“Talk of refinement,” said he, one day, when discussing Dubois’ merits with Mr. Wallis; “I saw a bit to-day as bangs everything.  A cadger sweeping a crossing fell out with a dustman.  Wasn’t there some spicy jaw betwixt ’em.  Well, nothing would suit, but the dustman must have a go, and pitch into the cadger.

“D___ me, what does the cove do, but he outs with a bit of dirty
pasteboard, and he says, says he, “I sha’nt fight with fistesses, it’s
wulgar!—­but if he’s a mind to anything like a gemman, here’s my card!”
Wasn’t there a roar!   I lugg’d out a bob, and flung it at the vagabond
for his wit.”

CHAPTER XIII.—­My Talent Called into Active Service.

“Ar’n’t you glad you ain’t a black-a-moor?”

“I should think so,” replied his sooty brother, “they’re sich ugly warmints.”

Having to deliver a letter, containing an account and a stock receipt, to one of Mr. Timmis’s clients, residing at the west end of the town; in crossing through one of the fashionable squares, I observed a flat-faced negro servant in livery, standing at the door of one of the houses.

Two chimney sweepers who happened to be passing, showed their white teeth in a contemptuous grin at the African.

“Bob,” I overheard one remark, “ar’n’t you glad you ain’t a black-a-moor?”

“I should think so,” replied his sooty brother, “they’re sich ugly warmints.  Master’s daughter, wots come from boarding school! says the sight of ‘ems’ enough to frighten one into conwulsions!”

Alas! for the prejudice of the world!  How much this ignorant remark reminded me of my patron’s unfounded hatred of all “forriners.”  It was precisely the same sentiment, differently expressed, that actuated the thoughts and opinions of both.

I must, however, do Mr. Timmis the justice to say, that he made ample amends to Monsieur Dubois for the affront he had so thoughtlessly put upon the worthy Frenchman; and did all in his power to obtain him pupils.

The consequent change in his dress and manner, his amiable conduct, and gentlemanly deportment, at last completely won upon the esteem of the boisterous broker, who swore, (for that was generally his elegant manner of expressing his sincerity) that Dubois was a ‘downright good’un;’ and were it not for his foreign accent, he should have taken him for an Englishman born—­really believing, that there was no virtue in the world but of English growth.

I had now been above twelve-months in his office, and although I had received but a moderate compensation for my services, yet the vast improvement I had made (thanks to the instruction of Monsieur Dubois,) was more valuable than gold.  My father also, though but scantily furnished with book-knowledge, had, nevertheless, the good sense to appreciate and encourage my progress; he was well aware, from observation, that ‘knowledge is power,’ and would frequently quote the old saw,