He bore the scriptural name of Matthew and was, as he informed us, a ’horphan’—­adding, with a particular pathos, ‘without father or mother!’ His melancholy was, I think, rather attributable to bile than destitution, which he superinduced by feeding almost entirely on ‘second-hand pastry,’ purchased from the little Jew-boys, who hawk about their ‘tempting’ trash in the vicinity of the Bank.

Matthew, like other youths of a poetical temperament, from Petrarch down to Lord Byron, had a ‘passion.’

I accidentally discovered the object of his platonic flame in the person of the little grubby-girl—­the servant of the house-keeper—­for, as the proverb truly says,

“Love and a cough cannot be hid.”

The tender passion first evinced itself in his delicate attentions;—­nor was the quick-eyed maid slow to discover her conquest.  Her penetration, however, was greater than her sympathy.  With a tact that would not have disgraced a politician—­in a better cause, she adroitly turned the swelling current of his love to her own purposes.

As the onward flowing stream is made to turn the wheel, while the miller sings at the window, so did she avail herself of his strength to do her work, while she gaily hummed a time, and sadly ‘hummed’ poor Matthew.

There being nearly thirty offices in the building, there were of course in winter as many fires, and as many coal-scuttles required.  When the eyes of the devoted Matthew gazed on the object of his heart’s desire toiling up the well-stair, he felt he knew not what; and, with a heart palpitating with the apprehension that his proffered service might be rejected (poor deluded mortal!), he begged he might assist her.  With a glance that he thought sufficient to ignite the insensible carbon, she accepted his offer.  Happy Matthew!—­he grasped the handles her warm red-hands had touched!—­Cold-blooded, unimaginative beings may deride his enthusiasm; but after all, the sentiment he experienced was similar to, and quite as pure, as that of Tom Jones, when he fondled Sophia Western’s little muff.

But, alas!—­

“The course of true love never did run smooth.”

Two months after this event, ‘his Mary’ married the baker’s man!—­

* * * * * * * * * *

Wallis’s nephew had several times invited me to pay him a visit at his uncle’s house, at Crouchend; and so once, during the absence of that gentleman who was ruralizing at Tonbridge, I trudged down to his villa.

Nothing would suit Master John, but that he must ‘have out’ his uncle’s gun; and we certainly shot at, and frightened, many sparrows.

He was just pointing at a fresh quarry, when the loud crow of a cock arrested his arm.

“That’s Doddington’s game ’un, I know,” said Master John.  “What d’ye think—­if he did’nt ‘pitch into’ our ‘dunghill’ the other day, and laid him dead at a blow.  I owe him one!—­Come along.”  I followed in his footsteps, and soon beheld Chanticleer crowing with all the ostentation of a victor at the hens he had so ruthlessly widowed.  A clothes-horse, with a ragged blanket, screened us from his view; and Master’John, putting the muzzle of his gun through a hole in this novel ambuscade, discharged its contents point blank into the proclaimer of the morn—­and laid him low.