Going into society

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Page 1
Going into Society
 by
 Charles Dickens
 An Electronic Classics Series Publication
Page 2

Going into Society by Charles Dickens is a publication of The Electronic Classics Series. This
 Portable Document file is furnished free and without any charge of any kind. Any person
using this document file, for any purpose, and in any way does so at his or her own risk.
Neither the Pennsylvania State University nor Jim Manis, Editor, nor anyone associated with
the Pennsylvania State University assumes any responsibility for the material contained
within the document or for the file as an electronic transmission, in any way.
 Going into Society by Charles Dickens, The Electronic Classics Series, Jim Manis, Editor, PSU-
 Hazleton, Hazleton, PA 18202 is a Portable Document File produced as part of an ongoing
publication project to bring classical works of literature, in English, to free and easy access
of those wishing to make use of them.
Jim Manis is a faculty member of the English Department of The Pennsylvania State University.
This page and any preceding page(s) are restricted by copyright. The text of the following pages
are not copyrighted within the United States; however, the fonts used may be.
Cover Design: Jim Manis
Copyright © 2000 - 2013
 The Pennsylvania State University is an equal opportunity university.
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3
Charles Dickens
 Going into Society
 by
Charles Dickens
 A
 T ONE PERIOD
 of its reverses, the House fell into
the occupation of a Showman. He was found
registered as its occupier, on the parish books
of the time when he rented the House, and there was
therefore no need of any clue to his name. But, he him-
self was less easy to be found; for, he had led a wander-
ing life, and settled people had lost sight of him, and
people who plumed themselves on being respectable were
shy of admitting that they had ever known anything of
him. At last, among the marsh lands near the river’s
level, that lie about Deptford and the neighbouring
market-gardens, a Grizzled Personage in velveteen, with
a face so cut up by varieties of weather that he looked
as if he had been tattooed, was found smoking a pipe at
the door of a wooden house on wheels. The wooden
house was laid up in ordinary for the winter, near the
mouth of a muddy creek; and everything near it, the
foggy river, the misty marshes, and the steaming mar-
ket-gardens, smoked in company with the grizzled man.
In the midst of this smoking party, the funnel-chimney
of the wooden house on wheels was not remiss, but
took its pipe with the rest in a companionable manner.
On being asked if it were he who had once rented the
House to Let, Grizzled Velveteen looked surprised, and
said yes. Then his name was Magsman? That was it, Toby
Magsman—which lawfully christened Robert; but called
in the line, from a infant, Toby. There was nothing agin
Toby Magsman, he believed? If there was suspicion of
such—mention it!
There was no suspicion of such, he might rest as-
sured. But, some inquiries were making about that House,
and would he object to say why he left it?
Not at all; why should he? He left it, along of a Dwarf.
Along of a Dwarf?
Mr. Magsman repeated, deliberately and emphatically,
Along of a Dwarf.
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Going into Society
 Might it be compatible with Mr. Magsman’s inclination
and convenience to enter, as a favour, into a few par-
ticulars?
Mr. Magsman entered into the following particulars.
It was a long time ago, to begin with;—afore lotteries
and a deal more was done away with. Mr. Magsman was
looking about for a good pitch, and he see that house,
and he says to himself, “I’ll have you, if you’re to be
had. If money’ll get you, I’ll have you.”
The neighbours cut up rough, and made complaints;
but Mr. Magsman don’t know what they would have
had. It was a lovely thing. First of all, there was the
canvass, representin the picter of the Giant, in Spanish
trunks and a ruff, who was himself half the heighth of
the house, and was run up with a line and pulley to a
pole on the roof, so that his Ed was coeval with the
parapet. Then, there was the canvass, representin the
picter of the Albina lady, showing her white air to the
Army and Navy in correct uniform. Then, there was the
canvass, representin the picter of the Wild Indian a scalpin
a member of some foreign nation. Then, there was the
canvass, representin the picter of a child of a British
Planter, seized by two Boa Constrictors—not that we
never had no child, nor no Constrictors neither. Simi-
larly, there was the canvass, representin the picter of
the Wild Ass of the Prairies—not that we never had no
wild asses, nor wouldn’t have had ‘em at a gift. Last,
there was the canvass, representin the picter of the
Dwarf, and like him too (considerin), with George the
Fourth in such a state of astonishment at him as His
Majesty couldn’t with his utmost politeness and stout-
ness express. The front of the House was so covered
with canvasses, that there wasn’t a spark of daylight
ever visible on that side. “Magsman’s Amusements,” fif-
teen foot long by two foot high, ran over the front door
and parlour winders. The passage was a Arbour of green
baize and gardenstuff. A barrel-organ performed there
unceasing. And as to respectability,—if threepence ain’t
respectable, what is?
But, the Dwarf is the principal article at present, and
he was worth the money. He was wrote up as Major
Tpschoffki, of the Imperial Bulgraderian Brigade. No-
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Charles Dickens
 body couldn’t pronounce the name, and it never was
intended anybody should. The public always turned it,
as a regular rule, into Chopski. In the line he was called
Chops; partly on that account, and partly because his
real name, if he ever had any real name (which was very
dubious), was Stakes.
He was a un-common small man, he really was. Cer-
tainly not so small as he was made out to be, but where
is your Dwarf as is? He was a most uncommon small
man, with a most uncommon large Ed; and what he had
inside that Ed, nobody ever knowed but himself: even
supposin himself to have ever took stock of it, which it
would have been a stiff job for even him to do.
The kindest little man as never growed! Spirited, but
not proud. When he travelled with the Spotted Baby—
though he knowed himself to be a nat’ral Dwarf, and
knowed the Baby’s spots to be put upon him artificial,
he nursed that Baby like a mother. You never heerd him
give a ill-name to a Giant. He did allow himself to break
out into strong language respectin the Fat Lady from
Norfolk; but that was an affair of the ‘art; and when a
man’s ‘art has been trifled with by a lady, and the pref-
erence giv to a Indian, he ain’t master of his actions.
He was always in love, of course; every human nat’ral
phenomenon is. And he was always in love with a large
woman; I never knowed the Dwarf as could be got to
love a small one. Which helps to keep ‘em the Curiosities
they are.
One sing’ler idea he had in that Ed of his, which must
have meant something, or it wouldn’t have been there.
It was always his opinion that he was entitled to prop-
erty. He never would put his name to anything. He had
been taught to write, by the young man without arms,
who got his living with his toes (quite a writing master
HE was, and taught scores in the line), but Chops would
have starved to death, afore he’d have gained a bit of
bread by putting his hand to a paper. This is the more
curious to bear in mind, because he had no property,
nor hope of property, except his house and a sarser.
When I say his house, I mean the box, painted and got
up outside like a reg’lar six-roomer, that he used to
creep into, with a diamond ring (or quite as good to
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Going into Society
 look at) on his forefinger, and ring a little bell out of
what the Public believed to be the Drawing-room winder.
And when I say a sarser, I mean a Chaney sarser in
which he made a collection for himself at the end of
every Entertainment. His cue for that, he took from me:
“Ladies and gentlemen, the little man will now walk
three times round the Cairawan, and retire behind the
curtain.” When he said anything important, in private
life, he mostly wound it up with this form of words, and
they was generally the last thing he said to me at night
afore he went to bed.
He had what I consider a fine mind—a poetic mind.
His ideas respectin his property never come upon him so
strong as when he sat upon a barrel-organ and had the
handle turned. Arter the wibration had run through
him a little time, he would screech out, “Toby, I feel my
property coming—grind away! I’m counting my guineas
by thousands, Toby—grind away! Toby, I shall be a man
of fortun! I feel the Mint a jingling in me, Toby, and I’m
swelling out into the Bank of England!” Such is the
influence of music on a poetic mind. Not that he was
partial to any other music but a barrel-organ; on the
contrary, hated it.
He had a kind of a everlasting grudge agin the Public:
which is a thing you may notice in many phenomenons
that get their living out of it. What riled him most in
the nater of his occupation was, that it kep him out of
Society. He was continiwally saying, “Toby, my ambi-
tion is, to go into Society. The curse of my position
towards the Public is, that it keeps me hout of Society.
This don’t signify to a low beast of a Indian; he an’t
formed for Society. This don’t signify to a Spotted Baby;
he an’t formed for Society.—I am.”
Nobody never could make out what Chops done with
his money. He had a good salary, down on the drum
every Saturday as the day came round, besides having
the run of his teeth—and he was a Woodpecker to eat—
but all Dwarfs are. The sarser was a little income, bring-
ing him in so many halfpence that he’d carry ‘em for a
week together, tied up in a pocket-handkercher. And
yet he never had money. And it couldn’t be the Fat Lady
from Norfolk, as was once supposed; because it stands
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Charles Dickens
 to reason that when you have a animosity towards a
Indian, which makes you grind your teeth at him to his
face, and which can hardly hold you from Goosing him
audible when he’s going through his War-Dance—it
stands to reason you wouldn’t under them circumstances
deprive yourself, to support that Indian in the lap of
luxury.
Most unexpected, the mystery come out one day at
Egham Races. The Public was shy of bein pulled in, and
Chops was ringin his little bell out of his drawing-room
winder, and was snarlin to me over his shoulder as he
kneeled down with his legs out at the back-door—for
he couldn’t be shoved into his house without kneeling
down, and the premises wouldn’t accommodate his legs—
was snarlin, “Here’s a precious Public for you; why the
Devil don’t they tumble up?” when a man in the crowd
holds up a carrier-pigeon, and cries out, “If there’s any
person here as has got a ticket, the Lottery’s just drawed,
and the number as has come up for the great prize is
three, seven, forty-two! Three, seven, forty-two!” I was
givin the man to the Furies myself, for calling off the
Public’s attention—for the Public will turn away, at any
time, to look at anything in preference to the thing
showed ‘em; and if you doubt it, get ‘em together for
any indiwidual purpose on the face of the earth, and
send only two people in late, and see if the whole com-
pany an’t far more interested in takin particular notice
of them two than of you—I say, I wasn’t best pleased
with the man for callin out, and wasn’t blessin him in
my own mind, when I see Chops’s little bell fly out of
winder at a old lady, and he gets up and kicks his box
over, exposin the whole secret, and he catches hold of
the calves of my legs and he says to me, “Carry me into
the wan, Toby, and throw a pail of water over me or I’m
a dead man, for I’ve come into my property!”
Twelve thousand odd hundred pound, was Chops’s
winnins. He had bought a half-ticket for the twenty-five
thousand prize, and it had come up. The first use he made
of his property, was, to offer to fight the Wild Indian for
five hundred pound a side, him with a poisoned darnin-
needle and the Indian with a club; but the Indian being in
want of backers to that amount, it went no further.
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Going into Society
 Arter he had been mad for a week—in a state of mind,
in short, in which, if I had let him sit on the organ for
only two minutes, I believe he would have bust—but
we kep the organ from him—Mr. Chops come round,
and behaved liberal and beautiful to all. He then sent
for a young man he knowed, as had a wery genteel
appearance and was a Bonnet at a gaming-booth (most
respectable brought up, father havin been imminent in
the livery stable line but unfort’nate in a commercial
crisis, through paintin a old gray, ginger-bay, and sellin
him with a Pedigree), and Mr. Chops said to this Bon-
net, who said his name was Normandy, which it wasn’t:
“Normandy, I’m a goin intoSociety. Will you gowith me?”
Says Normandy: “Do I understand you, Mr. Chops, to
hintimate that the ‘ole of the expenses of that move will
be borne by yourself?”
“Correct,” says Mr. Chops. “And you shall have a
Princely allowance too.”
The Bonnet lifted Mr. Chops upon a chair, to shake
hands with him, and replied in poetry, with his eyes
seemingly full of tears:
“My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea,
And I do not ask for more, But I’ll Go:- along with thee.”
They went into Society, in a chay and four grays with
silk jackets. They took lodgings in Pall Mall, London,
and they blazed away.
In consequence of a note that was brought to Bartlemy
Fair in the autumn of next year by a servant, most won-
derful got up in milk-white cords and tops, I cleaned
myself and went to Pall Mall, one evening appinted. The
gentlemen was at their wine arter dinner, and Mr. Chops’s
eyes was more fixed in that Ed of his than I thought
good for him. There was three of ‘em (in company, I
mean), and I knowed the third well. When last met, he
had on a white Roman shirt, and a bishop’s mitre cov-
ered with leopard-skin, and played the clarionet all
wrong, in a band at a Wild Beast Show.
This gent took on not to know me, and Mr. Chops
said: “Gentlemen, this is a old friend of former days:”
and Normandy looked at me through a eye-glass, and
said, “Magsman, glad to see you!”—which I’ll take my
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Charles Dickens
 oath he wasn’t. Mr. Chops, to git him convenient to the
table, had his chair on a throne (much of the form of
George the Fourth’s in the canvass), but he hardly ap-
peared to me to be King there in any other pint of view,
for his two gentlemen ordered about like Emperors. They
was all dressed like May-Day—gorgeous!—And as toWine,
they swam in all sorts.
I made the round of the bottles, first separate (to say
I had done it), and then mixed ‘em all together (to say I
had done it), and then tried two of ‘em as half-and-half,
and then t’other two. Altogether, I passed a pleasin
evenin, but with a tendency to feel muddled, until I
considered it good manners to get up and say, “Mr. Chops,
the best of friends must part, I thank you for the wariety
of foreign drains you have stood so ‘ansome, I looks
towards you in red wine, and I takes my leave.” Mr.
Chops replied, “If you’ll just hitch me out of this over
your right arm, Magsman, and carry me down-stairs, I’ll
see you out.” I said I couldn’t think of such a thing, but
he would have it, so I lifted him off his throne. He smelt
strong of Maideary, and I couldn’t help thinking as I
carried him down that it was like carrying a large bottle
full of wine, with a rayther ugly stopper, a good deal
out of proportion.
When I set him on the door-mat in the hall, hekep meclose
to him by holding on to my coat-collar, and he whispers:
“I ain’t ‘appy, Magsman.”
“What’s on your mind, Mr. Chops?”
“They don’t use me well. They an’t grateful to me.
They puts me on the mantel-piece when I won’t have in
more Champagne-wine, and they locks me in the side-
board when I won’t give up my property.”
“Get rid of ‘em, Mr. Chops.”
“I can’t. We’re in Society together, and what would
Society say?”
“Come out of Society!” says I.
“I can’t. You don’t know what you’re talking about.
When you have once gone into Society, you mustn’t
come out of it.”
“Then if you’ll excuse the freedom, Mr. Chops,” were
my remark, shaking my head grave, “I think it’s a pity
you ever went in.”
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Going into Society
 Mr. Chops shook that deep Ed of his, to a surprisin
extent, and slapped it half a dozen times with his hand,
and with more Wice than I thought were in him. Then,
he says, “You’re a good fellow, but you don’t under-
stand. Good-night, go along. Magsman, the little man
will now walk three times round the Cairawan, and re-
tire behind the curtain.” The last I see of him on that
occasion was his tryin, on the extremest werge of in-
sensibility, to climb up the stairs, one by one, with his
hands and knees. They’d have been much too steep for
him, if he had been sober; but he wouldn’t be helped.
It warn’t long after that, that I read in the newspaper
of Mr. Chops’s being presented at court. It was printed,
“It will be recollected”—and I’ve noticed in my life, that
it is sure to be printed that it will be recollected, when-
ever it won’t—”that Mr. Chops is the individual of small
stature, whose brilliant success in the last State Lottery
attracted so much attention.” Well, I says to myself,
Such is Life! He has been and done it in earnest at last.
He has astonished George the Fourth!
(On account of which, I had that canvass new-painted,
him with a bag of money in his hand, a presentin it to
George the Fourth, and a lady in Ostrich Feathers fallin
in love with him in a bag-wig, sword, and buckles cor-
rect.)
I took the House as is the subject of present inquir-
ies—though not the honour of bein acquainted—and I
run Magsman’s Amusements in it thirteen months—
sometimes one thing, sometimes another, sometimes
nothin particular, but always all the canvasses outside.
One night, when we had played the last company out,
which was a shy company, through its raining Heavens
hard, I was takin a pipe in the one pair back along with
the young man with the toes, which I had taken on for
a month (though he never drawed—except on paper),
and I heard a kickin at the street door. “Halloa!” I says
to the young man, “what’s up!” He rubs his eyebrows
with his toes, and he says, “I can’t imagine, Mr. Mags-
man”—which he never could imagine nothin, and was
monotonous company.
The noise not leavin off, I laid down my pipe, and I
took up a candle, and I went down and opened the door.
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Charles Dickens
 I looked out into the street; but nothin could I see, and
nothin was I aware of, until I turned round quick, be-
cause some creetur run between my legs into the pas-
sage. There was Mr. Chops!
“Magsman,” he says, “take me, on the old terms, and
you’ve got me; if it’s done, say done!”
I was all of a maze, but I said, “Done, sir.”
“Done to your done, and double done!” says he. “Have
you got a bit of supper in the house?”
Bearin in mind them sparklin warieties of foreign drains
as we’d guzzled away at in Pall Mall, I was ashamed to
offer him cold sassages and gin-and-water; but he took
‘em both and took ‘em free; havin a chair for his table,
and sittin down at it on a stool, like hold times. I, all of
a maze all the while.
It was arter he had made a clean sweep of the sassages
(beef, and to the best of my calculations two pound and
a quarter), that the wisdom as was in that little man
began to come out of him like prespiration.
“Magsman,” he says, “look upon me! You see afore
you, One as has both gone into Society and come out.”
“O! You are out of it, Mr. Chops? How did you get out,
sir?”
“Sold out!” says he. You never saw the like of the
wisdom as his Ed expressed, when he made use of them
two words.
“My friend Magsman, I’ll impart to you a discovery I’ve
made. It’s wallable; it’s cost twelve thousand five hun-
dred pound; it may do you good in life—The secret of
this matter is, that it ain’t so much that a person goes
into Society, as that Society goes into a person.”
Not exactly keepin up with his meanin, I shook my
head, put on a deep look, and said, “You’re right there,
Mr. Chops.”
“Magsman,” he says, twitchin me by the leg, “Society
has gone into me, to the tune of every penny of my
property.”
I felt that I went pale, and though nat’rally a bold
speaker, I couldn’t hardly say, “Where’s Normandy?”
“Bolted. With the plate,” said Mr. Chops.
“And t’other one?” meaning him as formerly wore the
bishop’s mitre.
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Going into Society
 “Bolted. With the jewels,” said Mr. Chops.
I sat down and looked at him, and he stood up and
looked at me.
“Magsman,” he says, and he seemed to myself to get
wiser as he got hoarser; “Society, taken in the lump, is
all dwarfs. At the court of St. James’s, they was all a
doing my old business—all a goin three times round the
Cairawan, in the hold court-suits and properties.
Elsewheres, they was most of ‘em ringin their little bells
out of make-believes. Everywheres, the sarser was a goin
round. Magsman, the sarser is the uniwersal Institu-
tion!”
I perceived, you understand, that he was soured by
his misfortunes, and I felt for Mr. Chops.
“As to Fat Ladies,” he says, giving his head a
tremendious one agin the wall, “there’s lots of them in
Society, and worse than the original. Hers was a outrage
upon Taste—simply a outrage upon Taste—awakenin
contempt—carryin its own punishment in the form of a
Indian.” Here he giv himself another tremendious one.
“But theirs, Magsman, theirs is mercenary outrages. Lay
in Cashmeer shawls, buy bracelets, strew ‘em and a lot
of ‘andsome fans and things about your rooms, let it be
known that you give away like water to all as come to
admire, and the Fat Ladies that don’t exhibit for so much
down upon the drum, will come from all the pints of the
compass to flock about you, whatever you are. They’ll
drill holes in your ‘art, Magsman, like a Cullender. And
when you’ve no more left to give, they’ll laugh at you to
your face, and leave you to have your bones picked dry
by Wulturs, like the dead Wild Ass of the Prairies that
you deserve to be!” Here he giv himself the most
tremendious one of all, and dropped.
I thought he was gone. His Ed was so heavy, and he
knocked it so hard, and he fell so stoney, and the
sassagerial disturbance in him must have been so im-
mense, that I thought he was gone. But, he soon come
round with care, and he sat up on the floor, and he said
to me, with wisdom comin out of his eyes, if ever it
come:
“Magsman! The most material difference between the
two states of existence through which your unhappy
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Charles Dickens
 friend has passed;” he reached out his poor little hand,
and his tears dropped down on the moustachio which it
was a credit to him to have done his best to grow, but it
is not in mortals to command success,—”the difference
this. When I was out of Society, I was paid light for
being seen. When I went into Society, I paid heavy for
being seen. I prefer the former, even if I wasn’t forced
upon it. Give me out through the trumpet, in the hold
way, to-morrow.”
Arter that, he slid into the line again as easy as if he had
been iled all over. But the organ was kep from him, and no
allusions was ever made, when a company was in, to his
property. He got wiser every day; his views of Society and
the Public was luminous, bewilderin, awful; and his Ed got
bigger and bigger as his Wisdom expanded it.
He took well, and pulled ‘em in most excellent for nine
weeks. At the expiration of that period, when his Ed
was a sight, he expressed one evenin, the last Company
havin been turned out, and the door shut, a wish to
have a little music.
“Mr. Chops,” I said (I never dropped the “Mr.” with
him; the world might do it, but not me); “Mr. Chops,
are you sure as you are in a state of mind and body to
sit upon the organ?”
His answer was this: “Toby, when next met with on
the tramp, I forgive her and the Indian. And I am.”
It was with fear and trembling that I began to turn
the handle; but he sat like a lamb. I will be my belief to
my dying day, that I see his Ed expand as he sat; you
may therefore judge how great his thoughts was. He sat
out all the changes, and then he come off.
“Toby,” he says, with a quiet smile, “the little man will
now walk three times round the Cairawan, and retire
behind the curtain.”
When we called him in the morning, we found him
gone into a much better Society than mine or Pall Mall’s.
I giv Mr. Chops as comfortable a funeral as lay in my
power, followed myself as Chief, and had the George the
Fourth canvass carried first, in the form of a banner.
But, the House was so dismal arterwards, that I giv it
up, and took to the Wan again.
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Going into Society
 “I
DON
 ’
 T TRIUMPH
 ,” said Jarber, folding up the second
manuscript, and looking hard at Trottle. “I don’t tri-
umph over this worthy creature. I merely ask him if he
is satisfied now?”
“How can he be anything else?” I said, answering for
Trottle, who sat obstinately silent. “This time, Jarber,
you have not only read us a delightfully amusing story,
but you have also answered the question about the
House. Of course it stands empty now. Who would think
of taking it after it had been turned into a caravan?” I
looked at Trottle, as I said those last words, and Jarber
waved his hand indulgently in the same direction.
“Let this excellent person speak,” said Jarber. “You
were about to say, my good man?” -
“I only wished to ask, sir,” said Trottle doggedly, “if
you could kindly oblige me with a date or two in con-
nection with that last story?”
“A date!” repeated Jarber. “What does the man want
with dates!”
“I should be glad to know, with great respect,” per-
sisted Trottle, “if the person named Magsman was the
last tenant who lived in the House. It’s my opinion—if I
may be excused for giving it—that he most decidedly
was not.”
With those words, Trottle made a low bow, and quietly
left the room.
There is no denying that Jarber, when we were left
together, looked sadly discomposed. He had evidently
forgotten to inquire about dates; and, in spite of his
magnificent talk about his series of discoveries, it was
quite as plain that the two stories he had just read, had
really and truly exhausted his present stock. I thought
myself bound, in common gratitude, to help him out of
his embarrassment by a timely suggestion. So I pro-
posed that he should come to tea again, on the next
Monday evening, the thirteenth, and should make such
inquiries in the meantime, as might enable him to dis-
pose triumphantly of Trottle’s objection.
He gallantly kissed my hand, made a neat little speech
of acknowledgment, and took his leave. For the rest of
the week I would not encourage Trottle by allowing him
to refer to the House at all. I suspected he was making
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15
Charles Dickens
 his own inquiries about dates, but I put no questions to
him.
On Monday evening, the thirteenth, that dear unfor-
tunate Jarber came, punctual to the appointed time. He
looked so terribly harassed, that he was really quite a
spectacle of feebleness and fatigue. I saw, at a glance,
that the question of dates had gone against him, that
Mr. Magsman had not been the last tenant of the House,
and that the reason of its emptiness was still to seek.
“What I have gone through,” said Jarber, “words are
not eloquent enough to tell. O Sophonisba, I have be-
gun another series of discoveries! Accept the last two as
stories laid on your shrine; and wait to blame me for
leaving your curiosity unappeased, until you have heard
Number Three.”
Number Three looked like a very short manuscript, and
I said as much. Jarber explained to me that we were to
have some poetry this time. In the course of his investi-
gations he had stepped into the Circulating Library, to
seek for information on the one important subject. All
the Library-people knew about the House was, that a
female relative of the last tenant, as they believed, had,
just after that tenant left, sent a little manuscript poem
to them which she described as referring to events that
had actually passed in the House; and which she wanted
the proprietor of the Library to publish. She had written
no address on her letter; and the proprietor had kept the
manuscript ready to be given back to her (the publishing
of poems not being in his line) when she might call for it.
She had never called for it; and the poem had been lent
to Jarber, at his express request, to read to me.
Before he began, I rang the bell for Trottle; being de-
termined to have him present at the new reading, as a
wholesome check on his obstinacy. To my surprise Peggy
answered the bell, and told me, that Trottle had stepped
out without saying where. I instantly felt the strongest
possible conviction that he was at his old tricks: and
that his stepping out in the evening, without leave,
meant—Philandering.
Controlling myself on my visitor’s account, I dismissed
Peggy, stifled my indignation, and prepared, as politely
as might be, to listen to Jarber.

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