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to settle my stomach. But never mind the luggage, sir, I'll see to that, while you go up to the drawing-room and the sofy, for you do look like death, and that's the truth.”

And suiting her actions to her words, she tried to hustle her master towards the staircase; but his suspicions were now excited, and making a pig-like dodge round his driver, he bolted into the parlor, where he beheld a spectacle that fully justified his misgivings.

"Lord! what did he see, sir?”

Nothing horrible, madam; only a cloth laid for supper, with plates, knives, and forks, and tumblers for two. At one end of the table stood a foaming quart-pot of porter; at the other a black bottle, labelled "Cream of the Valley," while in the middle was a large dish of smoking hot beefsteaks and onions. For a minute he wondered who was to be the second party at the feast, till, guided by a reflection in the looking-glass, he turned towards the parlor-door, behind which, bolt upright and motionless as wax-work, he saw a man, as the old song says,

"Where nae man should be.”

Heydey! Mrs. Button, whom have we here?"

"If you please, sir," replied the abashed Housekeeper, "it's only a consumptious brother of mine, as is come up to London for physical advice."

"Humph!" said Mr. Withering, with a significant glance towards the table, "and I trust that in the mean time you have advised him to abstain, like your master, from animal food and stimulants."

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Why you see, sir, begging your pardon," stammered Mrs. Button, "there's differences in constitutions. Some people requires more nourishing than others. Besides, there's two sorts of consumption."

"Yes, so I see," retorted Mr. Withering; "the one preys on your vitals and the other on your victuals."

Just at this moment a scrap of paper on the carpet attracted his eye, and at the same time catching that of Mrs. Button, and both parties making an attempt together to pick it up, their heads came into violent collision.

"It's only the last week's butcher's bill," said the Housekeeper, rubbing her forehead.

"I see it is," said the master, rubbing the top of his head

with one hand, whilst with the bill in the other, he ran through the items, from beef to veal, and from veal to mutton, boggling especially at the joints.

"Why, zounds! ma'am, your legs run very large!" "My legs, sir?"

"Well, then, mine, as I pay for them. Here's one I see of eleven pounds, and another of ten and a half. I really think my two legs, cold one day and hashed the next, might have dined you through the week, without four pounds of my chops!" "Your chops, sir?"

"Yes, my chops, woman, and if I had not dropped in, you and your consumptive brother there would be supping on my steaks. You would eat me up alive?"

"You forget, sir," muttered the Housekeeper, "there's a nousemaid."

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"Forget the devil!" bellowed Mr. Withering, fairly driven beyond his patience, and out of his temper, by different provocatives; for all this time the fried beef and onions, the most savory of dishes, had been steaming under his nose, suggesting rather annoying comparisons between the fare. before him and his own diet.

"Yes, here have I been starving these two months on spoonvictuals and slops, while my servants, my precious servants,

confound them! were feasting on the fat of the land! Yes, you, woman! you with your favorite dishes, my fried steaks, and my boiled legs, and my broiled chops, but forbidding me me your master, to dine even on my own kidneys, or my own sweetbread! But if I'll be consumptive any longer I'll be

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The last word of the sentence, innocent or profane, was lost in the loud slam of the street-door for Mrs. Button's consumptive brother, disliking the turn of affairs, had quietly stolen out of the parlor, and made his escape from the house. “And did Mr. Withering observe his vow?”

Most religiously, madam. Indeed, after dismissing Mrs. Button with her "regimental rules," he went rather to the opposite extreme, and dined and supped so heartily on his legs and shoulders, his breast and ribs, his loins, his heart, and liver, and his calf's-head, and moreover washed them down so freely with wine, beer, and strong waters, that there was far more danger of his going out with an Apoplexy than of his going into a Consumption.

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 honorable place. ARABIAN NIGHTS.

CHAPTER I.

MR. BOOBY was in his shop, his back to the fire and his face to the Times, when happening to look above the upper edge of the newspaper, towards the street, he caught sight of an equipage that seemed familiar to him.

Could it be !

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. Booby was at his glass-door, obsequiously ushering the fair customer into his shop, where with his profoundest bow and his sunniest smile he invited her to a seat 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 a 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 favorite science. However, she still lingered, smiling very pleasantly, and chatting very agreeably in her low, sweet voice, whilst she turned over the pretty illustrated volumes that were successively offered to her notice.

In the mean time the delighted Booby did his utmost in the conversational way to maintain his ground, which was no easy task, seeing that he was not well read in her favorite 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 the Omnibus nuisance, and the Wooden Pavements. 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 noticing any incongruity would have allowed him to talk unheeded of the dulness of the publishing 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 favor.

"Mr. Booby," 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. Booby was of course highly delighted and deeply honored; 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 goldheaded cane- quite a first-rate connection with a silver crest on the harness-and oh! such a capital pair of wellmatched 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 appearance, manners, and fashion, he was a compound of the Apollo Belvidere and Lord Chesterfield, with a touch of Count D'Orsay. But the lady speaks.

"Any morning, Mr. Booby, except Wednesday and Friday. I shall be at home all the rest of the week, and shall leave orders for your admittance."

Mr. Booby 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. Booby," 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 Regent Street, 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.

"But did he go?"

Yes to both. To Collen for a half-length, and to Beard for a whole one. I think that was all- but no he went to

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