best, and his orthography none of the most
correct.

Mumchance puts the coldness of the public
all down to the fault of the times. What's
the good of painting the shop, sir? he asks.
Poor father never did, sir, and we had nobility
here. Nobility, sir. But look at the times.
Would nobility come here now, sir?

I generally admit, when Mumchance asks
me this question, that nobility would not.

"That's it, sir," says Mumchance triumphant
(he always says sir, even to the ragged
little boys who come in for a penn'orth of
pickles). "That's it, it's the times. Nobody
buys stamps now a days. In poor father's
time, we sold millions of stamps, sir. Lord
Cabus, sir. Proud man, sir. Coat buttoned
up to here, sir. Sit on the counter, sir. All
in black, sir, with his coat buttoned.
Mumchance, he'd say to poor father, Mumchance,
bless your eyes, fifty pound's worth of bill
stamps. Proud man, sir, Lord Cabus; never
would take hold of the handle of the door
with his hand; always took the tail of his
coat to it, like this, sir," and Mumchance suits
the action to the word.

I may remark as one of the most eccentric
among Mumchance's idiosyncracies that the
very great majority of his titled or celebrated
acquaintances are always dressed in black,
and have their coats buttoned up to here,
meaning the chin. Thus, when Mumchance
went to see Edmund Kean, and there was, in
consequence of a certain trial, a violent
commotion in the house against the tragedian,
Mumchance described Kean as coming
forward to address the audience attired in black,
with his coat buttoned up to here. Similarly
attired, according to Mumchance, was wont
to be the famous Jack Thurtell, who was a
great customer of poor father's, for bill
stamps. Likewise all in black, with coats
buttoned up to here, were a mysterious
company of four and twenty forgers who,
according to Mumchance, were discovered
sitting round a long table with a green baize
cover (forging with all their might and main,
I presume), by Townshend the officer (vide
Little Blitsom Street gang). I can imagine
Townshend with his coat buttoned up; but
with the traditions of his white hat, red
waistcoat, and top boots, still in my mind,
I cannot form to myself an idea of him—all
in black.

The number of extraordinary characters
with whom Mumchance has been acquainted
and connected, and whose little peculiarities
he descants upon, is astonishing. His
anecdotes bearing upon Colonel Bubb alone,
would fill a volume. The Colonel is to
Mumchance what Fisher is to Mrs. M. On
all political, parochial, financial and social
questions, he is his chief adviser, and his
heroic advice is ordinarily, "Mumchance, be
firm." I met Mumchance the other day,
just previously to the opening of the session
of Parliament by her gracious Majesty.
There had been some silly mares-nests found
about that time by some sillier politicians,
and grim whispers circulated about an
illustrious personage, treason, the Tower,
tampering with treaties, and such twopenny
trash. Mumchance was full of it. He had
scarcely time to gasp out his customary
invite of "glass of sherry wine, sir, and a
crust?" and to dive into a previously invisible
public-house (he knows all the slip in and
slip out public-houses in London), before he
had me fast with Colonel Bubb on the
illustrious question. Saw him this morning,
sir. Got his leathers on, sir (I conjecture the
Colonel to be in the cavalry). Got his cloak
over his leathers, sir (a cloak this time, but
well buttoned up you may be sure ot it).
Mumchance, he says, I've got my army
in the park. Drawn up (in their leathers,
I suppose). Mumchance, blood before night.
Blood! With which horrifying conclusion,
Colonel Bubb departed in his leathers, as
Mumchance took care supplementarily to
inform me, to rejoin his army. I did go
down to the park that day, where I saw the
usual number of big lifeguardsmen; but I
missed Colonel Bubb, his cloak, and his
leathers, and I saw no blood, either that
night or the next.

I cannot part with Mumchance without
telling you that in his crazy, dingy,
unpainted house in Tattyboys Rents he has
something else besides slate-pencils, pickles,
and penny bottles of ink. Up stairs, amid
much dirt, and dust, and flew, he has some
nobly carved oaken bedsteads and rare old
cabinets filled with real porcelain, yet rarer,
and yet older. Also down in his cellar
Mumchance has stores of considerable value. Here,
among the dirt and dust, and above a sort of
subsoil of the rags in which Mumchance was
libellously supposed to deal, lie hundreds of
books, 'many of them bygone and worthless
pamphlets and tracts, but many rare and
beautiful copies of expensive works. How he came
by these Mumchance vouchsafes not to tell;
neither will he explain how he became
possessed of the copper-plates engraved in line
and mezzotinto and aquatint, which lumber
the floor, and on whose dusky surfaces I can
observe dim shadowings of landscapes after
Wilson, and beauties after Sir Joshua
Reynolds. Poor father would appear to
have had something to do with the original
acquisition of these rarities, and the hardness
of the times to prevent their conversion into
money; so here they, and proofs from the
plates themselves, and the books, and papers,
and rags, all mildew and rot in Mumchance's
cellar.

Rummaging among the heap one day I
found a huge oak-bound, iron-clasped volume,
written in black and red letter on vellum, in
Saxon and Latin. It was the Rent Roll of
Glastonbury Abbey! I confess that I
immediately broke the tenth commandment, and
began to covet my neighbour's goods; in fact,