who could work (literary gents,—­one wrote his “Travels in Mesopotamia,” and the other his “Sketches at Almack’s,” in the place); but all the occupation I could find was walking down Bridge Street, and then up Bridge Street, and staring at Alderman Waithman’s windows, and then at the black man who swept the crossing.  I never gave him anything; but I envied him his trade and his broom, and the money that continually fell into his old hat.  But I was not allowed even to carry a broom.

Twice or thrice—­for Lady Tiptoff did not wish her little boy often to breathe the air of such a close place as Salisbury Square—­my dear Mary came in the thundering carriage to see me.  They were merry meetings; and—­if the truth must be told—­twice, when nobody was by, I jumped into the carriage and had a drive with her; and when I had seen her home, jumped into another hackney-coach and drove back.  But this was only twice; for the system was dangerous, and it might bring me into trouble, and it cost three shillings from Grosvenor Square to Ludgate Hill.

Here, meanwhile, my good mother kept me company; and what should we read of one day but the marriage of Mrs. Hoggarty and the Rev. Grimes Wapshot!  My mother, who never loved Mrs. H., now said that she should repent all her life having allowed me to spend so much of my time with that odious ungrateful woman; and added that she and I too were justly punished for worshipping the mammon of unrighteousness and forgetting our natural feelings for the sake of my aunt’s paltry lucre.  “Well, Amen!” said I.  “This is the end of all our fine schemes!  My aunt’s money and my aunt’s diamond were the causes of my ruin, and now they are clear gone, thank Heaven! and I hope the old lady will be happy; and I must say I don’t envy the Rev. Grimes Wapshot.”  So we put Mrs. Hoggarty out of our thoughts, and made ourselves as comfortable as might be.

Rich and great people are slower in making Christians of their children than we poor ones, and little Lord Poynings was not christened until the month of June.  A duke was one godfather, and Mr. Edmund Preston, the State Secretary, another; and that kind Lady Jane Preston, whom I have before spoken of, was the godmother to her nephew.  She had not long been made acquainted with my wife’s history; and both she and her sister loved her heartily and were very kind to her.  Indeed, there was not a single soul in the house, high or low, but was fond of that good sweet creature; and the very footmen were as ready to serve her as they were their own mistress.

“I tell you what, sir,” says one of them.  “You see, Tit my boy, I’m a connyshure, and up to snough; and if ever I see a lady in my life, Mrs. Titmarsh is one.  I can’t be fimiliar with her—­I’ve tried—­”

“Have you, sir?” said I.

“Don’t look so indignant!  I can’t, I say, be fimiliar with her as I am with you.  There’s a somethink in her, a jenny-squaw, that haws me, sir! and even my Lord’s own man, that ’as ’ad as much success as any gentleman in Europe—­he says that, cuss him—­”