eight-half-past-the last omnibus from the last train rolled into the town-and no lecturer! Poor Treakle suffered all the agonies of a convicted felon. Once he ventured before the audience, and, in a tremulous voice, with a countenance alternately red and white, attempted to implore their indulgence on behalf of Mr. Solomons; but, overpowered by a sense of crime, he could scarcely utter a syllable. A sad time did he have of it when he escorted Mrs. Treakle and his daughters from the lecture-hall, after the dispersion of the company, who had naturally expected much valuable information on that tender and illimitable topic, the nature and extent of woman's mission.

After this disappointment, Deadington wisely resolved to rely upon native talent; and, therefore, when Mr. Wollop, who was known to have applied himself to science as well as tuition, offered to give a lecture on chemistry, his services were thankfully accepted. Mr. Wollop's delivery was not agreeable, for he labored under a deficiency of teeth, and his experiments were not generally successful; yet it was universally agreed that his lecture "went off well." He was assisted by two of his senior pupils, who broke many of his more fragile instruments, and were continually in his way; but they afterwards observed with characteristic acuteness to their companions, "they knew jolly well that old Wollop would put all the breakages into the bills." In conclusion, it may be stated, that a red and blue light brought down two rounds of cheering, and public expectation was at its height, when the room

was put into utter darkness; the lecturer announcing that this was necessary, in order that a particularly interesting and singular effect might be seen to advantage, which was nevertheless not seen at all. Whilst the audience was waiting, in breathless anticipation, for this event, we are compelled to record that a very suspicious sound (Miss Matilda Crane afterwards said it sounded like a smack) was heard to proceed from the portion of the room occupied by Miss Crane's young ladies; and when light was restored, the teacher was looking very red, and the linen-draper's assistant, who was not far off, was intently gazing on the ceiling, with folded arms and a particularly serious coun

tenance.

In spite of some little failures, and perhaps also some few follies, "our institution" has been productive of many solid advantages to the townsfolk of Deadington. Though we

are not generally very fond of statistics, we were much gratified by those contained in our last library report. Some of the great books which carry with them elevation and refinement wherever they go, had been widely circulated. Amongst the favorite authors in Deadington, were Scott, and Shakespeare, and Dickens; but Paradise Lost, and even the Excursion, had many readers; whilst the biographies of great men-of Nelson, of Wellington, of Buonaparte, of Johnson, and of Howard had circulated so widely, that we cannot doubt they have sown in some minds seeds of heroism and ambition, which, even in the narrow sphere of an English country town, have not been sown in vain.

READER, I am a vagabond! seriously and literally a vagabond! born with vagabond tastes and habits, of parents who, by Act of Parliament, were vagabonds, (and rogues, too, for the matter of that!) as were Shakespeare, Garrick, Quin, Kemble, Mrs. Siddons, and all others of the same profession. As a boy I pursued a vagabond career; was a dirty boy-a hot boy-an untractable boy-a boy with mangled knees and burst elbows-a defiant, truculent, idle, impudent, chaffing boy-clever as to orchard burglaries; insolvent through an overweening love of hardbake; premature in a longing for tobacco! -a boy to whom Virgil was as an emetic,

and Euclid as castor-oil, but whose friendship for a duodecimo Byron was unbounded, and who could quote long passages from a thumbed and dirty Keats, purchased at a book-stall from the proceeds of the sale of a Cornelius Nepos. As a young man I have still been a vagabond; not the "Tom, you vagabond!" the nephew of the rich and testy old uncle in the standard comedy, as Tom is generally a dashing spendthrift, who consorts with dukes and marquises and loses large sums at the Cocoa Tree, but a person with a taste for the odd and strange, for curious company and associates, for night-wanderings in out-of-the-way places, for long suminer

days spent with brown-skinned gipsies and spangled acrobats, for long and familiar conversations with Punch proprietors, cheapjacks, and other frequenters of the race-course; with a love for talent, natural or acquired, in any shape, however humble; and with an unmitigated aversion to mediocre respectability. I have seen a good deal of respectability, and respect it not. I have known many respectable people, and wondered at them and their ways. Clerks, mostly,-legal, government official, or public company clerks-philoprogenitive to an extent, with a leaning towards Dalston or Camden Town as a residence; strange and fantastic as regards apparel; people who look upon an oratorio at Exeter Hall as a recreation; call actors "performers;" ignore Tennyson; think Mr. Martin Tupper a poet, and Punch a "humorous publication;" and whose sole interest in what they term the Rooshian war, is its ultimate effect on the price of the domestic necessaries. In their turn, I will say that the respectables love not me nor my fellows. They cannot comprehend us; and though the obnoxious Act of Parliament aforenamed has been repealed-and though they see us inhabiting good houses, paying rent, rates, and taxes, attending church, serving on juries and committees, and performing all proper acts of good citizenship-they still look upon us as beyond the pale of acquaintance and recognition. These are the middle classes, the suburbans, the Pancras-cum-Bloomsburys-as distinguished from the swells, the upper ten thousand, who adore us-and the fashionable moneyocracy who follow their lead; who think us so quaint, so curious; who say we are such entertaining persons; so amusing, and with such a fund of humor ; and who, with all their adoration, talk, and recognition, have as much real feeling for us as they have for Mr. Gunter who supplies the ices, or Mr. Edgington who builds the extempore Turkish kiosk on the first landing-place.

And who are we of whom I am writing? What people occupy this curiously anomalous position; this Mahomet's coffin-like suspension between envy and scorn?-What is that queer world which I have undertaken to describe? I will tell you. The subjects of my essay are the amusing classes; those who belong to none of the three recognized professions; and who, without being sharpers or swindlers, yet contrive to "live by their wits."

Such are the literary men, the newspaper writers, the actors, singers, and musicians, the entertainment-givers, the lecturers,

the artists in oil, in water color, and on wood -finally, my queer world is the monde des artistes.

A queer world, indeed! A world of hard strivings and, generally speaking, small results! In some degree, a hollow, shamming world-a world with a mask on-a mask bearing a pleasant expression and a fixed grin, behind which the face of the wearer is lengthy, pale, anxious, and careworn! A world, the members of which have a somewhat difficult part to play; for you, my public, come to us for recreation or distraction; and we, who live to please, must please to live. We must never be ill, dull, or dispirited; we must leave our sick couches at the sound of the overture-put off our mourning garments, and don our motley, when we hear the tramp of the audience coming in.

With small means, and yet requiring some peculiar comforts, the denizens of this queer world have some difficulty in accommodating themselves with appropriate residences. The artist must have spacious rooms with a "north light," at a rent to suit the exigencies of his income, and yet sufficiently near the great thoroughfares for the convenience of models and sitters; the musician must not be subjected to the resentment of soul-less neighbors who object to the perpetual repetition of a symphony, rehearsed and re-rehearsed until perfection is acquired, or who are inimi- | cal to the pursuit of the vocal art under the most trying difficulties or at the latest hours; the actor must be near his theatre; the newspaper writer near his office; the litterateur's home must not be beyond the reach of the always worn and sleepy printer's devil; and so it comes that this queer world takes possession of one especial locale, and holds it for its own.

The locale is as queer as its inhabitants; a bygone locale-a place that has been -a quarter of the town that once was grand and fashionable, but is now lodging-let and boarding-housed; vast and gloomy mansions, with treble windows and enormous doorswith area railings furnished with extinguishers, in which the Jeameses of the bygone genera tion buried their flaming torches after safely depositing their mistresses at Lady Bab's drum. Inside, the rooms are also vast and gloomy too, save those occupied by the artists, whose windows are generally carried up to the floor above; the staircases are broad and capacious, as are the landings and the entrance hall. Hotspur Street may be

reckoned the head quarters of the queer world; and the houses in Hotspur Street are all of the pattern just described. The street itself combines all the requirements of its denizens : one turning takes you into Oxford Street, the other end leads into Tottenham Court Road-that thoroughfare where all the necessaries of life are procurable at the lowest prices, and where the shops, relying on the dissipated manners of their customers, keep open until incredible hours. In the hot sum

mer weather, when the cabbages lying exposed in Tottenham Court Road stalls are turned brown by the sun-when the gentleman with the Italian name gives up the chestnuts which he has vended during the winter and produces parti-colored slabs of damp and clinging nastiness which he calls " 'penny ices" when the contents of butchers' shops, always unpleasant to the eye, become equally offensive to the nose-then are the precincts of Hotspur Street invaded by foreign gentlemen of fantastic appearance, in wondrous coats, cloudy linen, dapper little boots, and trousers apparently manufactured of brown paper. These are the confrères of many of the attic inhabitants, who are attached to the Opera band and chorus-dark, sallow-faced men with shaved blue beards and short-cropped hair, convenient for the wearing of wigs. Then is a great Saturnalia carried on:Alphonse and Max tear down the stairs, rush into the street, and, seizing upon Jules and Heinrich, enarm them then and there, and rub beard to beard with frank sincerity and hearty welcome; then the thumping of pianos, the twanging of stringed and the blasts of wind instruments, are redoubled; while from the open attic windows float such clouds of smoke as almost to justify the apprehensions of nervous neighbors that the premises are on fire.

Foreigners, however, are not the only excitement in Hotspur Street; for the carriages that discharge their living cargoes at Jack Belton's door, and crawl lazily up and down until they are signalled to return and “take up," are the envy of the neighborhood, and attract an enormous audience of the infantile population.

Jack Belton lives at No. 136, the large house with the portico, and is now one of the first artists of the day; smiled on by the fairest of the aristocracy-courteously received by dukes and marquises-actually in favor with the Royal Academy, and not snubbed by the Hanging Committee! Times, however, were not always so brilliant with him;

VOL. VII. N. S.

slowly, and step by step, has he advanced in his profession; every round of the ladder has been fought for until his present position was attained. Jack's father was a merchant prince-a Russell Square man-a person of fabulous wealth, who, like that noble monarch George the Second, "hated boetry and bainting," and lived but for his money, his dinners, and his position in the city; a fat, pompous, thick-headed man, with a red face, a loud voice, a portly presence, and overwhelming watch-chain; a man before whom the Bank porters bowed their cocked hats with awe, and at whose name the messengers of the Stock Exchange did obeisance out of sheer reverence; a man with many services of plate

Mr.

with a splendid library which he never entered with a country house, and pineries, lakes, and preserves; a man who looked down upon his son Jack (at the age of sixteen but a puny lad,) with contempt, and wondered "why the son of a British merchant should demean himself by messin' with chalks and paints, like any poor, strugglin' artist!" When Jack was sixteen the crash came. Belton pleasantly over-speculated himself: shares that should have been at a premium were at a discount-ships that should have come in "with a wet sail" foundered at sea -a public company, which was to have made the fortunes of its directors and shareholders, suddenly burst up-Bank porters bowed their cocked hats no longer-men on 'Change gathered in knots, looked grave, and shook their heads ominously as they spoke of "Belton's business." If you were in Jack's confidence, now, he might perhaps tell you a touching story of those days-how, as he was about to mount his pony and canter away, followed by his groom in livery, his sister, one year older than himself, came out and whispered him-how the horses were sent away, and the boy and girl went into the splendid library, where, for the first time, Jack heard the awful tidings that "Papa was ruined!" You would hear how these two brave hearts consulted and planned brave deeds, ay! and, young as they were, executed them! How Jack tramped half over London with a lithographic stone under his arm, offering his drawings for sale-how, at last, one spirited publisher was found who accepted. them, paid the boy for his work, and brought it out in a handsome manner-how the style found favor with the public-how Jack received commissions from his publishing friend for an unlimited amount of work-and how, when carpets were festooned from the

G

windows of the Russell Square mansion, and posting bills were placarded against the door, announcing, in the choicest language of the late eminent Mr. James Jobbings, that the elegant and distinguished furniture, the noble paintings, the rare wines, the fine collection of ancient and modern authors, &c., were for sale within, Jack piloted the delicate sister and broken-spirited old man through the crowd of carpet-capped salesmen and jabbering Jews, and conveyed them to a neat, respectable lodging hired by him, and maintained for many years after by the products of his untiring industry. Were you in his confidence, I say, he might tell you somewhat of this story; and now I will tell you more. I will tell you that, in the lapse of time, the old man died, blessing and reverencing the son he had once despised; I will tell you that the delicate sister is now one of the sweetest young matrons in England, married to a literary man whose name is a household word in every place where great talents and pure thoughts are appreciated. I will tell you that, if I am not mistaken, and I've a keen eye for this sort of thing, this present summer will not pass away without our seeing Jack himself (let me be polite for once, and say Mr. Belton, R.A.!) united to a sister of his sister's husband--a girl fitted for him in every way. God bless thee, Jack! God bless thee, noble mind and clever head! After marriage, you will quit our quarter and migrate to more fashionable regions. But we shall watch your career; every succeeding triumph will be hailed with delight, and your name will all always be mentioned with enthusiasm in the queer world which you once adorned.

Do you see that blear-eyed, wizened-faced, white-haired man, shambling up the sunny side of the street, and rubbing his short and dingy blue cloak against the area railings as he passes? That is old Solfa, and old Solfa's cloak! He is never seen without that cloak: in it he takes his walks abroad, in it he sits at home, and, encircled in its scanty folds, it is firmly believed he takes his rest. Jack Gabbler, who knows everything and everybody, or at all events who pretends to if he does not, says he called upon Solfa very early one morning, that Solfa's voice answered him as from beneath distant bedclothes, and that on his demanding an interview Solfa came out to him, enveloped in his cloak, and apparently nothing else! He is a very old man now, but in his day he was great. An admirable musician, a pleasant singer, master of every instrument, and being neither too proud

to accompany a song, nor too modest to sit in the middle of a crowded room, and sing pretty little French romans, accompanying himself on a guitar slung round his neck by a broad blue ribbon, Solfa was a great acquisition in a country-house, and went into very excellent society. Perfectly courtly in his manner, and possessing many of those insinuating ways which are irrisistible with a certain class of women, which require to be managed with much finesse, and which, when bungled, expose their possessor to the certainty of being kicked out of the house, Solfa has had his bonnes fortunes, and will sometimes recount them to you, licking his shrivelled lips, and leering in an unpleasant manner the while. He did not wear the blue cloak then, as you would readily perceive in the portrait which hangs over his looking-glass, and which he always shows to every new friend. There, he is gorgeous in a huge-collared coat, in pantaloons tied with strings at the ankle, in ribbed stockings and pumps. "C'etait dans les jours de ma première jeunesse!" says the old man, pointing to it with a trembling hand, "bé-for I was old Solfa, as zey call me now." And he will tell you a long maudlin story about his wife whom he adored-"Oh Sophie! comme je t'amais!" and who is dead. I should, however, advise you not to believe this part of the narrative, as rumor whispers that he utterly neglected Sophie, that he was always out at parties, leaving his wife moping at home, (quite like Tom Moore in a small way, isn't it?) and it was firmly believed that he was in the habit of correcting her by personal chastisement. Now his day is over, his friends dead or grown very steady, and his place in society occupied by younger men. His voice is cracked, and at an evening party a man with a guitar and blue ribbon would only be laughed at; so Solfa has retired into private life and given himself up entirely to what has long been his ruling passion, the desire for making money. He would go anywhere or do anything which would turn out remunerative; he buys things at a wonderfully low rate, and sells them for large prices; he can beat down the strongest-minded Jews, and vanquish them in their own exclusive territories, the private sales and auction-rooms of London. He attends the periodical auctions with the utmost regularity; and I have seen him coming up Hotspur Street in the gloom of the evening with the scanty cloak extended to its utmost limits, to act as a covering for a large pier-glass which he was

carrying beneath it. When I first knew Solfa, he one day pulled out of his pocket a very pretty watch, a lady's watch, enamelled and set with diamonds. I was more foolish in those days, perhaps, than I am now; and I thought of a young person whose birthday. was close at hand, and whose bright eyes would look brighter still were I to present her with the watch as a gage d'amitie! well, perhaps d'amour! Solfa was, of course, disposed to sell it, and though he asked a high price, under such circumstances money is "no object," and the watch became mine. When the purchase was concluded, and the money paid, Solfa said, "I vill gif you leetle advice! Ze vatch is good vatch, vear him two year, then sell him! I have vore him two year myself, and I think four year more he be no good."

This is his policy, the true policy of the present day-buying in the cheapest and selling in the dearest market; and by the exercise of much worldly wisdom and arithmetical shrewdness he has collected together a large fortune. His rooms, two small attics, are crowded with clocks, pictures, statuettes, and objects of vertú, constantly changing, and all yielding a per-centage. Some day he will be found dead in that back room. He has no relations, no friends; but he tells every one he has made a will, and he looks so benevolently at each of us as he says it, that I am sometimes disposed to think we have distant hopes of being down for a legacy, and that is why we stand his stories of bygone days with so much patience.

We have very few actors left in our queer world now, though at one time they used to abound there. But they have migrated to Brompton and Chelsea, where there is quite a histrionic colony; and whence, if you lounge down Piccadilly at about six o'clock in the fine afternoons, you may see them hastening to their avocations in shoals; heavy tragedy and low comedy chatting together outside the omnibuses, while the heroines of tear-drawing melodrame and piquante farce come rattling up in broughams and cabs. These are great times for the gents; they love to see an actor off the stage; and it is believed that many of them, if they could make the acquaintance of Mr. Paul Bedford, and hear him call them by their Christian names in his rolling voice, would die happy. When they see any theatrical persons in the street they watch their movements closely, and are much disappointed at not perceiving any eccentricity in their walk or manner, hoping perhaps

that after a few steps the actor would invert himself and proceed for the rest of his journey on his hands, or that upon calling a cab he would spring into it head-foremost and be

seen no more.

In Hotspur Street, I think, there is not a single actor left; for you can scarcely call Spouter an actor now. At one time they say he was wonderful in second-rate parts; and in the days of the Kembles and the elder Kean he used to be constantly engaged, playing what is technically called "youthful tragedy, jeune-premier and genteel comedy,' such as Cassio, Mercutio, Orlando, Don Felix, &c. They say he was particularly handsome and distingué-looking; and they tell me that marchionesses and duchesses were in love with him, and nightly appeared in certain seats when he acted. They tell me this, and I receive it as a legend. I do not think many ladies of title are now-a-days in love with our theatrical young gentlemen. They say that Spouter's appearance and manners so charmed, that the Prince Regent invited him to Carlton House, and would have proved an invaluable friend to him, had his Royal Highness not soon discovered what was really the fact, that, beyond a handsome person, Spouter had no charm; that he was a dull, soulless person, who learnt his words by rote, and repeated them, with certain conventional gestures, without the slightest knowledge of their real signification.

But the "first gentleman in Europe," with all his folly, was a much better judge of ability than half his subjects; and by hundreds of families Spouter was still worshipped and invited. There is a portrait of him by Clint still in the possession of the Roscius Club; he is standing as Mercutio, in the celebrated Queen Mab" speech, and the animation of his handsome features is especially well rendered. This picture was engraved, and all the young ladies of thirty years ago had a print of Spouter hanging in their bed-rooms; those young ladies are now middle-aged matrons; a new generation has arisen which knows not Spouter; and the hook in the wall on which Mercutio erst hung, is now occupied by a sweet portrait of the Rev. Cyprian Genuflex, ornamented with the autograph signature of the darling curate, and the date Eve of Saint Boanerges."

..

Yes, Spouter's day is over. He is an old man now, in a brown wig; but he doesn't remember the lapse of time; and so pads and paints, and tooths and calves himself, that at a distance he does not look above forty-five.