Chapter I: Part 1

“_Familiar in their Mouths as HOUSEHOLD WORDS._”—SHAKESPEARE.

HOUSEHOLD WORDS.
A WEEKLY JOURNAL.

CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS.

N^{o.} 8.] SATURDAY, MAY 18, 1850. [PRICE 2_d._

THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER.

He is a ‘Household Word.’ We all know something of him. The amount of money he annually diverts from wholesome and useful purposes in the United Kingdom, would be a set-off against the Window Tax. He is one of the most shameless frauds and impositions of this time. In his idleness, his mendacity, and the immeasurable harm he does to the deserving,—dirtying the stream of true benevolence, and muddling the brains of foolish justices, with inability to distinguish between the base coin of distress, and the true currency we have always among us,—he is more worthy of Norfolk Island than three-fourths of the worst characters who are sent there. Under any rational system, he would have been sent there long ago.

I, the writer of this paper, have been, for some time, a chosen receiver of Begging-Letters. For fourteen years, my house has been made as regular a Receiving House for such communications as any one of the great branch Post-Offices is for general correspondence. I ought to know something of the Begging-Letter Writer. He has besieged my door, at all hours of the day and night; he has fought my servant; he has lain in ambush for me, going out and coming in; he has followed me out of town into the country; he has appeared at provincial hotels, where I have been staying for only a few hours; he has written to me from immense distances, when I have been out of England. He has fallen sick; he has died, and been buried; he has come to life again, and again departed from this transitory scene; he has been his own son, his own mother, his own baby, his idiot brother, his uncle, his aunt, his aged grandfather. He has wanted a great coat, to go to India in; a pound, to set him up in life for ever; a pair of boots, to take him to the coast of China; a hat, to get him into a permanent situation under Government. He has frequently been exactly seven-and-sixpence short of independence. He has had such openings at Liverpool—posts of great trust and confidence in merchants’ houses, which nothing but seven-and-sixpence was wanting to him to secure—that I wonder he is not Mayor of that flourishing town at the present moment.

The natural phenomena of which he has been the victim, are of a most astounding nature. He has had two children, who have never grown up; who have never had anything to cover them at night; who have been continually driving him mad, by asking in vain for food; who have never come out of fevers and measles (which, I suppose, has accounted for his fuming his letters with tobacco smoke, as a disinfectant); who have never changed in the least degree, through fourteen long revolving years. As to his wife, what that suffering woman has undergone, nobody knows. She has always been in an interesting situation through the same long period, and has never been confined yet. His devotion to her has been unceasing. He has never cared for himself; _he_ could have perished—he would rather, in short—but was it not his Christian duty as a man, a husband, and a father, to write begging-letters when he looked at her? (He has usually remarked that he would call in the evening for an answer to this question.)

He has been the sport of the strangest misfortunes. What his brother has done to him would have broken anybody else’s heart. His brother went into business with him, and ran away with the money; his brother got him to be security for an immense sum, and left him to pay it; his brother would have given him employment to the tune of hundreds a year, if he would have consented to write letters on a Sunday; his brother enunciated principles incompatible with his religious views, and he could not (in consequence) permit his brother to provide for him. His landlord has never shown a spark of human feeling. When he put in that execution I don’t know, but he has never taken it out. The broker’s man has grown grey in possession. They will have to bury him some day.

He has been attached to every conceivable pursuit. He has been in the army, in the navy, in the church, in the law; connected with the press, the fine arts, public institutions, every description and grade of business. He has been brought up as a gentleman; he has been at every college in Oxford and Cambridge; he can quote Latin in his letters (but generally mis-spells some minor English word); he can tell you what Shakespeare says about begging, better than you know it. It is to be observed, that in the midst of his afflictions he always reads the newspapers; and rounds off his appeals with some allusion, that may be supposed to be in my way, to the popular subject of the hour.

His life presents a series of inconsistencies. Sometimes he has never written such a letter before. He blushes with shame. That is the first time; that shall be the last. Don’t answer it, and let it be understood that, then, he will kill himself quietly. Sometimes (and more frequently) he _has_ written a few such letters. Then he encloses the answers, with an intimation that they are of inestimable value to him, and a request that they may be carefully returned. He is fond of enclosing something—verses, letters, pawnbrokers’ duplicates, anything to necessitate an answer. He is very severe upon ‘the pampered minion of fortune,’ who refused him the half-sovereign referred to in the enclosure number two—but he knows me better.

He writes in a variety of styles; sometimes in low spirits; sometimes quite jocosely. When he is in low spirits, he writes down-hill, and repeats words—these little indications being expressive of the perturbation of his mind. When he is more vivacious, he is frank with me; he is quite the agreeable rattle. I know what human nature is,—who better? Well! He had a little money once, and he ran through it—as many men have done before him. He finds his old friends turn away from him now—many men have done that before him, too! Shall he tell me why he writes to me? Because he has no kind of claim upon me. He puts it on that ground, plainly; and begs to ask for the loan (as I know human nature) of two sovereigns, to be repaid next Tuesday six weeks, before twelve at noon.

Sometimes, when he is sure that I have found him out, and that there is no chance of money, he writes to inform me that I have got rid of him at last. He has enlisted into the Company’s service, and is off directly—but he wants a cheese. He is informed by the serjeant that it is essential to his prospects in the regiment that he should take out a single-Gloucester cheese, weighing from twelve to fifteen pounds. Eight or nine shillings would buy it. He does not ask for money, after what has passed; but if he calls at nine to-morrow morning, may he hope to find a cheese? And is there anything he can do to show his gratitude in Bengal?

Once, he wrote me rather a special letter proposing relief in kind. He had got into a little trouble by leaving parcels of mud done up in brown paper, at people’s houses, on pretence of being a Railway-Porter, in which character he received carriage money. This sportive fancy he expiated in the House of Correction. Not long after his release, and on a Sunday morning, he called with a letter (having first dusted himself all over), in which he gave me to understand that, being resolved to earn an honest livelihood, he had been travelling about the country with a cart of crockery. That he had been doing pretty well, until the day before, when his horse had dropped down dead near Chatham, in Kent. That this had reduced him to the unpleasant necessity of getting into the shafts himself, and drawing the cart of crockery to London—a somewhat exhausting pull of thirty miles. That he did not venture to ask again for money; but that if I would have the goodness _to leave him out a donkey_, he would call for the animal before breakfast!

At another time, my friend (I am describing actual experiences) introduced himself as a literary gentleman in the last extremity of distress. He had had a play accepted at a certain Theatre—which was really open; its representation was delayed by the indisposition of a leading actor—who was really ill; and he and his were in a state of absolute starvation. If he made his necessities known to the Manager of the Theatre, he put it to me to say what kind of treatment he might expect? Well! we got over that difficulty to our mutual satisfaction. A little while afterwards he was in some other strait—I think Mrs. Southcote, his wife, was in extremity—and we adjusted that point too. A little while afterwards, he had taken a new house, and was going headlong to ruin for want of a water-butt. I had my misgivings about the water-butt, and did not reply to that epistle. But, a little while afterwards, I had reason to feel penitent for my neglect. He wrote me a few broken-hearted lines, informing me that the dear partner of his sorrows died in his arms last night at nine o’clock!

I dispatched a trusty messenger to comfort the bereaved mourner and his poor children: but the messenger went so soon, that the play was not ready to be played out; my friend was not at home, and his wife was in a most delightful state of health. He was taken up by the Mendicity Society (informally it afterwards appeared), and I presented myself at a London Police-Office with my testimony against him. The Magistrate was wonderfully struck by his educational acquirements, deeply impressed by the excellence of his letters, exceedingly sorry to see a man of his attainments there, complimented him highly on his powers of composition, and was quite charmed to have the agreeable duty of discharging him. A collection was made for the ‘poor fellow,’ as he was called in the reports, and I left the court with a comfortable sense of being universally regarded as a sort of monster. Next day, comes to me a friend of mine, the governor of a large prison, ‘Why did you ever go to the Police-Office against that man,’ says he, ‘without coming to me first? I know all about him and his frauds. He lodged in the house of one of my warders, at the very time when he first wrote to you; and then he was eating spring-lamb at eighteenpence a pound, and early asparagus at I don’t know how much a bundle!’ On that very same day, and in that very same hour, my injured gentleman wrote a solemn address to me, demanding to know what compensation I proposed to make him for his having passed the night in a ‘loathsome dungeon.’ And next morning, an Irish gentleman, a member of the same fraternity, who had read the case, and was very well persuaded I should be chary of going to that Police-Office again, positively refused to leave my door for less than a sovereign, and, resolved to besiege me into compliance, literally ‘sat down’ before it for ten mortal hours. The garrison being well provisioned, I remained within the walls; and he raised the siege at midnight, with a prodigious alarum on the bell.

The Begging-Letter Writer often has an extensive circle of acquaintance. Whole pages of the Court Guide are ready to be references for him. Noblemen and gentlemen write to say there never was such a man for probity and virtue. They have known him, time out of mind, and there is nothing they wouldn’t do for him. Somehow, they don’t give him that one pound ten he stands in need of; but perhaps it is not enough—they want to do more, and his modesty will not allow it. It is to be remarked of his trade that it is a very fascinating one. He never leaves it; and those who are near to him become smitten with a love of it, too, and sooner or later set up for themselves. He employs a messenger—man, woman, or child. That messenger is certain ultimately to become an independent Begging-Letter Writer. His sons and daughters succeed to his calling, and write begging-letters when he is no more. He throws off the infection of begging-letter writing, like the contagion of disease. What Sydney Smith so happily called ‘the dangerous luxury of dishonesty’ is more tempting, and more catching, it would seem, in this instance than in any other.

He always belongs to a Corresponding-Society of Begging-Letter Writers. Any one who will, may ascertain this fact. Give money to-day, in recognition of a begging-letter,—no matter how unlike a common begging-letter,—and for the next fortnight you will have a rush of such communications. Steadily refuse to give; and the begging-letters become Angels’ visits, until the Society is from some cause or other in a dull way of business, and may as well try you as anybody else. It is of little use enquiring into the Begging-Letter Writer’s circumstances. He may be sometimes accidentally found out, as in the case already mentioned (though that was not the first enquiry made); but apparent misery is always a part of his trade, and real misery very often is, in the intervals of spring-lamb and early asparagus. It is naturally an incident of his dissipated and dishonest life.

That the calling is a successful one, and that large sums of money are gained by it, must be evident to anybody who reads the Police Reports of such cases. But, prosecutions are of rare occurrence, relatively to the extent to which the trade is carried on. The cause of this, is to be found (as no one knows better than the Begging-Letter Writer, for it is a part of his speculation) in the aversion people feel to exhibit themselves as having been imposed upon, or as having weakly gratified their consciences with a lazy, flimsy substitute for the noblest of all virtues. There is a man at large, at the moment when this paper is preparing for the press (on the 29th of April), and never once taken up yet, who, within these twelvemonths, has been probably the most audacious and the most successful swindler that even this trade has ever known. There has been something singularly base in this fellow’s proceedings: it has been his business to write to all sorts and conditions of people, in the names of persons of high reputation and unblemished honor, professing to be in distress—the general admiration and respect for whom, has ensured a ready and generous reply.

Now, in the hope that the results of the real experience of a real person may do something more to induce reflection on this subject than any abstract treatise—and with a personal knowledge of the extent to which the Begging-Letter Trade has been carried on for some time, and has been for some time constantly increasing—the writer of this paper entreats the attention of his readers to a few concluding words. His experience is a type of the experience of many; some on a smaller; some on an infinitely larger scale. All may judge of the soundness or unsoundness of his conclusions from it.

Long doubtful of the efficacy of such assistance in any case whatever, and able to recal but one, within his whole individual knowledge, in which he had the least after-reason to suppose that any good was done by it, he was led, last autumn, into some serious considerations. The begging-letters flying about by every post, made it perfectly manifest, That a set of lazy vagabonds were interposed between the general desire to do something to relieve the sickness and misery under which the poor were suffering; and the suffering poor themselves. That many who sought to do some little to repair the social wrongs, inflicted in the way of preventible sickness and death upon the poor, were strengthening those wrongs, however innocently, by wasting money on pestilent knaves cumbering society. That imagination,—soberly following one of these knaves into his life of punishment in jail, and comparing it with the life of one of these poor in a cholera-stricken alley, or one of the children of one of these poor, soothed in its dying hour by the late lamented Mr. Drouet,—contemplated a grim farce, impossible to be presented very much longer before God or man. That the crowning miracle of all the miracles summed up in the New Testament, after the miracle of the blind seeing, and the lame walking, and the restoration of the dead to life, was the miracle that the poor had the Gospel preached to them. That while the poor were unnaturally and unnecessarily cut off by the thousand, in the prematurity of their age, or in the rottenness of their youth—for of flower or blossom such youth has none—the Gospel was NOT preached to them, saving in hollow and unmeaning voices. That of all wrongs, this was the first mighty wrong the Pestilence warned us to set right. And that no Post-Office Order to any amount, given to a Begging-Letter Writer for the quieting of an uneasy breast, would be presentable on the Last Great Day as anything towards it.

The poor never write these letters. Nothing could be more unlike their habits. The writers are public robbers; and we who support them are parties to their depredations. They trade upon every circumstance within their knowledge that affects us, public or private, joyful or sorrowful; they pervert the lessons of our lives; they change what ought to be our strength and virtue, into weakness, and encouragement of vice. There is a plain remedy, and it is in our own hands. We must resolve, at any sacrifice of feeling, to be deaf to such appeals, and crush the trade.

There are degrees in murder. Life must be held sacred among us in more ways than one—sacred, not merely from the murderous weapon, or the subtle poison, or the cruel blow, but sacred from preventible diseases, distortions, and pains. That is the first great end we have to set against this miserable imposition. Physical life respected, moral life comes next. What will not content a Begging-Letter Writer for a week, would educate a score of children for a year. Let us give all we can; let us give more than ever. Let us do all we can; let us do more than ever. But let us give, and do, with a high purpose; not to endow the scum of the earth, to its own greater corruption, with the offals of our duty.

THE GREAT CAT AND DOG QUESTION.

Between the rivers Kistnah and Beehma in the Deckhan, surrounded by wild rocky hills, lies the town of Shorapoor, capital of a state of that name, inhabited by a people who have generally been considered lawless, superstitious, and quarrelsome. Of late years they have been more industrious and peaceable, and though still an excitable race, may be said to be advancing in the arts of peace.

It was during a more remote period, when few strangers ever ventured to penetrate the country, that a weary-looking traveller, covered with dust, entered one of the gates, and sat down for awhile at the side of a well. He then proceeded to take off his waistband and turban, washed his head and his feet, drank of the cool refreshing water, combed his beard and moustachios, and spreading a small carpet on which he laid his trusty sword, drew from his wallet a neat little muslin skullcap; then seated himself cross-legged, lighted his pipe, and began to look very comfortable indeed.

In the mean time there were not wanting many idle and curious people, who having first at a distance observed the movements of the stranger, approached him nearer and nearer. But he seemed to take little notice of the crowd, and appeared absorbed in a sense of his own enjoyment, taking long whiffs of his pipe, and looking as if he had made a considerable progress towards the third heaven.

At length a respectable looking man, who had come up, drew nearer than the rest, and asked him from whence he had travelled, and whither he was going? What he was seeking in Shorapoor, and whether he was a merchant, or merely came to look about him? But the questions ended in smoke, being answered only by _whiffs_.

Then came another still bolder man, and said, ‘Sir, the heat is great; be pleased to come with me to my house, and repose yourself there, and I will give you a nice cool place in which you may sleep.’

Upon this the stranger drew his pipe from his mouth, and replied, ‘You are extremely kind, good Sir, and I am really grateful to you for your proffered hospitality; but the fact is, I don’t believe you would wish to have me in your house, did you know what I really am!’

And thus saying, he rolled his eyes about, twisted up his moustachios, stroked his beard, and assumed such a mysterious air, that an indescribable terror seized the bystanders; so much so, that in falling hastily back, some of them tumbled down, and others tumbled over them in a very ridiculous manner.

‘He’s a thief,’ whispered one. ‘Or a Thug,’ said another. ‘Or an evil spirit in the form of a man,’ observed a fourth. ‘At all events, doesn’t he look like one who had _killed another_?’

In short the alarm became general, and several deemed it prudent, first to sneak off, and then take to their heels. A few, however, of the bolder spirits kept their ground; and seeing that the stranger did nothing but take long whiffs from his pipe, sending the smoke peacefully curling over his beard and moustachios out of both his nostrils, they regained their confidence, and began to think that after all he might be some important personage;—who could tell? So after a little pushing and elbowing among themselves, a man was thrust forward, under an idea that something might come of it; but no, the stranger appeared as unmoved as ever.

Then another, who had screwed up his courage to that point, boldly advanced, and thus spoke—

‘Do pray, Sir, tell us who upon earth you may be?’—No answer.

Then the man who had offered a sleeping place in his house chimed in, and said, ‘Aye, Sir, do let us know who or what you may be? I assure you we are none of us at all afraid of you!’ And with these words he twisted up his moustachios, and tried to look as fierce and bold as possible, while his knees were knocking together, and his heart fluttering all the while. On a repetition of these questions, however, by both these men, the stranger, with infinite gravity, took the pipe from his mouth, and thus spoke:—

‘Are you not too much frightened to hear?’

The runaways, however, had departed, and those left behind seemed determined not to follow them; more especially as the stranger had made no sign as if he would draw his sword; neither did they think he looked at all so horrible now. They therefore one and all called out, ‘No! we are not a bit afraid, let us hear!’

‘Well then,’ exclaimed the stranger, taking a long puff at his pipe, ‘strange as it may appear to you all, my name is MISCHIEF-MAKER! And what is very extraordinary, whatever I do, wherever I go, wherever I am, I _always_ create mischief, I always _have_ created mischief, and shall continue to do so to the very end of my life!’ And upon this he rolled his eyes, and puffed away at his pipe harder than ever.

‘Oh, is this all,’ cried the party, ‘is this all?’

‘For the matter of _that_,’ said an active little man with twinkling eyes, ‘you need be under no uneasiness whatever. I defy you to invent more mischief here than we have already, for we are all more or less at enmity with our neighbours; and as our fathers and grandfathers were the same, we conclude it must be owing to something that can’t be changed; for instance, the air or water of our town; so set your heart at rest, and come along with us, and we’ll take care of you.’

‘Well,’ rejoined the stranger, ‘I am very glad indeed to hear what you say of your own town; for to be candid with you, it’s exactly what I heard of you all as I came along, and this made me think that in a place where all were mischief-makers and busybodies already, I could have nothing to do but (for once in my life) live in peace. However, don’t trust me—that’s all I have to say—and if any evil arises from my visit, turn me out, and I’ll seek a home elsewhere.’

An old Brahmin had come up in time to hear this avowal. ‘’Tis very strange,’ said the wise man. ‘This fellow is surely a magician, and may set all the rocks of Shorapoor dancing and tumbling about our ears, some day. Turn him instantly away, or it may be the worse for us all.’

‘No, no,’ shouted the multitude. ‘That would be inhospitable. Let him remain, and we shall soon see what he can do.’

The little active man now came forward again, and said slyly, ‘Sir, if you really _are_ such a mischief-maker as you describe yourself to be, suppose you were to give us a little specimen of your power,—just some trifling matter to judge by.’

‘What, _now_?’ said the stranger.

‘Aye, _now_!’ exclaimed all; ‘and the sooner the better.’

‘Well, be it so,’ said he; ‘let me put up my things and come along!’ And with this he arose, packed up, girded on his sword, and strode majestically forward, followed by a crowd continually increasing as they advanced further into the town.

‘Now don’t push or press upon me so much,’ said the stranger; ‘but observe what I do, and watch the consequences.’ So they let him proceed, and as he advanced, they soon perceived that he was forming some deep plan, particularly as he paused every now and then, with his forefinger between his teeth, and nodded, and wagged his head, as much as to say, ‘I have it!’ Upon which he made straight for a shop kept by a man who sold flour and such like things, and accosting the dealer, inquired with great civility, whether he had any _honey_? ‘That I have, Sir,’ replied the shop-keeper, ‘plenty fresh from the comb; only taste it, and I’m sure you’ll buy. Here, Sir; look at this beautiful jar, full of the finest honey that was ever seen in Shorapoor.’

‘It looks well,’ replied the stranger, dipping his hand in; ‘and does not taste amiss:’ saying which he gave his finger a careless kind of shake; but he knew right well what he was about, as a little lump stuck upon the outer wall.

‘It really _is_ good,’ said the Mischief-Maker. ‘Give me a small pot of it, that I may take it home to my children.’

While the shop-keeper was filling a small new pot, over which he tied a fresh green leaf, the people who had been following, came up, and said, ‘Sir, you are only making game of us; you are giving us no proof of what you said. What mischief is there in buying a little pot of honey?’

‘Be quiet, my good people, and content yourselves for a couple of minutes, while I get my change, and put my purchase in a safe place, and you will soon see something—wait here, and I’ll be back to you directly.’ The Mischief-Maker vanished in an instant!

Now it happened that this shop was a mere shed of a place, projecting into the street, from the wall on which the honey had been thrown; nor had the tempting bait been long there, before it was smelt out by a large hungry fly, which had been spending many fruitless hours buzzing about the dealer’s jar, so carefully was it always covered. Here was a glorious opportunity for a fine supper, and down he came upon it with eager appetite—without looking about him as he ought—for over his head, under the cover of the wall, among old chinks and cobwebs, there dwelt a wily, dust-coloured lizard, who enjoyed a fly beyond everything else in the world, and had been particularly unsuccessful in fly-catching all day. Watching, therefore, till the fly had buried his mining apparatus pretty deep in the honey, he crept down quietly, looking as like a bit of old plaster as possible, but for those bright eyes of his, which in his eagerness for the capture, were intently fixed upon the fly. Unlucky wight! Little did he think that those very eyes had attracted the attention of a fine tabby cat, who but a few minutes before, with blinking eyes, presented a perfect picture of contentment, but now roused by a sudden temptation, was crouching stealthily down as she beheld the lizard, for whom she had so often watched in vain. Down stole the lizard—on stole the cat; so that here at the same moment were three creatures so bent upon indulgence, that they never even thought of looking about them! But were these three all the parties to be engaged? Alas! no. There was a sworn enemy of the cat’s approaching also (under cover of a large basket), in the shape of a mischievous white dog, kept by a very quarrelsome man on the other side of the street. This dog was the terror of all the cats in the neighbourhood, and most of all, of the flour-dealer’s; so often had he chased her, and so often experienced the bitter disappointment of seeing her climbing up the posts of the shop, and then spitting at him from the top of the shed.

Infatuated lizard! Wretched fly! Betrayed pussy! _She_ heeded not the sly creep of the dog, so intent was she upon the successful issue of her spring upon the lizard. The fly was gorging himself with honey. He alone partook not of the intense anxiety of the lizard, the cat, and the dog. He partook only of—_honey_!

The crisis at length arrived. The lizard made its nimble pounce at the fly. The cat sprang at the lizard. The lizard missed its footing in consequence, and would have been the cat’s portion—fly, honey, and all—but for the dog’s sudden attack upon puss. Here was a scene! The lizard falling to the ground, was at once involved in the consequences of the quarrel between the dog and cat. What were fly or honey to him at the moment, when in a state between life and death he crept back sore and wounded to his chinks and cobwebs! The fly might or might not have escaped. Not so the cat, now sorely worried by the dog, in spite of all her outcries and all she could do in the way of biting and clawing; for it was an old score the dog was paying her off, and that might soon have cost her her life, if her master had not rushed out of his shop with a broomstick, with which he began to belabour the dog.

Now the owner of the dog had been as long at enmity with the man of flour and honey, as the dog had been at enmity with the cat, and probably longer. Of course, therefore, when he heard his animal’s cries, and saw the punishment inflicting, he armed himself with a broomstick also; and rushing across the street, gave the flour-dealer such a crack upon his head, as knocked him down as flat as a pancake.

‘Take that you villain,’ said he, ‘for it’s a debt I’ve long owed you!’

‘Have you?’ said the flour-dealer’s son, as he rushed out with a cudgel in his hand. ‘Then tell me how you like _that_’—giving him such a hearty whack across the shoulders, that he was fain to drop his broomstick.

Yet the blow had hardly been given, before a friend of the dog’s master ran up with a drawn sword, and would have made mincemeat of the flour-dealer’s son, but for a soldier who cried out, ‘Shame, thou coward, and son of a coward, who would attack a youth with only a stick in his hand, and you armed with a sword! Shame on you! It’s just like you rascally Hindoo fellows, who pretend to be soldiers, and are as much like soldiers as that poor cat. Why don’t you try me?’

‘Why not?’ replied the man. ‘Do you think I’m afraid of such a bully as you? Come on, you scoundrel, and I’ll show you what difference there is between a cat and a Hindoo!’

Upon this the soldier drew his sword, and both began to cut at each other in good earnest.

On this all the people cried out, ‘Murder! Murder!’ and a great many soldiers running to the spot, were soon engaged, always attacking the Hindoos, who were on the dog’s side, and the Hindoos the Mussulmans, who were on the side of the cat; and wherever a Hindoo and a Mussulman were fighting, the Hindoos aided the Hindoo, and the Mussulmans the Mussulman; and the consequence was the death of many on each side, and the wounding of most of the foolish quarrelsome people engaged.

Of course such a hubbub as this could not be continued long without its being reported to the Rajah, who forthwith hastened from his palace with his body-guard and some horsemen, and soon put a stop to this terrible fray; and all the ringleaders were forthwith seized and tied together, and marched off to prison, there to be kept closely confined till the sad business should be fully enquired into, and the cause of so dreadful a riot ascertained, and fixed upon the guilty.

All that night, therefore, were the magistrates and police-officers hard at work listening to evidence, but they did not advance a single step in the business; no, nor for several days after, notwithstanding the great impatience of the Rajah, to whom they could only report from time to time the hearing of nothing but the words, ‘Cat, Dog,’—‘Cat and Dog,’—‘Dog and Cat,’—‘Dog’—‘Cat.’

A very similar feeling, also, was entertained by the lawyers who were called in, and who, after intense application, declared themselves doubtful, _very_ doubtful,—so much was advanced and really to be said and supported by various precedents, both on the side of the cat and of the dog, and, consequently, of the owner of the cat, as well as the owner of the dog, and the partisans of the owners of the dog and cat,—insomuch, that the whole city was split into most determined cat and dog factions, and all strangers that entered the gates were instantly absorbed in the dog and cat vortex, and whirled actually round and round in this terrible fray, which every now and then broke out with fresh fury, notwithstanding all the vigilance of the Rajah’s guards. And yet even these valiant heroes were in some degree infected, giving sly cuts at dog or cat men, just as they themselves inclined to support the cat and dog question.

And so matters might have remained, either to the day of the final depopulation of Shorapoor, or Doomsday itself, but for the wise old Brahmin who had given such timely warning to turn out the stranger.

He had in reality been quietly chuckling a little, as many are wont to do who have lived to see their prophecies first despised and then fulfilled; but his heart relenting, he hastened to the palace, and prostrating himself before the Rajah with hands joined together, he thus spoke:—

‘May I be your sacrifice, O thou eater of mountains and drinker of rivers! I have a petition to make in this matter of the cat and dog!’

‘It shall be heard,’ replied the Rajah. ‘Thou art a wise man; what dost thou say?—dog—cat—dog and cat, or cat and dog? For my own part, I still reserve my decision, though somewhat inclining to the opinion that the cat caused all the mischief, and for this reason,—because if the dog had not seen the cat, he very probably would not have chased her—“out of sight out of mind” being one of our oldest as well as truest proverbs.’

‘Alas! that I should differ with your Highness—Brave Falcon, terrible in War—the most valiant of the State—the Tiger of the Country,’ replied the Prime Minister. ‘How could the cat help being worried by the dog?—and did not nature give her a right to go where she pleased?’

So the whole Court took at once different sides, and matters might have come to a serious explosion, even within the sacred walls of the palace itself, but for the Brahmin, who again lifted up his voice and said:—

‘May it please your Highness! Let me declare to you that it was neither the dog nor the cat that caused all this misery, but the _Fly_ and the Honey!’

‘The fly and the honey! The fly and the honey!’ exclaimed the astonished Rajah. ‘What honey, and what fly?’

And, as this was a perfectly new idea, the assembly listened with profound attention while the holy man unfolded the true history of the case. His having seen the stranger, and warned the people against him. How accurately he had observed the drop of honey dabbed against the wall. Then the approach of the fly, the sly gliding of the lizard, the wily creeping of the cat, and the stealthy vindictive movements of the dog—involving all these creatures in much pain and difficulty, and which afterwards overspread the city.

‘Hold, learned man,’ cried the Rajah, ‘thou hast well said; my eyes are opened!’ and he desired search to be made for the man who had too well earned the title of Mischief-Maker. But he was no where to be either found or heard of; and the poor flour-dealer, who stood among the prisoners with a bandaged head, declared that the villain had not even paid for the honey that had caused the whole tumult.

‘Well,’ exclaimed the Rajah, after a profound pause; ‘here now may most plainly be seen a proof—if any such were required—that my subjects only want a pretext, no matter what, to quarrel, and they are sure to go to loggerheads.

‘I now throw no blame upon either the cat or the dog; for each animal followed its own peculiar instinct. The blame and the punishment too, must light upon the owners of the dog and cat for fighting, and thus inducing others to espouse so ridiculous a quarrel.’

And forthwith he ordered all the principal rioters into confinement, saying also to the rest of the people:—

‘Go home now, fools that ye are, and try whether you cannot make up your minds to live at peace with one another. I cannot prevent your keeping cats and dogs, because were I to do so, we should be devoured by vermin or exposed to robbery. But this I tell you, you shall not turn yourselves into cats and dogs for the future with impunity—DEPART!’ So they all sneaked off; and the active little man whose head somebody had broken, scratched it and said:—

‘Only think how well that strange fellow knew us all!’

A CARD FROM MR. BOOLEY.

MR. BOOLEY (the great traveller) presents his compliments to the conductor of Household Words, and begs to call his attention to an omission in the account given in that delightful journal, of MR. BOOLEY’S remarks, in addressing the Social Oysters.

MR. BOOLEY, in proposing the health of MR. THOMAS GRIEVE, in connexion with the beautiful diorama of the route of the Overland Mail to India, expressly added (amid much cheering from the Oysters) the names of MR. TELBIN his distinguished coadjutor; MR. ABSOLON, who painted the figures; and MR. HERRING, who painted the animals. Although MR. BOOLEY’S tribute of praise can be of little importance to those gentlemen, he is uneasy in finding them left out of the delightful Journal referred to.

MR. BOOLEY has taken the liberty of endeavouring to give this communication an air of novelty, by omitting the words ‘Now, Sir,’ which are generally supposed to be essential to all letters written to Editors for publication. It may be interesting to add, in fact, that the Social Oysters considered it impossible that MR. BOOLEY could, by any means, throw off the present communication, without availing himself of that established form of address.

_Highbury Barn, Monday Evening._

LAW AT A LOW PRICE.

Low, narrow, dark, and frowning are the thresholds of our Inns of Court. If there is one of these entrances of which I have more dread than another, it is that leading out of Holborn to Gray’s Inn. I never remember to have met a cheerful face at it, until the other morning, when I encountered Mr. Ficker, attorney-at-law. In a few minutes we found ourselves arm in arm, and straining our voices to the utmost amid the noise of passing vehicles. Mr. Ficker stretched himself on tiptoe in a frantic effort to inform me that he was going to a County Court. ‘But perhaps you have not heard of these places?’

I assured Mr. Ficker that the parliamentary discussions concerning them had made me very anxious to see how justice was administered in these establishments for low-priced Law. ‘I am going to one now,’ but he impressively added, ‘you must understand, that professionally I do not approve of their working. There can be no doubt that they seriously prejudice the regular course of law. Comparing the three quarters preceding with three quarters subsequent to the establishment of these Courts, there was a decrease of nearly 10,000 writs issued by the Court of Queen’s Bench alone, or of nearly 12,500 on the year.’

We soon arrived at the County Court. It is a plain, substantial-looking building, wholly without pretension, but at the same time not devoid of some little architectural elegance of exterior. We entered, by a gateway far less austere than that of Gray’s Inn, a long, well-lighted passage, on either side of which were offices connected with the Court. One of these was the Summons Office, and I observed on the wall a ‘Table of Fees,’ and as I saw Mr. Ficker consulting it with a view to his own business, I asked him his opinion of the charges.

‘Why,’ said he, ‘the scale of fees is too large for the client and too small for the lawyer. But suitors object less to the amount than to the intricacies and perplexities of the Table. In some districts the expense of recovering a sum of money is one-third more than it is in others; though in both the same scale of fees is in operation. This arises from the variety of interpretations which different judges and officers put upon the charges.’

Passing out of the Summons Office, we entered a large hall, placarded with lists of trials for the ensuing week. There were more than one hundred of them set down for trial on nearly every day.

‘I am glad,’ I said, ‘to think that this is not all additional litigation. I presume these are the thousands of causes a year withdrawn from the superior Courts?’

‘The skeletons of them,’ said Mr. Ficker, with a sigh. ‘There were some pickings out of the old processes; but I am afraid that there is nothing but the bone here.’

‘I see here,’ said I, pointing to one of the lists, ‘a single plaintiff entered, as proceeding against six-and-twenty defendants in succession.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Ficker, rubbing his hands, ‘a knowing fellow that; quite awake to the business of these Courts. A cheap and easy way, Sir, of recovering old debts. I don’t know who the fellow is—a tailor very likely—but no doubt you will find his name in the list in this way once every half year. If his Midsummer and Christmas bills are not punctually paid, it is far cheaper to come here and get a summons served, than to send all over London to collect the accounts, with the chance of not finding the customer at home. And this is one way, you see, in which we solicitors are defrauded. No doubt, this fellow formerly employed an attorney to write letters for him, requesting payment of the amount of his bill, and 6_s_. 8_d_. for the cost of the application. Now, instead of going to an attorney, he comes here and gets the summons served for 2_s_. A knowing hand that,—a knowing hand.’

‘But,’ I said, ‘surely no respectable tradesman——’

_‘Respectable_,’ said Mr. Ficker, ‘I said nothing, about respectability. This sort of thing is very common among a certain class of tradespeople, especially puffing tailors and bootmakers. Such people rely less on regular than on chance custom, and therefore they care less about proceeding against those who deal with them.’

‘But,’ said I, ‘this is a decided abuse of the power of the Court. Such fellows ought to be exposed.’

‘Phoo, phoo,’ said Mr. Ficker; ‘they are, probably, soon known here, and then, if the judge does his duty, they get bare justice, and nothing more. I am not sure, indeed, that sometimes their appearance here may not injure rather than be of advantage to them; for the barrister may fix a distant date for payment of a debt which the tradesman, by a little civility, might have obtained from his customer a good deal sooner.’

‘The Court’ I found to be a lofty room, somewhat larger and handsomer than the apartment in which the Hogarths are hung up in the National Gallery. One half was separated from the other by a low partition, on the outer side of which stood a miscellaneous crowd of persons who appeared to be waiting their turn to be called forward. Though the appearance of the Court was new and handsome, everything was plain and simple.

I was much struck by the appearance and manner of the Judge. He was comparatively a young man; but I fancied that he displayed the characteristics of experience. His attention to the proceedings was unwearied; his discrimination appeared admirable; and there was a calm self-possession about him that bordered upon dignity.

The suitors who attended were of every class and character. There were professional men, tradesmen, costermongers, and a peer. Among the plaintiffs, there were specimens of the considerate plaintiff, the angry plaintiff, the cautious plaintiff, the bold-swearing plaintiff, the energetic plaintiff, the practised plaintiff, the shrewish (female) plaintiff, the nervous plaintiff, and the revengeful plaintiff. Each plaintiff was allowed to state his or her case in his or her own way, and to call witnesses, if there were any. When the debt appeared to be _primâ facie_ proved, the Barrister turned to the defendant, and perhaps asked him if he disputed it?

The characteristics of the defendants were quite as different as the characteristics of the plaintiffs. There was the factious defendant, and the defendant upon principle—the stormy defendant, and the defendant who was timid—the impertinent defendant, and the defendant who left his case entirely to the Court—the defendant who would never pay, and the defendant who would if he could. The causes of action I found to be as multifarious as the parties were diverse. Besides suits by tradespeople for every description of goods supplied, there were claims for every sort and kind of service that can belong to humanity, from the claim of a monthly nurse, to the claim of the undertaker’s assistant.

In proving these claims the Judge was strict in insisting that a proper account should have been delivered; and that the best evidence should be produced as to the correctness of the items. No one could come to the court and receive a sum of money merely by swearing that ‘Mr. So-and-so owes me so much.’

With regard to defendants, the worst thing they could do, was to remain away when summoned to attend. It has often been observed that those persons about whose dignity there is any doubt, are the most rigorous in enforcing its observance. It is with Courts as it is with men; and as Small Debt Courts are sometimes apt to be held in some contempt, I found the Judge here very prompt in his decision, whenever a defendant did not appear by self or agent. Take a case in point:—

_Barrister_ (_to the Clerk of the Court_). Make an order in favour of the plaintiff.

_Plaintiff’s Attorney._ Your honour will give us speedy recovery?

_Barrister._ Will a month do, Mr. Docket?

_Plaintiff’s Attorney._ The defendant is not here to assign any reason for delay, your honour.

_Barrister._ Very well: then let him pay in a fortnight.

I was much struck, in some of the cases, by a friendly sort of confidence which characterised some of the proceedings. Here again the effect in a great measure was attributable to the Barrister. He seemed to act,—as indeed he is—rather as an authorised arbitrator than as a Judge. He advised rather than ordered; ‘I really think,’ he said to one defendant, ‘I really think, Sir, you have made yourself liable.’ ‘Do you, Sir?’ said the man, pulling out his purse without more ado, ‘then, Sir, I am sure I will pay.’

It struck me, too, as remarkable, that though some of the cases were hotly contested, none of the defeated parties complained of the decision. In several instances, the parties even appeared to acquiesce in the propriety of the verdict.

A Scotch shoeing-smith summoned a man who, from his appearance, I judged to be a hard, keen-dealing Yorkshire horse-jobber; he claimed a sum of money for putting shoes upon six-and-thirty horses. His claim was just, but there was an error in his particulars of demand which vitiated it. The Barrister took some trouble to point out that in consequence of this error, even if he gave a decision in his favour, he should be doing him an injury. The case was a hard one, and I could not help regretting that the poor plaintiff should be non-suited. Did _he_ complain? Neither by word or action. Folding up his papers, he said sorrowfully, ‘Well, Sir, I assure you I would not have come here, if it had not been a just claim.’ The Barrister evidently believed him, for he advised a compromise, and adjourned the case that the parties might try to come to terms. But the defendant would not arrange, and the plaintiff was driven to elect a non-suit.

The mode of dealing with documentary evidence afforded me considerable satisfaction. Private letters—such as the tender effusions of faithless love—are not, as in the higher Courts, thrust, one after the other, into the dirty face of a grubby-looking witness who was called to prove the handwriting, sent the round of the twelve jurymen in the box, and finally passed to the reporters that they might copy certain flowery sentences and a few stanzas from ‘Childe Harold,’ which the shorthand writers ‘could not catch,’ but are handed up seriatim to the Judge, who looks through them carefully and then passes them over without observation for the re-perusal of the defendant. Not a word transpires, except such extracts as require comment.

There was a claim against a gentleman for a butcher’s bill. He had the best of all defences, for he had paid ready money for every item as it was delivered. The plaintiff was the younger partner of a butchering firm which had broken up, leaving him in possession of the books and his partner in possession of the credit. The proprietor of the book-debts proved the order and delivery of certain joints prior to a certain date, and swore they had not been paid for. To show his title to recover the value of them, he somewhat unnecessarily thrust before the Barrister the deed which constituted him a partner. The Judge instantly compared the deed with the bill. ‘Why,’ he said, turning to the butcher, ‘all the items you have sworn to were purchased anterior to the date of your entering into partnership. If any one is entitled to recover, it is your partner, whom the defendant alleges he has paid.’ In one, as they are called, of the ‘Superior Courts,’ I very much doubt whether either Judge or Jury would have discovered for themselves this important discrepancy.

The documentary evidence was not confined to deeds and writings, stamped or unstamped. Even during the short time I was present, I saw some curious records produced before the Barrister—records as primitive in their way as those the Chancellor of the Exchequer used to keep in the Tally-Office, before the comparatively recent introduction of book-keeping into the department of our national accountant.