Speaking with reference to those long years ago when I was dissuaded from my career by those who doubtless had the most affectionate interest in my welfare, and to whose advice I proved to be so undutiful, I cannot help, whether vanity be attributed to me or not, contrasting the position of the penniless articled clerk in the attorney’s office and the situation which came to me as the result of unremitting labour.

Let me state it with pride as well as humility that my rewards have been beyond my dreams and far above my deserts.

On February 7, in a committee room of the House, I was met by my supporters and those whose duties made them a portion of the ceremony, and realized the ambition that came to me only in my later life.

Some members of my family would have preferred the family name to be associated with the title.  I must confess I had some attachment for it, as it had rendered me such good service, and it was somewhat hard to give it up.

If, however, I had had any hesitation, it would have been removed when one afternoon Lord ——­ called on me, and in his chaffing manner said,—­

“Well, I hear you are to be Lord ’Awkins of ’Itchin, ’Erts.”

“Be ——­ if I will!” said I; “Brampton’s the only landed estate I have inherited, and although the old ladies who are life-tenants kept me out of it as long as they could, I shall take my title from it as the only thing I am likely to get out of it.”

“Bravo!” said he.  “I don’t like ’Awkins of ’Itchin, ’Erts. Brampton sounds like a title; and so my hearty congratulations, and may you and her ladyship live long to enjoy it!”

“Mr. Punch” was good enough to furnish me with a beautiful and humorous coat of arms, done by that very talented artist Mr. E.T.  Reed.

* * * * *

Since the commencement of this volume many of the old friends mentioned in it with affectionate remembrance have gone to their rest, and I am steadily approaching my own end.  Trusting to the mercy and goodness of God, I patiently await my summons.  I can but humbly add that to the best of my poor ability I have ever conscientiously endeavoured in all things to do my duty.

And now, as I lay down my pen, dreamily thinking over old names, old friends, and old faces of bygone years, I live my life over again.  Everything passes like a picturesque vision before my eyes.  I can see the old coach which brought me from my home—­a distance of thirty miles in eight hours—­a rapid journey in those days.  This was old Kirshaw’s swift procedure.  Then there was the “Bedford Times” I travelled with, which was Whitehead’s fire-engine kind of motor; but generally in that district John Crowe was the celebrated whip.

Then passes before me the old Cock that crew over the doorway in Fleet Street, a Johnsonian tavern of mighty lineage and celebrity for chops and steaks.  And I see the old waiter, with his huge pockets behind, in which he deposited the tons of copper tips from the numberless diners whom he attended to during his long career.