retired, left off her smart dressing (she had
previously been a smart dresser), and her dark ringlets
(which had previously been flowing), and
haunted your father late of nights, lying in wait
for him, through all weathers, up the shabby
court which led to the back door of the Royal
Old Dust-Binn (said to have been so named by
George the Fourth), where your father was
Head. But the Dust-Binn was going down
then, and your father took but little—excepting
from a liquid point of view. Your mother's
object in those visits was of a housekeeping character,
and you was set on to whistle your father
out. Sometimes he came out, but generally
not. Come or not come, however, all that part
of his existence which was unconnected with
open Waitering, was kept a close secret, and
was acknowledged by your mother to be a close
secret, and you and your mother flitted about
the court, close secrets both of you, and would
scarcely have confessed under torture that you
knew your father, or that your father had any
name than Dick (which wasn't his name,
though he was never known by any other), or
that he had kith or kin or chick or child.
Perhaps the attraction of this mystery,
combined with your father's having a damp
compartment to himself, behind a leaky cistern, at
the Dust-Binn—a sort of a cellar compartment,
with a sink in it, and a smell, and a plate-rack
and a bottle-rack, and three windows that didn't
match each other or anything else, and no
daylight—caused your young mind to feel convinced
that you must grow up to be a Waiter too; but
you did feel convinced of it, and so did all your
brothers, down to your sister. Every one of you
felt convinced that you was born to the Waitering.
At this stage of your career, what was your feelings
one day when your father came home to your
mother in open broad daylight— of itself an act
of Madness on the part of a Waiter—and took
to his bed (leastwise, your mother and family's
bed), with the statement that his eyes were
devilled kidneys. Physicians being in vain, your
father expired, after repeating at intervals for a
day and a night, when gleams of reason and old
business fitfully illuminated his being, "Two and
two is five. And three is sixpence." Interred
in the parochial department of the neighbouring
churchyard, and accompanied to the grave by as
many Waiters of long standing as could spare
the morning time from their soiled glasses
(namely, one), your bereaved form was attired in
a white neckankecher, and you was took on from
motives of benevolence at The George and
Gridiron, theatrical and supper. Here,
supporting nature on what you found in the plates
(which was as it happened, and but too often
thoughtlessly immersed in mustard), and on
what you found in the glasses (which rarely
went beyond driblets and lemon), by night you
dropped asleep standing, till you was cuffed
awake, and by day was set to polishing every
individual article in the coffee-room. Your couch
being sawdust; your counterpane being ashes of
cigars. Here, frequently hiding a heavy heart
under the smart tie of your white neckankecher
(or correctly speaking lower down and more to
the left), you picked up the rudiments of
knowledge from an extra, by the name of Bishops,
and by calling plate-washer, and gradually
elevating your mind with chalk on the back of
the corner-box-partition, until such time as you
used the inkstand when it was out of hand,
attained to manhood and to be the Waiter that
you find yourself.

I could wish here to offer a few respectful
words on behalf of the calling so long the calling
of myself and family, and the public interest
in which is but too often very limited. We are
not generally understood. No, we are not.
Allowance enough is not made for us. For,
say that we ever show a little drooping
listlessness of spirits, or what might be termed
indifference or apathy. Put it to yourself what
would your own state of mind be, if you was
one of an enormous family every member of
which except you was always greedy, and in a
hurry. Put it to yourself that you was regularly
replete with animal food at the slack hours
of one in the day and again at nine P.M., and that
the repleter you was, the more voracious all your
fellow-creatures came in. Put it to yourself
that it was your business when your digestion
was well on, to take a personal interest and
sympathy in a hundred gentlemen fresh and
fresh (say, for the sake of argument, only a
hundred), whose imaginations was given up
to grease and fat and gravy and melted butter,
and abandoned to questioning you about cuts
of this, and dishes of that—each of 'em going
on as if him and you and the bill of fare
was alone in the world. Then look what
you are expected to know. You are never out,
but they seem to think you regularly attend
everywhere. "What's this, Christopher, that
I hear about the smashed Excursion Train?"
—"How are they doing at the Italian Opera,
Christopher?"—"Christopher, what are the
real particulars of this business at the Yorkshire
Bank?" Similarly a ministry gives me more
trouble than it gives the Queen. As to Lord
Palmerston, the constant and wearing connexion
into which I have been brought with his lordship
during the last few years, is deserving of a
pension. Then look at the Hypocrites we are
made, and the lies (white, I hope) that are
forced upon us! Why must a sedentary-
pursuited Waiter be considered to be a judge of
horseflesh, and to have a most tremenjous interest
in horse-training and racing? Yet it would be
half our little incomes out of our pockets if we
didn't take on to have those sporting tastes.
It is the same (inconceivable why!) with Farming.
Shooting, equally so. I am sure that so
regular as the months of August, September,
and October come round, I am ashamed of
myself in my own private bosom for the way in
which I make believe to care whether or
not the grouse is strong on the wing (much
their wings or drumsticks either signifies to me,
uncooked!), and whether the partridges is
plentiful among the turnips, and whether the
pheasants is shy or bold, or anything else you