"Mudd has excellent wine, and generally
fills his three-bottle decanter. There's a dear,
jolly, kind old governor! Mary was quite
struck with your appearance. Don't say
anything of our meeting. The party begins
at eight. We are strangers."

"Mum!” Oh, delightful! Here was an
opportunity of revenging myself on these
Ishmaelites of the Desert — whose hands were
against every man's pocket— and a means of
letting a little of the light of the present day
into the very head-quarters of the dark ages.
Gretna Green and the Butts seemed as
entirely opposed to each other as Queen
Anne and the Polka. A runaway match
would be as wonderful an incident among the
Slockums and Bangles and Budds, as a drum
in a Quaker's meeting. So, full of mischief,
and of nothing else— for it was the most
inhospitable place I ever heard of— I found
my way at eight o'clock to Oporto Hall, where
I was kindly received by Mr. Mudd and his
family. I was pleased to see various specimens
of his inventive powers on the side table, and
all filled with wine. The ingenuity of the
thing was immense. By the excessive wideness
at the bottom, a couple of bottles filled
up, apparently, no space at all; and as to any
visible diminution, it was impossible to
observe it after any amount of bumpers. I
wonder it isn't universally adopted in lodgings,
where there are landladies of a prying
disposition. I was led up to admire the shape of
the decanters; I was invited to feel their
weight; and lastly, to taste the contents.
When I was in the act of filling out a glass, to
which I regretted to perceive the same
principle had not been applied, a sharp-eyed,
sharp-nosed, sharp-voiced woman— Mrs. Mudd
herself— pushed under my elbow another of
the inevitable boxes, and squeaked in a very
disagreeable manner, that it was always
expected "that spectators of the decanters
should subscribe to the Aboriginal Drawers;"
there were two compartments, and over one
was written "flannel," and over the other
"cotton."

"Another invention of Mr. Mudd?" I
inquired; "our ordinary chests ought certainly
to be improved."

"Oh, no!" said the shrill woman again,
"these are funds for the supply of under
apparel to the natives. Cotton for the South
Sea, flannel for the Esquimaux."

"Are there any for the English?" I asked.

"They are a highly civilised people,"
replied the lady, contemptuously, "and can
supply themselves. Our minimum is half-a-
crown; no limit on the other side."

I perceived that these people, though there
was no sign over their door, kept a public-house
like the rest of their neighbours, where
the charges were by no means moderate or
the attendance good. I calculated that I
might perhaps drink to the amount of five
shillings, and deposited half-a-crown in each
of the compartments. I don't think the gift
made any sensation. Mrs. Mudd had evidently
expected a larger contribution, and Mr. Mudd
put the stopper into the decanter. I gloried
in the punishment I was about to inflict on
the ruffian; and half reconciled myself to my
unsatiated thirst by dwelling on the luxury
of my revenge. The Misses Bolton came in.
Both very pretty: the elder, beautiful; and
she, unobserved, gave me a look of intelligence
which strengthened me in my good
resolution. Then Arabella came in, supporting
on her arm an old woman who was very
lame, and was dressed like a Quaker.

"Oh, he is so full of impulse!" cried
Arabella, leading her companion up to where
I stood; "he will be enraptured to be
introduced to Biddy Budd. This is Miss
Wormer, the authoress of the charming works
I told you of. She is the greatest writer of
the present day, and I have brought all her
books with me. They are in the hall, and
you must positively read them."

"It will give me great pleasure, I am sure."

"And instruction, too. Oh, instruction is
her forte! isn't it, Miss Wormer? Such pretty
morals she draws, and so cheap. The whole
series is sold for a pound; and the extra
profits go to a charity, and that's the reason
we are sure of your support."

"My young friend is very enthusiastic,"
said Miss Budd,"and her warmth of friendship
is embarrassing to the sensitive mind.
But she is harmless in the midst of all her
brilliancy. She is like one of those fire-flies
which pursue their peaceful flight, illuminating
whatever they touch upon, but never
producing a conflagration."

"Beautiful, beautiful! Don't jou feel how
beautiful that is?" cried Miss Arabella,
turning her eyes to the ceiling. "I feel
really as I were a fly. Don't you think it's a
charming description of easy motion; I never
felt so satisfied with being a little thing
before."

"Nay, are not we all flies, more or less?"
pursued the authoress,"we buzz and bustle
through our little busy day; perch upon
lofty elevations and thread the fantastic
mazes of our short existence; but, alas! we
are but gad-flies and blue-bottles, after all!"

"That's the moral," said Arabella. "Oh,
she's so great in finding morals; her books
are full of them. You'll buy them, won't
you, for my sake? I'm sure you will!"
And so saying, she disappeared for a moment,
and came back with a basket filled with small
pamphlets, all stitched in blue wrappers and
bearing on each in gold letters,"Biddy
Budd's Basket of Nuts and Notions." "They
are all delightful, so you must really have
them all; but the last is the dearest little
story I ever read— there it is 'Chrystal
Cruets for Crocodile's Tears'— a charming
name, so immensely pious and very severe."

"If you will allow me," I said, "to study
them all at leisure, I hope to be greatly
benefited"—