His day's work done, three mortal miles and more With what a thankful gladness in his face, (Silent heart-homage-plant of special grace!) At the lane's entrance, slackening oft his pace, Would Ambrose send a loving look before; Conceiting the caged blackbird at the door, The very blackbird, strain'd its little throat In welcome, with a more rejoicing note; And honest Tinker! dog of doubtful breed, All bristle, back, and tail, but "good at need," Pleasant his greeting to the accustomed ear; But of all welcomes pleasantest, most dear, The ringing voices, like sweet silver bells, Of his two little ones. How fondly swells The father's heart, as, dancing up the lane, Each clasps a hand in her small hand again; And each must tell her tale, and "say her say," Impeding as she leads, with sweet delay, (Childhood's blest thoughtlessness!) his onward way. And when the winter day closed in so fast, Ready to follow free on Tinker's track, Such was the hour-hour sacred and apart— A plaything for the young ones. He had found And graver Lizzy's quieter surprize, When he should yield, by guess, and kiss, and prayer, Hard won, the frozen captive to their care. 'Twas a wild evening-wild and rough. "I knew," Thought Ambrose, those unlucky gulls spoke trueAnd Gaffer Chewton never growls for nought I should be mortal 'mazed now, if I thought He's in the lane again-and there below. To throw his tools down-hastily unhook Passing a neighbour's cottage in his way- Something brush'd past them. That was Tinker's bark- 1 Close at his master's heels, but, swift as light, I know that whine- the old dog's found them, Mark." Was the black void and dark swollen stream below. "Oh dear!" And a low sob came faintly on the ear, Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips, drawn tight, They lifted her from out her wat'ry bed- And one small hand. The mother's shawl was tied, That caught and pinn'd her in the river's bed, "She might have lived Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rived Thus the tortured heart Unnaturally against itself takes part, And tied the shawl quite close-she can't be cold- And it's so dark and cold! oh dear! oh dear!- Poor lamb-she wander'd in her mind, 'twas clear- From Ambrose Gray's poor cottage, all that night, No idle fiction this. Such things have been We know. And now I tell what I have seen. Life struggled long with death in that small frame; But it was strong, and conquer'd. All became As it had been with the poor family- THE CAMBERWELL BEAUTY. A CITY ROMANCE. She entered his shop which was very neat and spacious, and he received her with all the marks of the most profound respect, entreating her to sit down, and showing her with his hand the most honourable place.— ARABIAN NIGHTS. Yes, it was the same dark brown chariot, with the drab liveries, the same gray horses, with the same crest on the harness, and above all the same lady-face was looking through the carriage-window! In a moment Mr. Mooby was at his glassdoor obsequiously ushering the fair customer into his shop, where with his profoundest bow and his sunniest smile he invited her to a seat CHAPTER I. at the counter. Her commands were eagerly solicited and promptly executed. The two small volumes she asked for were speedily produced, neatly packed up, and delivered to the footman in drab, to be deposited in the dark-brown chariot. But the lady still lingered. Thrice within a fortnight she had occupied the same seat, on each occasion making longer visit than the last, and becoming more and more friendly and familiar.. Perhaps, being past the prime of life, she was flattered by the extremely deferential attentions of the young tradesman; perhaps she was pleased with the knowledge he possessed, or seemed to possess of a particular subject, and was gratified by the interest which he took, or appeared to take in her favourite science. However she still lingered, smiling very pleasantly, and chatting very agreeably in her low, sweet voice, while she turned over the pretty illustrated volumes that were successively offered to her notice. the Omnibus nuisance, and the Wooden Pave ments. To tell the truth, the lady, as sometimes happens, was so intent on her own share of the discourse, that she paid little attention to his topics or their treatment, and so far from notic. ing any incongruity would have allowed him to talk unheeded of the dulness of the pub lishing trade, and the tightness of money in the City. Thanks to this circumstance he lost nothing in her opinion, whilst his silent homage and assiduities recommended him so much to her good graces, that at parting he received an especial token of her favour. "Mr. Mooby," said the lady, and she drew an embossed card from an elegant silver case, and presented it to the young publisher, “you must come and see me.' " Mr. Mooby was of course highly delighted and deeply honoured; not merely verbally, but actually and physically; for as he took the embossed card, his blood thrilled with delight to the very tips of his fingers. Not that he was in love with the donor; though still handsome, she was past the middle-age, and, indeed, old enough, according to the popular phrase, to have been his mother. But then she was so ladylike and well-bred, and had such a carriage -the dark brown one-and so affable-with a footman and a gold-headed cane-quite a firstrate connexion-with a silver crest on the har ness-and oh! such a capital pair of well-matched grays! These considerations were all very gratifying to his ambition; but above all, his vanity was flattered by a condescension which confirmed him in an opinion he had long indulged in secret-namely, that in personal apIn the mean time the delighted Mooby did pearance, manners, and fashion, he was a comhis utmost in the conversational way to main-pound of the Apollo Belvidere and Lord Ches tain his ground, which was no easy task, seeing that he was not well read in her favourite science, nor indeed in any other. In fact, he did not read at all; and although a butcher gets beefish, a bookseller does not become bookish, from the mere smell of his commodity. Nevertheless he managed to get on, in his own mind very tolerably, adding a few words about Egypt and the Pyramids to the lady's mention of the Sphinx, and at the name of Memnon, edging in a sentence or two about the British Museum. Sometimes, indeed, she alluded to classical proper names altogether beyond his acquaintance; but in such cases, he escaped, by flying off at a tangent to the new ballet, or the last new novel, of which he had derived an opinion from the advertisements-nay, even digressing at need, like Sir Peter Laurie, on terfield, with a touch of Count D'Orsay. But the lady speaks. "Any morning, Mr. Mooby, except Wednes day and Friday. I shall be at home all the rest of the week, and shall leave orders for your admittance." Mr. Mooby bowed, as far as he could, after the fashion of George IV.-escorted the lady into the street, as nearly as possible in the style of the Master of the Ceremonies at Brighton, and then handed her into her carriage with the air, as well as he could imitate it, of a French Marquis of the ancien régime. "I shall expect you, Mr. Mooby," said the lady, through the carriage-window. "And as an inducement"-here she smiled mysteriously, and nodded significantly--"you shall have a peep at my Camberwell Beauty." "AND did he go?" CHAPTER II. Why, as to his figure, it had been three times cut out, at full length, in black paper-once on the Chain Pier at Brighton -- once in Regentstreet, and once "But did he go?" Then, for his face, he had twice had it done in oil, thrice in crayons, and once in pencil by Wageman. Moreover, he had had it miniatured by Lover-and he had been in treaty with Behnes for his bust, but the marbling came so expensive But did he go, I say?" So expensive that he gave up the design, and contented himself with a mask in plaster of Paris. was a genteel one, and his shop was doublefronted, in a first-rate thoroughfare, and lighted with gas. Then as to his business, with strict assiduity and attention, and a little more punctuality and despatch 66 Confound his business!-Did-he-go?" "Why to see the Beauty!" "What to Camberwell?" No: but to the looking-glass, over the mantelshelf in his own dining-room, and where, Narcissus like, he gazed at his reflected image till he actually persuaded himself that he was as unique as the Valdarfer Boccaccio, and as elegantly got up as Lockhart's Spanish Ballads. CHAPTER III. The dark brown chariot was gone. As it rattled away, and just as the drab back of the footman disappeared, Mr. Mooby turned his attention to the embossed card, and deliberately read the address thrice over. "Mrs. E. G. Heathcote, Grove Terrace, Camberwell.” To what wild dreams, to what extravagant speculations did it give birth! He had evidently made a favourable impression on the mature lady, and might not his merits do him as good service with her daughter, or niece, or ward, or whatever she was, the young lovely creature to whom she had alluded by so charming a title. The Camberwell Beauty! The acknowledged Venus of that large and populous parish! The Beauty of all the Grove, and Grove Lane-of the Old road and the New-of all the Green-of Church-row and the Terrace, of all Champion and Denmark Hills of all Cold Harbour Lane! The loveliest of the lovely, from the Red Cap on the north to the Greyhound on the south-from the Holland Arms in the east to the Blue Anchor in the west! The verdict of the mirror has been told, and the result was a conviction in the mind of Mr. Mooby, that sometime, and somewhere, the Beauty must have been smitten with his elegant appearance-perhaps in an open carriage at Epsom-perhaps in the street-but most probably as he was standing up, the observed of all observers, in the pit of Her Majesty's Theatre. For the rest of the day Mr. Mooby retired from business; indeed, he was in a state of exaltation that unfitted him for mercantile affairs, or any of the commonplace operations of life. The cloth was laid, and the dinner was served up, but he could not eat; and as usual in such cases, he laid the blame on the cook and the butcher. The soles were smoked, the meltedbutter was oiled, the potatoes were over-boiled, the steak was fresh killed, the tart was execrable, and the cheese had been kept too dry. In short, he relished nothing except the bumper of sherry, which he filled and drank off, dedicating it mentally to the Camberwell Beauty. The second glass was poured out and quaffed to his own honour, and the third was allotted to an extempore sentiment, which rolled the two former toasts into one. These ceremonies performed, he again consulted the mirror over the mantelshelf, carefully pocket-combing his hair, and plucking up his collar as before. But these were mere commonplace manoeuvres compared with those in which he afterwards indulged. "Here, Perry, reach me the Book of Beauty." The shopman handed the volume to his master, who began earnestly to look through the illustrations, wondering which of those bewitching countesses, or mistresses, or misses, the fair incognita might resemble. But such speculations were futile, so the book was closed and thrown aside; and then his thoughts reverting to his own personal pretensions, he passed his fingers Now of all absurd animals, a man in love is through his hair, adjusted his collar, and drawing the most ridiculous, and of course doubly so if himself up to his full height, took a long look he should be in love with two at once, himself at his legs. But this survey was partial and and a lady. This being precisely the case with unsatisfactory, and accordingly striding up the Mr. Mooby, he gave a loose to his twofold stairs, three at once, he appealed to the looking- passion, and committed follies enough for a glass in the dining-room, as stated in the pre-brace of love-lunatics. It would have cured a ceding chapter. quinsey to have seen and heard how he strut VOL. I. 22* ted, and chuckled, and smiled, and talked to himself how he practised bowing, and sliding, and kneeling, and sighing-how he threw himself into attitudes and ecstasies, and then how he twisted and wriggled to look at his calves, and as far as he could all round his waist, and up his back! Never, never was there a man in such a fever of vanity and love-delirium, since the conceited Steward, who walked in yellow-stockings and cross-gartered, and dreamt that he was a fitting mate for the Beauty of Illyria! CHAPTER IV. ALL lovers are dreamers6. In real earnest?" Perfectly, miss. They are notorious visionaries, whether asleep or awake. "Why then, of all things, let us have the dream of Mr. Mooby about the Camberwell Beauty. It must have been such a very curious one, considering that he had never seen the lady!" It was, and, remembering his business, rather characteristic to boot. I have hinted before, how vainly he had tried, during the day, to paint an ideal portrait of the Fair Unknown, and no sooner were his eyes closed at night, than a similar series of vague figures and faces began to tantalize him in his sleep. Dim feminine shapes, of every style of beauty, flitted before him, and vanished like Daguerreotype images, which there was not light enough to fix. Before he could examine, or chuse, and say "this must be the Idol," the transitory phantom was gone, or transfigured. The blonde ripened into a brunette, the brunette bleached into a blonde before he could decide on either complexion. Flaxen tresses darkened into jet -raven locks brightened into golden ringlets, and yellow curls into auburn, before he could THURSDAY morning! prefer one colour to another. Black eyes chang ed at a wink into gray; blue in a twinkling to hazel,-but no, they were green! The com manding figure dwindled into a sylph, the fairy swelled into the fine woman, the majestic Juno melted into a Venus, the rosy Hebe became a pale Minerva-who in turn looked for a moment like the lady in the frontispiece to the "Book of Beauty;" and then, one after another, like all the Beauties at Hampton Court! Alas! amid such a bewildering galaxy, how could he fix on the Beauty of Camberwell! One angelic figure, which retained its shape and features somewhat longer than the rest, informed him, by the mysterious correspondence of dreams, that she was the Beauty of Buttermere. Another lovely phantom, who presented herself rather vividly, by signs understood only in visions, let him know that she was the Beauty who had espoused the gentle Beast. And, finally, a whole bevy of Nymphs and Graces suddenly appeared at once, but as suddenly changed— "Into what pray what?" Why, into a row of books, and which signi fied to him by their lettered backs, that they were "the Beauties of England and Wales!"" CHAPTER V. It was the first day on which Mrs. E. G. Heathcote, of Grove Terrace, Camberwell, was to be "at home;" and the eager Mr. Mooby had resolved to avail himself of the very earliest opportunity for a visit. A determination not formed so much on his own account, as for the sake of the enamoured love-sick creature, whom his vanity painted as sitting on pins, needles, thorns, tenter-hooks, and all the other pickedpointed articles which are popularly supposed to stuff the seats, cushions, pillows, and bolsters of the chairs, beds, sofas, and settees, of anxious and impatient people. Accordingly, no sooner was breakfast over, than snatching up his hat, he set out "Ah, to Gracious Street for the homnibus!" No ina'am-to the Poultry for a pair of exquisitely-made French gloves, that fitted better than his skin, and were of the most delicate lemon-colour that you ever, or never, saw. Thence he went to Cheapside, where he treated himself to a superfine thirty-shilling beaver, of a fashionable shape, that admirably suited the character of his physiognomy; after which he bought, I forget where, a bottle of genuine Eau de Cologne-the sort that is manufactured by Jean Marie Farina, and by nobody else and finally, looking in at a certain noted shop near the Mansion-house, he purchased a bouquet of the choicest and rarest flowers of the season. "Well, and then he went to the bus.' No-he returned home to dress—namely, in his best coat with the brass buttons, a fancy waistcoat, black trousers, and patent leather boots. His shirt was frilled-with an ample allowance of white cuff—and his silken cravat was of a pale sky-blue. Of course, he did not fail to consult the looking-glass in the diningroom, which assured him that his costume was complete. The shopmen, however, to whom he afterwards submitted the question were more inclined to demur. The clerk thought that an Union pin would have been an improvement to the cravat, and the porter would have preferred a few Mosaic studs in the shirt-front. In answer to which, the master, who had consulted them, declared that they knew nothing about the matter. In the mean time the hour struck which he had appointed in his own mind for the start, so, hastily striding up Cornhill and turning into Gracechurch-street, he luckily obtained the last vacant place in an omnibus, which was already on the move. As usual, the number of the passengers was considerably reduced ere the vehicle reached the Red Cap, at the Green-in fact, there remained but three gentlemen besides |