Chapter 174508180

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Chapter NumberXXXI.(Continued). XXXII. XXXIII. XXXIV.
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Full Date1892-01-16
Page Number1
Word Count5334
Last Corrected2020-07-03
Newspaper TitleThe Bendigo Independent (Vic. : 1891 - 1918)
Trove TitleThe Devil's Own. An Australian Story
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At last he died, I cannot say deeply re- gretted, leaving children by the woman that was his wife and children by the woman that was not his wife to inherit his wealth, and

enjoy his gold as much as ho had enjoyed col- lecting it. As a rule miser fathers beget spendthrift sons, but this was not the case with the children of Daniel Jones, who had lived to such a good old age, and had kept his money so entirely under his own control. Careful economy had become second nature with his children who had waited so long and patiently for their golden inheritance, and knew too well the value of money to waste their sub- stance in riotous living whatever the third and fourth generation might do. That re- mained to be proved whether the low blood or peculiarities of Daniel Jones would be stamped out or otherwise in the future generations. If wealth, education and civilisation are supposed to bring the standard of perfection in man to concert pitch, thou, indeed, ought the future generations of the Jones family to be princes and emperors of the land in nobility of soul, energy of character, and giants of intellect, for very few had revelled in the luxuries of civilisation equal to the Joneses. There is an old saying that it takes five generations to make a gentleman, but that is an old fashioned notion of the period of powdered hair, buckled shoes, the minuet and true gentleman. This is a different age, and to make a gentleman ac- cording to the present qualification of an age of steam, one generation suffices, provid- ing he is gifted with that one talisman— wealth, the golden key to the world’s para- dise, and plenty of bounce in his composition to carry it off, education being used, as a matter of course, in an age, where, under the enlarged system of education which is almost compulsory, becoming still more necessary owing to the extension of the suffrage which is now universal. It is, however, question- able, whether the system of state education is really conducive to the general good. “A little learning is a dangerous thing,” says our great and true oracle, Shakespeare, and the system of state education just enables the masses to read light literature without educating the mind to argue justly the pros and cons of a case. Thus the individual just able to read, naturally takes up the lowest class of writing, being unable to grasp the meaning of the higher which requires more thought. The Maori is taught to read the Bible. He does not understand the grand lessons inculcated therein, but simply reads as a child reads a pleasant story. Yet to teach “the three R’s" is necessary. The ex- tension of the suffrage requires this, though the abuse of this initial knowledge is sure to take place amongst a large percentage of the voting masses, and from this source proceeds those communistic and socialistic tendencies which crop up so frequently, and which threaten ultimately to revolutionise the existing institutions. But to return to the wealthy denizens of Pekin Court and their neighbors in Hauteville. Change of fortune had by no means improved these lucky people. I think it is Matthew Henry who writes:— “There is a burden of care in getting riches; fear in keeping them ; temptation in using them; guilt in abusing them; sorrow in losing them; and a burden of account at last to be given up concerning them." I guess, as the Americans say, Matthew Hemy had never been to Hauteville, or he would have altered his tenets, and found that conscience was a very small item in the composition of these money kings, as to their money bag, and the proper use of them. They had an immense amount of self-esteem and self-righteousness, “the devil’s masterpiece,” and ruled the less lucky denizens with pride unbearable, forget- ting that too soon for them would the fiat go forth; “this night shall thy soul be required of thee. ’’ It is hard for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven. CHAPTER IX DISCONTENT. "For not the ceaseless change of shifted place, Can from the heart a settled grief erase; Nor can the purer balm of foreign air Heal the distempered mind of aching care. The wretch by wild impatience driven to rove. Vexed with the pangs of ill requitted love; From pole to pole the fatal arrow bears. Whose rooted point his bleeding bosom tears, With equal pains each different clime he tries, And is himself that torment which he flies. LORD LYTTLETON. It is blowing furiously a hot wind, as a blast from a furnace, covering the lawns with a debris of withered leaves, or making the gardens a parched looking wilderness of flowers and shrubs, dust here and dust there, dust everywhere; clouds of it, more partic- ularly in the streets and roads up and down of which figures almost indiscernable from the dust, in Indian silk attire, and pith helmets, are in vain lighting against rude Borias manfully, armed with umbrellas held down firmly over their faces as they struggle on, very disgusted with the elements and their own dirty state in particular. Housemaids are grumbling, having dusted and dusted at their respective houses for the fourth time that day ; cooks are grumbling because their jellies and creams are likely to be a failure: butchers grumble at having to close their shops; drapers at their closed doors; everyone grumbling, but none more so than the inmates of Pekin Court, who, like a hive of bees at swarming time, are busy at work for “master and missus” are expected home after nearly a year’s absence. “This beastly wind,” says Mrs. Grampus, the cook, “ice or ice, there’ll not be a decent cream or jelly if it goes on like this.” “Jellies and creams (indignantly) look at my flowers and strawberries, in spite of my covering ’em well up; they’re that gritty,” said the gardener, entering the kitchen laden with baskets of vegetables, flowers and fruit of all kinds, his face as red as a full blown peony with heat and vexation. “Let's all go to bed till it is over and resume our duties at a later period,” says the new footman, polishing away at some salvers. He is a bit of a wag, but no one is inclined to even notice his joke, the appreciation of wit being impossible at Pekin Court just then. “There is little time to spare, and much to be done, and no time to be wasted in nonsense,” says the cook, solemnly flourish- ing about a rolling pin. “Don’t tell me about our fine climate when we are almost choked with dust to-day, and little time to clean oneself being that busy.” The P. and O, s.s Lahore had been tele- graphed, and would arrive at Goldsborough in two days at the latest. Much gossiping, great thinking and earnest consideration had occupied the time and minds of the pas- sengers as to what toilettes they should don for landing, and a more than usual debate on the subject for the Lahore was to anchor on Sunday—the day of all others that the pier would be crowded with holiday folk and the dresses of the passengers remarked upon. Mrs. Pinkeen, a lawyer’s wife (who spent half her time and most of her husband’s income in living as a grass widow in England or on the European continent, leaving her meek and mild husband to be head nurse during her absence) had studied the subject carefully, and as the ship anchored on the Sunday alongside the pier, she had come out strong in a costume of the latest French and, ergo, most conspicuous fashion, and thus ar- rayed as she stepped on shore from the ship, failed to recognise many of her old friends and acquaintances who had not forgotten her. “Travelling on the continent is apt to make one forget faces so,” she said drawlingly, fanning herself with a large Wattean fan. “Am I really speaking to Mrs. Earle,” she added listlessly, as an old lady came forward to shake hands, telling her name at the same time. “ How did you enjoy the voyage, Mrs, Pinkeen?” said a young dark moustached individual. “Not at all, Van; it was tedious to a degree. The passengers were so slow, positively goody goodies. I nearly yawned myself to death. I really believe they would have proposed family prayers if the voyage had lasted much longer. Ah ! there’s William,” as a tall pale faced limp—looking man like a frock coated rushlight, hurried forward to meet his wife with a loving em- brace, but was pulled up short by a cold “how are you William? children well, I sup- pose. See to my things; I am sick of the ship and dying to get on shore. There are seventeen mail trunks and any amount of small packages, Jenkins has the list and the keys. Get me a hansom first; you can follow with Jenkins," and the cara sposo, with a sigh of regret, set off to get a conveyance for his fashionable wife, before seeing to her fads and farthingales. Mrs. Pinkeen, had an angry sulky look on her face that day,

which she could ill afford, for she had no claim to beauty, her only recommendation to her admirers being certain in mannerism i.e., the gushing manner from top to toe of a fashionable married flirt, particular in the studied effect of looking—gushingly from a pair of educated eyes. Looking the pic- ture of cross patchism and disgust, for once this fashionable butterfly was honest in not hiding her temper, and her spleen—the fact was she had found the voyage a dead failure as far as flirting was concerned ; the captain knew her too well, the officers ditto, also many of the passengers, so she had determmined to fascinate the only titled passenger on board, Sir Herbert Armytage. She had worn her prettiest dresses, had minced about in prettiest shoes and her most becoming hats; had studied effect for hours together (like the young ladies of old in the niminy pimminy school) to look sweetly and say gushing things to the baronet to no effect; all her fascinations had failed to fascinate or even to entrap him into a mere flirtation, pour passer le temps, in fact he had mortally offended her one day at lunch by saying within her hearing, that he never looked twice on a pretty woman unless she was fair of the Raphael type, which Mrs. Pinkeen was not. There is the usual excitement of a ship’s arrival, passengers jostling each other in eager anxiety to land or even get their luggage; visitors jostling the passengers, stopping the way as they dawdle about, star- ing at everybody and everything from the new arrivals themselves to the labels on their trunks, which lie in piles here and there; friends and relatives greeting each other joyously; coolies busy at work, or flying hither and thither to obey commands. The captain now and then shoving to the fore as proof that he is there, but up to his eyes in business and pleasure combined, over- whelmed with friends, and on the other side deep in business. The bars are crowded, part- ing glasses being the only pastimes to indulge in whilst waiting for wives, children, ser- vants, or luggage. There is a happy look on most of the passengers, who are evidently glad to be on terra firma again. Apart from the mass and talking to each other are two men, evidently new arrivals, for they look round at everybody and everything. They are both tall, but in strong contrast to each other, the youngest of the pair having light curly hair and beard, with pinky looking face, very much sunburnt. He is holding by the collar a large dog of the bloodhound species. The animal has been the terror of the passengers and crew, and still continues to be alarming, for people fight|shy of the brute and go round another way. “We are off, Sir Hubert,” says Mr. Ebenezer Jones, joining the group. "Can I be of any service, as you won’t come to the Court? “Is there a decent hotel or inn in Golds- borough?” says the stranger. (Strikingly handsome man, says some one who has been looking on at the scene.) “Miles of them," says Mr. Jones. “There’s the Grand Continental, Mackenzie’s Victoria, Prince of Wales, and others; but we must put your name down at the club. ” “Oh, then you have a club," says the stranger supercilously, in surprised tones. “Certainly, au revoir,” said Mr. Jones, hurrying off. “We’ll lake the Continental,” says the youngest of the strangers, and forthwith his friend or companion, whoever he may be, gives orders to the courier or valet, and the party drive off. CHAPTER X. “Nym: You’ll pay me the eight shillings I won off you at|betting. Pistol: Base is the slave that pays.”— Henry the Fifth, “That’s Armytage, a new chum, just out; arrived by the Lahore. Beastly rich—stinks of money,” said a man standing in the hall of the Goldsborough club as Ebenezer Jones entered with his friend, Sir Hubert Armytage, who, for some minutes after had to run the gauntlet of introduction amongst the several members, who happened at that hour to be there. “Does he play, Jones?” said Stanmore, in a whisper. “ Ready for anything I should think, from pitch and toss to manslaughter,” said Ebe- nezer, laughingly. “the best fellow I have met for many a long day—a bit reserved — but que voulez vous—a Baronet is a Baronet, and Sir Hubert is a genuine article, a dia- mond of the first water—long pedigree— ancestral halls—and all the rest of the thingummy.” “Bravo, Jones, well chalk it up. How you have improved; couldn’t have believed it! Been to school again or been reading the Family Herald?” said a tawny-haired in- dividual of the crayfish or prawn type, join- ing the brace of men as they whispered to- gether, lighting their cigars before adjourn- ing to the billiard room. Champagne was ordered in by Ebenezer, the health of himself was drank with that of the new guest, ungrudgingly. Game after game of billiards followed, at which the baronet proved himself an adept, in spite of a glove on his left hand, the thumb of which had been injured in a shooting expe- dition” he stated, the players wondering how he could play at all with such a drawback. “I’ll be hanged if I could play at all with a glove on,” said Captain Stanmore. Much gossip and scandal was discussed, for there is no human being on the face of the earth so fond of a bit of scandal as your veritable club man—he simply revels in gossip, and the more atrocious, indecent or slanderous it is the better—it is his nectar— and he eclipses the ugliest, old feminine scandal-monger. The Goldsborough community was no excep- tion. “There goes old Bones” said Charlie Smart, looking out of the club window “I wonder he is not ashamed of himself for being alive at his time of life.” “Poor Methuselah; it's very sad, very sad indeed ! at least for the insurance companies; they must be very much out of pocket,” said another. “By the way did you hear that Dicky Ferrers had been caught at last—the Hon. Dicky." “No! ’tisn’t true, the stern parients posi- tively refuse to have anything to do with the fair, Pandemonian or no Vandemonian they refuse even to tolerate the notion. I have it on the best authority from Molly herself, and Dicky is ordered home, poor Dicky! poor Molly.” “Heigho! helas, the course of true love never did run smooth,” said Bertie Smith, with a stage groan. “ I thought I should have had to sit in the cab all night,” said Charlie Lang, bursting into the room.” “I drove up with old Renton, and, by Jove! if he didn’t keep me waiting exactly four minutes by my watch before he started, haggling with cabby about a six- pence. Oh dear, what a blessing it must be to be a rich man—you are privilegd to do a thousand and one mean things that we poor devils dar’nt attempt. Old Renton must be worth at least nine thousand a year—it is positively sickening.” “Here come the Harlequin Culloden mob —any of you going to their cooky shine to- morrow?” “I am not for one,” said Harvey L’Estrange, " I can’t get on with old Cull.” “And I can’t get on with Mrs. Cull,” says Charlie, “who was she?” “I think she rejoiced in the name of Cub, at least her father was a lub in every sense of the word,” said Arthur Jackson. “They give jolly feeds, don’t they?” said a junior member. “ Yes,” said Charlie ; “but my son, better is a dinner of herbs and contentment there with, than a stalled ox and etcetera, etcetera for sauce.” “All very well to preach, Charlie; but I’ll be hanged if I shouldn’t swear if I saw nothing but some sage, pennyroyal, and the other what you call ’ems, for my dinner,'" said podgy Tom Burnet. “By jovo! what a pretty foot,” said one. “Do you mean the 74 in full sail bearing down upon us?’" “No, that's the Honorable Mrs. C-h-o-l, with a chol mon, with a chol mon—I am tired out. Cholmondoley, ditto; vulgarly pro- nouned Chumle, a young friend or companion or both is the owner of the pretty feet. What a pretty, face?” Yes; and she is a jolly girl. I met her at Lady Lagers last night but, oh ! her voice. I never heard any voice equal to it.” “That’s not saying much Fred,” said Burnet. “ I hear she is going on the stage next year. By jovo! what a sensation she will create. I should like to be there myself to see it. She has been studying for two years In Italy.” “Who’s she? the cat,” said a new comer, “I say, why didn’t Jones put down Forth's name with Armytage’s? I met Forth last night—such a nice fellow—beats the baronet to fits. I promised to look him up I shall have his name put down. ” “ Amytage said he refused it. I wonder why; perhaps he is of a retiring disposition.” “ Not a bit of it. He can hold his own with any one; in fact, he rather floored me once or twice. Ta-ta, I'm off—any messages. Here’s Grubb—goggles and all—coming to take my place—Grubb promoted, vice Marston resigned. What an ass he is making of him-

self with that Mrs. ——to be continued in our next. Ta-ta." It was nearly one o’clock when they met that night in Charlton's Club quarters, an he termed his rooms. “ Do you object to a tit up?” said Captain Stamore to the baronet. “Not in the least; but I am quite a novice at any game. Is it nap or loo? I never play later than three o’clock, so I warn you be- forehand," said Sir Hubert Armytage smil- ing. “ Play just as long as you like," said one. The game was soon in full swing. To the surprise and disgust of all, Sir Hubert won and continued winning till the clock struck three, when he threw down his cards and rose to leave, at which there was a murmur. “No, no, you must not go yet—you can’t.” “ Gentlemen, if you prefer i I will leave my winnings on the table. I think Dame Fortune is generally kind in her freaks to new players. I play no more to-night.” This, of course, was not listened to.” “Well you'll give us our revenge to-morrow night” said Captain Stanmore morosely, “ Certainly with great pleasure,” said Sir Hubert. As the party broke up he, with a good- night, left them and descended to the hall. “ He has the devil’s own luck,” said Capain Stanmore savagely. “I’ll make it hot for him yet. ” “Armytage a novice,” said the Prawn. “Don’t tell me he is a new chum at cards, I wish I had half his luck—bah ! novice. He is an old hand at the game—not to be caught with chaff, ch, Stanmore." “ Well, he’ll have to whistle for his win- nings from me," said the captain to Dr. O'Halloran. Captain Stanmore was a popular member of the club, also with a certain set, but not noted for his gentlemanly principles of honor; indeed, it was a common thing to hear it said, “I have Stanmore’s lOU’s to any amount," by some new comer or poor in- nocent. “So I have,” would be the answer; “but my dear fellow don't for a moment think you’ll ever be paid. Stanmore never pays if he can possibly help it though he takes good care to make others pay.” No wonder the men were savage. Old stagers as they were in the art of winning at cards, they had stood to win hundreds, if not thousands, amongst them that night from the new chum ; whereas they had lost heavily, and were now at their wits’ end to find out the why and wherefore—new chums, as a rule, having generally fallen victims to the very educated-in-card-playing members of the club. “Could you make out his play, doctor,” said Larew; “be hanged if I could.” “Nor I,” said Warner; “though I watched him like a veritable old cat. It puzzled me altogether. ” “I really thought there was some devil’s dodgery about it, but what hands he held,” said Marcus Wilson, putting-on his overcoat. “I shouldn’t like to play much with him and his Dame Fortune, at which there was a general laugh, as they said goo I-night and separated. It is not to be supposed in such a com- munity as that of Goldsborough, society people would allow a good looking baronet with a good looking rent roll of several thousands a year, to waste his attractions in the desert air, and remain perdu for long. News of the arrival of such an acquisition to the fashionable world ran like wild fire up hill and down dale, and before it had reached any distance, like the story of the little jug, it had increased rapidly in detail, for as Shakespeare truly says, “rumor doth double like the voice and echo,” and ere long Sir Hubert Armytage was reported to be a millionaire in fortune, a prince as to pedi- gree and accomplishments a Chesterfield in manners, a Byron in education and talent, and last, not least, an angel in temper, and an apollo as to beauty in form and feature. “You had better start a visiting book," said the baronet’s companion soon after their arrival at the hotel Continental Goldsborough, as a bewildering pyramid of visiting cards, tinted notes, etc., etc., lay on the table wait- ing to be noticed, answered, or acknow- ledged. “ It will save you a lot of bother and be a cheerful memento of the aborigines to take away with you.” Sir Hubert swept up the notes and cards towards him, and commenced reading one, looking unmistakably pleased at the sudden antipodean homage. “Oh, I see, this is for you, Forth; I never thought of looking at the address, and opened it by mistake,” “My dear fellow, don't apologise pray, or you’ll make me blush. Pray finish the con- tents now you have commenced. It will save me so much trouble.” said his friend, sarcas- tically, and “phew! scented enough to knock you down. How women can be so essentially vulgar as to scent even their writing paper, phew, and that abominable pachonli like the smell of an expiring paraffin lamp—phew ! abominable. ” “ It is an invitation from the Stewart’s to dinner. I expect mine is here somewhere,” he added, turning over the heap. “Dinner is it,” said Forth; “that’s a bore, thought they said yesterday the Stewart’s were going to give a ball; however, I sup- pose I ought to be grateful for small mercies, that is, always provided the natives have a decent chef.” “You may depend on that,” said Sir Hubert. “Ah! here are two more for the same night; that's a nuisance having to decide which." “Try them all round, if the time is at all different. It can be managed—soup here entre there, leaving the dessert for the best conniseur of wine,” said Forth, who was in a facetious humor that morning, amused at his friend’s satisfaction. “We couldn’t do that very well, could we,” said Sir Hubert. “ I heard that society in the colonies, particularly in Goldsborough, is very civilised and goahead. ’’ “ Very likely ; why shouldn’t it be. I only hope they won’t give us colonial wine at their feasts, having a great respect for my interior. I shall make a point of running straight out of the room at the smell of it to avoid being tempted. ” “ You are altogether too particular; one would think you were accustomed to live at the rate of ten thousand a year,” said Sir Hubert. “So I would if I had it,” said Forth. “ But you haven’t, so what is the good of talking as if you had. I rather liked the wine they gave us last night, and Harry told me it was colonial.” “Not the champagne; I could swear that wasn’t, I stuck to that. I did not even attempt the Burgundy, fearing it might be native produce.” “I thought you always boasted of being such a strict Conservative, Forth," “So I am, except in the matter of wines— pati de fou gras—gloves, and a few other common necessaries unattainable of English manufacture.” “Just answer those, like a good fellow, I know your weakness for penmnaship. ” “ Bien—but what about the three feasts in one—which am I to accept?" “Oh, let's toss up," said the baronet. “No, I vote you accept one and I'll take another, then we can compare notes after for our mutual benefit in the Goldsborough days to come." “ A good idea, really Forth your intelli - gence is looking up; but what about the third? At any rate we need not answer them at once. By this evening we shall know all their merits and demerits—one of them may wind up with an evening affair, and thus we may honor this one with our august pres- ence, by way of consolation, without giving offence to any one. ” “ How very considerate we are," “Yes, do unto others as you would they should do unto you." “Bah ! bosh ; don’t talk rubbish ; don’t be a fool,” said the baronet. “Call me not a fool till Heaven hath sent me fortune, the world’s true value” said Forth, getting up and stretching himself, first legs and then arms, like a mastiff; after a nap. “ By the way what about the Vernon’s garden party this afternoon?” “ Well, I suppose I ought to put in an ap- pearance; they’ll be awfully offended if I don’t—they seem to think some pumpkins of a baronet here, don’t they?” “ Why shouldn’t they? a baronet with ten thousand a year is not to be|sneezed at, and such a baronet!” “Oh, come now, you’re chaffing, Forth, ain’t you going to tne Vernon’s?" “Oh, no, I won’t dim your briliancy; one bright star shining in the society horizon is enough at a time—and I have letters to write which must be written before the Eng- lish mail goes out—to-morrow is it not?" said Forth. “Don't know, I am sure, I never write letters myself if I can help it—well, I’m off for the present. ” “Where ? Montgomery wanted to see you about a horse ho is going to run, ” said Forth. “Well, he’ll have to wait, I promised to lunch with little Pinkeen—sort of consolation stakes for her, for I snubbed the little vixen awfully, she bothered me during the voyage; she took it to heart I hear. "Awful little flirt. I hate married flirts, but don’t mind a dainty lunch well served with a decent Iook- ing woman for a tete a tete, Pinkeen is

always out of the way when not wanted Hawley told me—a model husband." “A tom-fool I should say,” said Forth. “Perhaps a little too confiding,” said Sir Hubert. “ Mais tuat mieux poor moi; but they live a deuced way out.” CHAPTER XII. RELAXATION. “ Would you taste the tranquil scene, Be sure your bosoms be serene; Devoid of hate, devoid of strife, Devoid of all that poisons life.” SHENSTONE. Malmaiso presents a wondrous picture of real life. Its velvet lawns are almost bidden by the crowd of " fashionables” and “ respect- ables,” as Mrs. James Jefferson sneeringly terms the quiet section of the community, she being of the mushroom class herself would give worlds to be classed with either the the sets, but as yet she is only the wife of a very double dealng broker, who is notorious for his sharp dealings of late with certain clients, whom he has sold up ruthlessly to the ruin of themselves—poor fellows—and the disgust of all their friends. The band is dis- coursing sweet music, tennis is in full swing, flirtation, ditto. Glorious sunshine, in fact everything is perfect, Mr. Vernon, the giver of the fete ought yo feel happy at the many con- gratulations on its success. The Vernon's rank amongst the moneyed princes of the dis- trict. Mr. Vernon had been an itinerant milkman at one time, but that beverage in a hard drinking community at at a time when stimulants were in demand, would not have gathered together such a pile. He was for- tunate in helping others in the shape of loans at high interest, thereby acquiring the name of “ Moneypenny” Vernon. But what won’t money do: buy two thousand humming birds’ heads and tails for a dress, and other insane expenditure as luxurious plumes. George Vernon, however, was not one of these weak-minded simpletons. He know to a fraction how every half-farthing of his establishment was spent, and the value of money; in fact he loved it. Let the bank notes be ever so greasy and smelly—if they would only hang together—he adored them, and felt pangs of regret at having to hand out a few of them for to-day’s “high falutin,” as he thought it. Mrs. Vernon rather dreaded the days to come when the bills came in, though she looked happy as she spoke to the many guests at this luxriant gathering. Amongst the creme de la creme of the party, was Mrs. Cholmondoley Cholmondoley, a late arrival form the old country, on a tour through the colonies. A handsome imposing woman, revelling in profusions of everything—profusions of fat, good nature, good tooth, good hair, and last, not least, profusions of money and plenty of good sense. Stately and dignified in her bearing, she was considered, indeed, rather prided herself on resembling Mrs. Siddons. Certainly she had not the Siddon’s walk and manner, otherwise she was an exaggerated fac simile of the great tragedienne, as to height and size, Mrs. Cholmondoley being very tall and very large in proportion ; indeed, the first impression she gave you was —wonder that anything so gigantic could ever have originated in a baby, or anything so small to have developed so amazingly in a few years. “As sprats will even to bigness grow, Provided God keeps life aglow.” (TO BE CONTINUED.)