the mission of my forgetful friend, and others
of his class, is to increase the scanty salaries
of cabmen by providing them with a
constant supply of their regular and rightful
perquisites—lost umbrellas.

Then there is my extremely neat and
buckish friend, my friend who has converted
the umbrella into one of the leading elegancies
of life. His protector from the rain is
not a half-collapsed balloon—oh, no!—it is a
walking-stick, lightly wrapped in silk. And
such a walking-stick! shining partridge cane,
gold tassel-hole, onyx-knobbed handle, gold-
mounted, bright-green silk—altogether, a
highly artistic production. It is a pleasant sight
to see my neat and buckish friend in a very
clean omnibus, with his patent boots, and his
tightly gloved hands placidly clasped across
the elegant handle of his umbrella, which he
holds between his knees. Compare his
almost tame refinement and gentleness with
the coarse roughness of his opposite neighbour,
from the country, who looks upon the
umbrella as a part of the serious business of
life—a thing not to be trifled with, or
embroidered with anything like foppery. My
rural friend's protector from the rain might
have been constructed from the sails of an
old coal barge, so rough and weather-beaten
is it, stained with mud and clay collected
in tramping up that four-mile country lane
which leads from the village to the railway
station. The stick is like a small mast,
surmounted by a brown knob as large as an
orange, upon which are clasped two fat, red,
speckled hands with short, brown, walnut-
picking looking nails. What a wide impassable
gulf there is between my rural friend
and my buckish friend,—and between their
attendant umbrellas!

Then there is my puffy, irascible friend,
my friend with the fat red face and the small
pig's eyes, but, more particularly, with the
substantial well-to-do looking umbrella, which
is, at one and the same time, a protection to
its owner and an implement of warfare
against the whole world besides. Vagrant
dogs look at it with knowing horror; and
jaunty, impudent errand-boys become
respectful within the magic circle of its action.
Many a time has it come down upon the
back of the offending quadruped and the
shielding basket of the impertinent butcher's
boy. Usually it is carried under the arm
of its owner, at an angle of elevation
troublesome, if not dangerous, to the passers-
by. When my puffy friend enters an omnibus,
he carries his umbrella before him, like a
warrior charging a fortress, to the great
discomfort of the occupants. If it is wet he
puts it in the way of his companions; if it is
dry he strikes the unfortunate conductor so
forcibly with it across the wrist, when any
person wishes to communicate his desire to
alight, that the victim of imperfect mechanical
arrangements looks seriously to see if any
bones are broken. Remonstrance with my
irascible friend only produces in his face such
a purple approximation to an apoplexy, that
it is a charity to desist from further complaint.

Then there is my aged friend, my Corinthian
friend—my friend who is not aware of
any change in manners and costume since
Tom and Jerry were rollicking boys upon
town, and the finest gentleman in Europe sat
upon the throne of England. My Corinthian
friend is not aware that a long frock-coat
with fur collar and lappets, and a low-
crowned, broad-topped, curly-rimmed hat, are
rather behind the style of the present day;
or, if he has the slightest suspicion of the fact,
he waits patiently in the full belief, that the
giddy, fickle world will gladly come back to
the old real fashion in due time. His umbrella
is made after a pattern that must have
descended direct from Jonas Hanway, who
is said to have been the bold introducer of
these defenders from rain, towards the
middle of the last century. The umbrella of
my Corinthian friend is baggy from the
ferule upwards, green in colour, edged with
white, cotton in material, tightened in towards
the top with a great brass ring (like the
short-waisted ladies of the period), bamboo-
sticked, and surmounted with a large ivory
clenched hand. In a corner of the coffee-
room, where my Corinthian friend takes his
ease, it stands in a defiant attitude, seeming to
shake its fist at any of the company who dare
to be more modern than its master. In contrast
to this umbrella stands another, belonging to
an equally antique owner, the meekness of
which has a strange fascination in my eyes.
It is green and baggy, like its companion;
but instead of the defiant clasped fist, it has a
bird-beaked handle of the mildest aspect, the
brass hole for the tassel (which is not there)
acting as an eye. I look at it until I fancy it
is alive, and I am almost betrayed into the
absurdity of uttering some audible term of
endearment suitable to a bird.

Then there is my sturdy, independent, old
lady friend, who firmly fastened underneath
an umbrella of gig proportions, pays what I
may call a periodical visitation to the city, to
see her stockbroker, or receive her dividends.
I call her visit a visitation, because (supposing
the day to be wet) her course is marked
by a crowd of indignant foot-passengers
scattered right and left along the line of her
progress. Some make loud remonstrance
with their tongues, while others, I am
sorry to say, when the first attack of
astonishment is over, attempt to rally and
strike the offending stockholder to the ground.
Regardless of abuse, regardless of blows, the
single-minded, old lady pushes on her way
through the crowded citizens, who are
compelled to fall back as she advances, strong in
the strength of an implement that was made
for rougher work. In the management of the
umbrella she fairly represents the general
body of walking ladies, and there has been