was; the spot he dearly loved, where he had
his tools, where he made ships, and (more
delightful still) daubed his stolen paint, or
perhaps (more exquisite enjoyment still) from
the disused loft of the stable, to be scaled
by a rotten ladder, or yet a higher, more
ethereal enjoyment, the coach-house, where
the green family chariot lay in state with an
almost mayoral state. I pause to describe
these joys.

Entrance to this Elysium was effected by an
abstracted key; and then followed such a
pastime! A friend or two being privily admitted—
for it was a service of danger—such a throwing
open of the chariot-door, flinging down of
the steps with hurry, à la laquais—such folding
of them up again, presto, with professional
speed, banging the door, touching one's hat, and
flying up behind into the back seat! the carriage
being supposed to be in the act of rattling
off. This joy was repeated again and again. I
knew nothing that could be set beside it; and
with the assistance of a friend, who played
the part of owner, and rode luxuriously inside,
and gave directions to " Drive to 'Thirteen,
Rufus-square, east side," it became almost
dramatic. But it was infinitely, awfully, perilous.
The danger of detection was extreme;
and if discovery followed, it was believed that a
punishment analogous to breaking on the wheel—
any how, a punishment too severe for even
its shape to enter into our imagination was
reserved for the offender. Once, indeed, when
the Footman was in a hurry to climb up behind,
when the chariot was supposed to have
driven off with more than ordinary speed,
his foot slipped, and he "barked" all his shin
severely against the edge of the step. His
cries—"barking" of another sort—had there
been any one at hand, would have betrayed
him. But he managed to totter to a place of
safety without attracting observation. He was
noticed to walk lame, was promptly seized and
examined; but tortures could not have wrung
his secret from him.

The process of washing the carriage—the
wheel twirling round, the mop, the abundance
of water gushing and splashing—were even
more delightful in their way; but the Pariah's
penchant in this direction was well known, and
on the day selected for the ablution, the police
were on the alert, and observed him narrowly
the whole time.

To return to the Rev. Mr. Bickers. Fetched
from his lair then, with streaks on his face,
the green frock all dirty—("Your best frock,
too, sir!")—his mouth already swelling into a
surly pout, later to take the habitual expression
of sulk, the Pariah was made to dress. His
face was duly burnished by Mary Jane, on the
truly venomous principle, as it were, which,
when the subject is repugnant, takes the shape
of upward scrubbing, the pressure coming
chiefly on the nostrils. The frock is cleaned in
a storm of severe reproaches—("You ought to
be ashamed of yourself, sir!")—and then the
"best belt" is found to be out of order, the
"beautiful new brass buckle" all wrenched and
broken. The delay is so long that the head of
the house, a severe matron, comes up in person,
justly suspecting that something is wrong.

Punishment for the violated buckle was
adjourned; time pressed, and Mr. Bickers was
wailing. I was led down to him by the hand.

"O you wicked creature! Will nothing touch
your hardened heart!" was the speech hurriedly
addressed to me outside the door; and
I recal my amazement at the histrionic power
which inside the door could immediately assume
a sweet soft smile, saying, " Here, Mr. Bickers,
is Sidney come down to see you."

/ see him now, his red malacca cane stretching
out from his knee, and making a sort of
camp-stool with his two legs, his hat on the
ground beside him, the unfailing sherry—to me
almost as inappreciable in taste as the manna
I used to hear of on Sundays, and thought
must have been so delicious to the Israelites.
The air was heavy with a close fragrance of
cake, rich and plummy. That perfume always
brings him up before me. My sisters were
sitting round, "like ladies, sir." Their eyes
were upon him. He was saying, " Now Miss
Lucy, will you tell me where is the Island of
Madagascar?" Miss Simpson, this being her
department, looking on with pride tinged with
a little nervousness. The Pariah, however,
instead of walking up with alacrity, "like a
gentleman," as usual skulked, terrier-like, to the
wall, and there stood, glowing and glowering,
his eyes darting fire and suspicion.

"Come over here, sir, to me," says Mr.
Bickers, with a severe eye.

The Pariah won't answer. The maternal eye,
wistful, agonised almost, is on him. "Oh,
Sidney!"

"Come here, sir," Mr. Bickers says sternly.

"I don't want to," the Pariah bursts out,
with his thumb in his mouth.

Mr. Bickers had a new Quarterly Review in
his hand, which he had brought to read my
mother " a fine passage on the liberty of the
press." He had been doing this. She would
have thought anything he read, fine.

"Bring me over that knife, Sidney."

The police had to interfere, and I recal the
instrument being hurriedly forced into my hand,
and my being propelled towards him. When
close I tried to free myself, and half dropped,
half threw away, the odious instrument. Movement
fatally misconstrued.

"O, sir!" says the Rev. Mr. Bickers, in
mixed horror, sorrow, and anger, "for shame!"

"O, Sidney, Sidney;" says the parent in
agony. "Take him away up-stairs. O, you
wicked, wicked boy!"

Pariah hurried out, much as the prisoner just
found guilty is huddled down out of the dock.

A council was held. Mr. Bickers gave a
great deal of advice. "I had thrown the
paper-knife," it seems, at him. In one so
young, such a bad sign. Not that he minded it,
"but for the boy's own sake, my good lady,
you must curb those germs with a strong hand.