Mrs. Pickwinkle does not object to the smoke
or the expectoration. Mr. Bonpazek is so good
a lodger, and pays so liberally and regularly,
says she. But by one of those inexplicable
caprices, peculiar to the feminine organisation,
she has taken a violent exception to Bompazek's
suet puddings. He is inordinately fond
of those indigestible delicacies. So are his
friends. He eats them for breakfast., luncheon,
dinner, supper,— for Bompazek, as befits a
true child of fatherland, is a four-meals-a-
day man. So are his friends, the silent men who
help to spit the fire out. Mrs. Pickwinkle has
been on the point several times of giving him
warning on this irritating account. She leads
'Melia a dreadful life about the puddings.
She explodes on the subject in back-kitchens
and areas, on staircases and landings, to friends
and neighbours. I called on Bompazek once.
He was out, but was expected to return to
dinner almost immediately; Mrs. Pickwinkle
was in a fury on the pudding grievance.
She took me into his sitting-room, where, on
a table garnished with a cloth burnt in
several places by hot tobacco ash, I found a
stew and seven puddings. "There," she
cried, " seven mortial puddings for a party
as calls himself a Christian! Now, Mr.
Penn, can flesh and blood stand that?"
Landladies have curious likings and antipathies.
One begged ine to suit myself
elsewhere, once, because I objected to having four
pounds of bacon at a time, and did'nt like it
streaky. She remarked that she had let
lodgings for five and twenty year, and wished
to know if I considered myself a gentleman.
I know of a landlady who gave her
lodger warning—not because he was back-
ward with his rent, not for keeping late
hours, or smoking, or carrying on — but
because he wore such large buttons. She had
bore with it as long as she could, she said,
but she was certain them buttons could be
no good.

As Bompazek comes sailing majestically
down Regent Street, you may remark that
there hangs upon his arm, talking very
loudly and vivaciously, and looking round
with a complacently defiant air, as if to say
"this is Bompazek, the great basso, and I am.
his friend," a very little man in a tremendously
tall hat, which seems perpetually
to be on the point of overbalancing him.
This is little Saint Sheddle, who, as I have
remarked in a former paper, knows, and is
intimate with, everybody in the muaical
world. Saint Sheddle is one of the fifty
thousand living enigmas who walk and talk,
and wear good hats and boots, without any
ostensible means of existence. Nobody knows
how Saint Sheddle lives. He was known as
Captain Saint Sheddle at Brighton; as Doctor
Saint Sheddle at Bath; and I saw his name
myself in the Vienna Fremden Blatt, as Le
Comte de Saint Sheddle, rentier from London.
I should not be surprised to hear of him,
some of these days, as the Venerable
Archdeacon Saint Sheddle in Torquay, or
as Shedalli Pasha at Erzroom.

Meanwhile, Saint Sheddle goes everywhere,
and puts his legs under innumerable
mahoganies. He walks out in the park with
Madame Perigord's children. He fetched
home, Poskoggi's niece from school in
the Avenue Marigny in Paris. He dines
with Octave and Piccolo when they entertain
the musical stars at Greenwich or Richmond;
he is at all Papadaggi's grand Soirées; he is
admitted to Lady Tremuloso's musical evenings;
stays whole weeks at her palatial
country seat, Chromacte Park, and went to
Vienna with the well-known amateur and
friend of artists, Sir Peddler Fugue. He ia
a member of the Jolly Scrapers' Club, a
réunion of the members of the principal
orchestras, held at the Bass-viol, Vinegar
Yard; it is even reported that he is employed
to pawn Madame Garbanati's jewellery when
that lady, as it frequently happens, is in
difficulties; and that he writes all Tifferari's
letters. It is certain that he has admission
to all the greenrooms, tickets for all the
concerts, and is intimate with the mysterious
Pauslavisco. But how does the man
live ? What hatter, what bootmaker, what
tailor, supply the habiliments ? Where does
the massy gold chain come from ? Is Saint
Sheddle something in the wine trade, or the
coal trade ? Does he deal in pictures, or
sell snuff on commission?

The only business operation in which Saint
Sheddle was ever positively known to be
engaged was when he took the Saint
Sepulchre's theatre for the performance of
Burmese operas. We all remember how
many nights his season lasted, who didn't get
their salaries, and what a melancholy failure
the whole speculation was. Saint Sheddle
ran to Portugal Street as if he had been
running a race. Somehow he didn't " go
through the court; " the discovery of his
multifarious addresses might perhaps have
been fatal to him; but he has been going
through ever since. If you speak about
debts or difficulties to Saint Sheddle, he says,
"Debts! pooh, my boy! Look at me. Five
judgments out against me. What's that?
Got my protection in my pocket." And he
shows it you.

The little man is very popular in the
musical world. He negotiates engagements,
arranges with musicsellers for the publication
of sentimental ballads by the Honourable
Miss A———, and polkas by captains in the
Life Guards; is the general peace-maker,
mediator, and go-between of the profession.
When Poskoggi the composer, maddened by
the unbounded jealousy of madame his
spouse, emptied a plate of macaroni upon the
piano, and fled his home and household gods
for ever, Saint Sheddle interposed, sought
out the unhappy husband at the hotel in
Lisle Street, Leicester Square, where he had
taken refuge, and was playing billiards with