the great St. Ursula herself. So Ursine Lane
remains.

At a certain period of the world's history,
it may have been yesterday, it may have
been yesterday twenty years, there dwelt in
this dismal avenue, a Beast. Everybody
called him a Beast. He was a Manchester
warehouseman. Now it is not at all necessary
for a Manchester warehouseman—or,
indeed, for any warehouseman—to be a beast
or a brute, or anything disagreeable. Quite
the contrary. For instance, next door to the
Beast's were the counting-houses and ware-
rooms of Tapperly and Grigg, also Manchester
warehousemen, as merry, light-hearted,
good-humoured young fellows as you would
wish to see. Tapperly was somewhat of a
sporting character, rode away every afternoon
on a high-stepping brown mare, and lounged
regularly about the entrance to "Tats"
whether he booked any bets or not. As for
Grigg, he was the Coryphaeus of all the
middle class soirees, dancing academies, and
subscription balls in London, and it was a
moving sight to see him in his famous
Crusader costume at a Drury Lane Bal-Masque.
Nor was old Sir William Watch (of the firm
of Watch, Watch and Hover, Manchester
warehousemen) at the corner, who was fined
so many thousand pounds for smuggling
once upon a time, at all beastlike or brutish.
He was a white-headed, charitable, jolly old
gentleman, fond of old port, and old songs,
and old clerks and porters, and his cheque-
book was as open as his heart. Lacteal,
Flewitt, and Company, again, on the other
side of the Beast's domicile, the great dealers
in gauzes and ribbons, were mild, placable,
pious men, the beloved of Clapham. But
the Beast was a Beast, and no mistake.
Everybody said he was: and what everybody
says, must be true. His name was Braddlescroggs.

Barnard Braddlescroggs. He was the
head, the trunk, and the tail of the firm. No
Co., no son, no nephew, no brothers: B.
BRADDLESCROGGS glared at you from either
door-jamb. His warerooms were extensive,
gloomy, dark and crowded. So were his
counting-houses, which were mostly,
underground and candle-lit. He loved to keep his
subordinates in these dark dens, where he
could rush in upon them suddenly, and growl
at them. You came wandering through these
subterraneans upon wan men, pent up among
parasols and cartons of gay ribbon; upon
pale lads in spectacles registering silks and
merinos by the light of flickering, strong-
smelling tallow candles in rusty sconces.
There was no counting-house community;
no desk-fellowship: the clerks were isolated
—dammed up in steep little pulpits, relegated
behind walls of cotton goods, consigned to
the inpace of bales of tarlatan and barege.
The Beast was everywhere. He prowled
about continually. He lurked in holes and
corners. He reprimanded clerks on staircases,
and discharged porters in dark entries.
His deep, harsh, grating voice could ever be
heard growling during the hours of business,
somewhere, like a sullen earthquake. His
stern Wellington boots continually creaked.
His numerous keys rattled gaoler-fashion.
His very watch, when wound up, made a
savage gnashing noise, as though the works
were in torment. He was a Beast.

Tall, square, sinewy, and muscular in person;
large and angular in features; with a
puissant, rebellious head of grey hair that
would have defied all the brushing, combing,
and greasing of the Burlington Arcade; with
black bushy eyebrows nearly meeting on his
forehead; with a horseshoe frown between
his eyes; with stubby whiskers, like horsehair
spikes, rather indented in his cheekbones
than growing on his cheeks; with a
large, stiff shirt collar and frill defending his
face like chevaux-de-frise; with large, coarse,
bony hands plunged in his trousers pockets;
with a great seal and ribbons and the savage
ticking watch I have mentioned—such was
Barnard Braddlescroggs. From the ears
and nostrils of such men you see small hairs
growing, indomitable by tweezers; signs of
inflexibility of purpose, and stern virility.
Their joints crack as they walk. His did.

Very rich, as his father, old Simon
Braddlescroggs, had been before him, B.
Braddlescroggs was not an avaricious man. He had
never been known to lend or advance a
penny to the necessitous; but he paid his
clerks and servants liberal salaries. This
was a little unaccountable in the Beast, but
it was said they did not hate him the less.
He gave largely to stern charities, such as
dragged sinners to repentance, or administered
eleemosynary food, education and blows
(in a progressively liberal proportion) to
orphan children. He was a visiting justice
to strict gaols, and was supposed not to have
quite made up his mind as to what system
of prison discipline was the best, unremitting
corporal punishment, or continuous solitary
confinement. He apprenticed boys to hard
trades, or assisted them to emigrate to inclement
climates. He was a member of a rigid
persuasion, and one in high authority, and
had half built a chapel at his own expense;
but everybody said that few people thanked
him, or were grateful to him for his
generosity. He was such a Beast. He bit the
orphan's nose off, and bullied the widow. He
gave alms as one who pelts a dog with marrow-
bones, hurting him while he feeds him.
Those in his employment who embezzled or
robbed him, were it of but a penny piece, he
mercilessly prosecuted to conviction. Everybody
had observed it. He sued all debtors,
opposed all insolvents, and strove to bring
all bankrupts within the meaning of the
penal clauses. Everybody knew it. The
merchants and brokers, his compeers, fell
away from him on 'Change; his
correspondents opened his hard, fierce letters with