their "gentlemen." I knew one, an ancient dame of sixty-five, concerning whom a malicious clerk had put about a report that she was upon too familiar terms with one of her "gentlemen." Her indignation knew no bounds; but it was all for his reputation, not hers. "To think that a gentleman who can put his hand in his pocket and take out half-a-crown whenever he likes" (a sum which, to the old lady's imagination, would command all the pleasures, lawful and unlawful, of the metropolis) "should take a fancy to an old woman like me!" Hanging, drawing, and quartering was too good for the calumnious clerk. He was to be "dratted;" though what that consists in I never could make out something terrible, of course.

They are fertile in expedients. Well do I remember that Sunday morning when I gazed rejoicing "from my bed whereon I lay," on my boots as they stood resplendent on the hearth-rug. I fancied that they looked odd when I put them on; but it was not till I walked forth and beheld the feet of my fellow-men in Fleet-street that I knew what had happened. I then discovered that the bottle of Day and Martin being exhausted, my laundress had polished my boots with black-lead!

66

A laundress is endowed, not with eternal youth, but eternal old age. They are never young, and they never die. Their husbands are generally cobblers, and beat them; and they always have "a little rent to make up," and want a new pail and brush; though how the latter is worn out is a mystery, inasmuch as they never swab or dust anything.

The natural enemy of the laundress is the clerk; and as long as he wears a short jacket and a turnover collar he is "that boy," and always arter summut or other mischeeve-ious." When he puts on a tail-coat and a stock, and grows his whiskers, he becomes "Mister Jones," and they treat him with respect.

A barrister's clerk generally hangs himself and his laundress usually goes mad. There is one poor creature of this class known to all who pass through the Temple. Her harmlessness and helplessness melt even the stone porters who stand, in their white aprons, superior to humanity, the terror of organ-boys and women in pattens. The last time I saw her she was expressing her gratitude to one of her late "gentlemen," who gives her a pension, by fustigating his name on the door-post with her little cane, and then limped off in great haste to apply the same discipline to a spaniel who was paying more marked attention than she considered proper to a bull-terrier in Pump-court.

Such is the Temple Laundress. Tread lightly

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