to do it, gentlemen," pleaded the
waiter; " and the kitchen——"

"Waiter!" said Mr. Indignation Cocker.
—" Is," resumed the waiter, " so far
off, that——"

"Waiter!" persisted Mr. Indignation
Cocker, " send somebody."

We were not without our fears that the
waiter rushed out to hang himself, and we
were much relieved by his fetching somebody—
in gracefully flowing skirts and with
a waist—who very soon settled Mr. Indignation
Cocker's business.

"Oh!" said Mr. Cocker, with his fire
surprisingly quenched by this apparition.
"I wished to ask about this bill of mine,
because it appears to me that there's a
little mistake here. Let me show you.
Here's yesterday's sherry one and eightpence,
and here we are again two shillings.
And how do you explain Ninepence?"

However it was explained in tones too
soft to be overheard, Mr. Cocker was
heard to say nothing more than " Ah-h-h!
Indeed! Thank you! Yes," and shortly
afterwards went out, a milder man.

The lonely traveller with the stomachache
had all this time suffered severely;
drawing up a leg now and then, and sipping
hot brandy and water with grated
ginger in it. When we tasted our (very)
mock turtle soup, and were instantly seized
with symptoms of some disorder simulating
apoplexy, and occasioned by the
surcharge of the nose and brain with lukewarm
dish-water holding in solution sour
flour, poisonous condiments, and (say)
seventy-five per cent of miscellaneous
kitchen stuff rolled into balls, we were
inclined to trace his disorder to that source.
On the other hand, there was a silent
anguish upon him too strongly resembling
the results established within ourselves by
the sherry, to be discarded from alarmed
consideration. Again: we observed him,
with terror, to be much overcome by our
sole's being aired in a temporary retreat
close to him, while the waiter went out
(as we conceived) to see his friends. And
when the curry made its appearance he
suddenly retired in great disorder.

In fine, for the uneatable part of this
little dinner (as contradistinguished from
the undrinkable) we paid oidy seven shillings
and sixpence each. And Bullfinch
and I agreed unanimously, that no such
ill-served, ill-appointed, ill-cooked, nastv
little dinner could bo got for the money
anywhere else under the sun. With that
comfort to our backs, we turned them on
the dear old Temeraire, the charging Temeraire,
and resolved (in the Scottish dialect)
to gang nae mair to the flabby Temeraire.

AS THE CROW FLIES.

DUE WEST. BEDFONT TO WINDSOR.

HIGH and swift up in the soft blue air the
crow passes over Middlesex, which spreads
below, a great brown and green carpet of
dark plough-land and bright pasture, through
which the Thames winds like a tangled silver
thread. Down from the clouds like a black
flake he will drift to any village in his
way that has a legend, any town that has a
tradition, any old house over whose chimney
he passes, if it has been consecrated by genius,
or is associated with any passage of human
nature that addresses itself to the human heart.
Quickly he will drop from the nearest white
snow-ball of cloud wherever he can find food.
His scent will be keen for old legend and odd
biographical incident. He will peer round for a
moment, peck an instant, and mount again.
His course is to be straight, swift, and westward
to the sea.

He does not alight at Bedfont, but still he
poises his jetty wings over the red roofs of the
old posting village. There, Hood placed the
scene of that quaint and grave little poem of
his, " The Two Peacocks of Bedfont;" so simple
and so touching a little homily against
vanity and containing that exquisite couplet:

         And in the garden plot from day to day
         The lily blooms its long white life away.

The poem seems to have arisen from the poet
having one day seen two peacocks strutting in
flaunting pride, and displaying their jewelled
plumes among the humble grassy graves of
Bedfont churchyard. This contrast he surrounded
with Stothard-like pictures of a country
Sunday; hand-coupled urchins in restrained talk,
anxious pedagogue, pompous churchwarden
stalking solemnly along, gold-bedizened beadle
passing flaming through the churchyard gate,
terribly conscious of the world's approval, and

         Gentle peasant, clad in buff and green,
         Like a meek cowslip in the spring serene.

The musing poet little thought of what Bedfont
used to be in the regency times, when the
Four-in-Hand Club's vehicles rattled up to the
Black Dog, or whatever the chief inn then was,
on their way from their rendezvous in George-
street, Hanover-square, to the Windmill, at
Salt-hill. Those were the days when baronets
drove coaches, boxed the watch, smote the
Charlies, wore many-caped coats, and were
sudden and prompt in quarrel. Lord Sefton's
and Colonel Berkeley's turn-outs were specially
superb, the horses perfect, the equipments in
refined taste. One rule of the club was that
no coach should pass another, and that the pace
should never exceed a trot. The society lasted
in full vigour for upwards of twenty years. Mr.
Akers, one of the most spirited members, in his
enthusiastic desire to resemble a regular real