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    The Holly Tree

    by Charles Dickens
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    THE HOLLY-TREE--THREE BRANCHES

    FIRST BRANCH--MYSELF

    I have kept one secret in the course of my life. I am a bashful man.
    Nobody would suppose it, nobody ever does suppose it, nobody ever did
    suppose it, but I am naturally a bashful man. This is the secret which I
    have never breathed until now.

    I might greatly move the reader by some account of the innumerable places
    I have not been to, the innumerable people I have not called upon or
    received, the innumerable social evasions I have been guilty of, solely
    because I am by original constitution and character a bashful man. But I
    will leave the reader unmoved, and proceed with the object before me.

    That object is to give a plain account of my travels and discoveries in
    the Holly-Tree Inn; in which place of good entertainment for man and
    beast I was once snowed up.

    It happened in the memorable year when I parted for ever from Angela
    Leath, whom I was shortly to have married, on making the discovery that
    she preferred my bosom friend. From our school-days I had freely
    admitted Edwin, in my own mind, to be far superior to myself; and, though
    I was grievously wounded at heart, I felt the preference to be natural,
    and tried to forgive them both. It was under these circumstances that I
    resolved to go to America--on my way to the Devil.

    Communicating my discovery neither to Angela nor to Edwin, but resolving
    to write each of them an affecting letter conveying my blessing and
    forgiveness, which the steam-tender for shore should carry to the post
    when I myself should be bound for the New World, far beyond recall,--I
    say, locking up my grief in my own breast, and consoling myself as I
    could with the prospect of being generous, I quietly left all I held
    dear, and started on the desolate journey I have mentioned.

    The dead winter-time was in full dreariness when I left my chambers for
    ever, at five o'clock in the morning. I had shaved by candle-light, of
    course, and was miserably cold, and experienced that general
    all-pervading sensation of getting up to be hanged which I have usually
    found inseparable from untimely rising under such circumstances.

    How well I remember the forlorn aspect of Fleet Street when I came out of
    the Temple! The street-lamps flickering in the gusty north-east wind, as
    if the very gas were contorted with cold; the white-topped houses; the
    bleak, star-lighted sky; the market people and other early stragglers,
    trotting to circulate their almost frozen blood; the hospitable light and
    warmth of the few coffee-shops and public-houses that were open for such
    customers; the hard, dry, frosty rime with which the air was charged (the
    wind had already beaten it into every crevice), and which lashed my face
    like a steel whip.

    It wanted nine days to the end of the month, and end of the year. The
    Post-office packet for the United States was to depart from Liverpool,
    weather permitting, on the first of the ensuing month, and I had the
    intervening time on my hands. I had taken this into consideration, and
    had resolved to make a visit to a certain spot (which I need not name) on
    the farther borders of Yorkshire. It was endeared to me by my having
    first seen Angela at a farmhouse in that place, and my melancholy was
    gratified by the idea of taking a wintry leave of it before my
    expatriation. I ought to explain, that, to avoid being sought out before
    my resolution should have been rendered irrevocable by being carried into
    full effect, I had written to Angela overnight, in my usual manner,
    lamenting that urgent business, of which she should know all particulars
    by-and-by--took me unexpectedly away from her for a week or ten days.

    There was no Northern Railway at that time, and in its place there were
    stage-coaches; which I occasionally find myself, in common with some
    other people, affecting to lament now, but which everybody dreaded as a
    very serious penance then. I had secured the box-seat on the fastest of
    these, and my business in Fleet Street was to get into a cab with my
    portmanteau, so to make the best of my way to the Peacock at Islington,
    where I was to join this coach. But when one of our Temple watchmen, who
    carried my portmanteau into Fleet Street for me, told me about the huge
    blocks of ice that had for some days past been floating in the river,
    having closed up in the night, and made a walk from the Temple Gardens
    over to the Surrey shore, I began to ask myself the question, whether the
    box-seat would not be likely to put a sudden and a frosty end to my
    unhappiness. I was heart-broken, it is true, and yet I was not quite so
    far gone as to wish to be frozen to death.

    When I got up to the Peacock,--where I found everybody drinking hot purl,
    in self-preservation,--I asked if there were an inside seat to spare. I
    then discovered that, inside or out, I was the only passenger. This gave
    me a still livelier idea of the great inclemency of the weather, since
    that coach always loaded particularly well. However, I took a little
    purl (which I found uncommonly good), and got into the coach. When I was
    seated, they built me up with straw to the waist, and, conscious of
    making a rather ridiculous appearance, I began my journey.

    It was still dark when we left the Peacock. For a little while, pale,
    uncertain ghosts of houses and trees appeared and vanished, and then it
    was hard, black, frozen day. People were lighting their fires; smoke was
    mounting straight up high into the rarified air; and we were rattling for
    Highgate Archway over the hardest ground I have ever heard the ring of
    iron shoes on. As we got into the country, everything seemed to have
    grown old and gray. The roads, the trees, thatched roofs of cottages and
    homesteads, the ricks in farmers' yards. Out-door work was abandoned,
    horse-troughs at roadside inns were frozen hard, no stragglers lounged
    about, doors were close shut, little turnpike houses had blazing fires
    inside, and children (even turnpike people have children, and seem to
    like them) rubbed the frost from the little panes of glass with their
    chubby arms, that their bright eyes might catch a glimpse of the solitary
    coach going by. I don't know when the snow begin to set in; but I know
    that we were changing horses somewhere when I heard the guard remark,
    "That the old lady up in the sky was picking her geese pretty hard to-
    day." Then, indeed, I found the white down falling fast and thick.

    The lonely day wore on, and I dozed it out, as a lonely traveller does. I
    was warm and valiant after eating and drinking,--particularly after
    dinner; cold and depressed at all other times. I was always bewildered
    as to time and place, and always more or less out of my senses. The
    coach and horses seemed to execute in chorus Auld Lang Syne, without a
    moment's intermission. They kept the time and tune with the greatest
    regularity, and rose into the swell at the beginning of the Refrain, with
    a precision that worried me to death. While we changed horses, the guard
    and coachman went stumping up and down the road, printing off their shoes
    in the snow, and poured so much liquid consolation into themselves
    without being any the worse for it, that I began to confound them, as it
    darkened again, with two great white casks standing on end. Our horses
    tumbled down in solitary places, and we got them up,--which was the
    pleasantest variety _I_ had, for it warmed me. And it snowed and snowed,
    and still it snowed, and never left off snowing. All night long we went
    on in this manner. Thus we came round the clock, upon the Great North
    Road, to the performance of Auld Lang Syne by day again. And it snowed
    and snowed, and still it snowed, and never left off snowing.

    I forget now where we were at noon on the second day, and where we ought
    to have been; but I know that we were scores of miles behindhand, and
    that our case was growing worse every hour. The drift was becoming
    prodigiously deep; landmarks were getting snowed out; the road and the
    fields were all one; instead of having fences and hedge-rows to guide us,
    we went crunching on over an unbroken surface of ghastly white that might
    sink beneath us at any moment and drop us down a whole hillside. Still
    the coachman and guard--who kept together on the box, always in council,
    and looking well about them--made out the track with astonishing
    sagacity.

    When we came in sight of a town, it looked, to my fancy, like a large
    drawing on a slate, with abundance of slate-pencil expended on the
    churches and houses where the snow lay thickest. When we came within a
    town, and found the church clocks all stopped, the dial-faces choked with
    snow, and the inn-signs blotted out, it seemed as if the whole place were
    overgrown with white moss. As to the coach, it was a mere snowball;
    similarly, the men and boys who ran along beside us to the town's end,
    turning our clogged wheels and encouraging our horses, were men and boys
    of snow; and the bleak wild solitude to which they at last dismissed us
    was a snowy Sahara. One would have thought this enough: notwithstanding
    which, I pledge my word that it snowed and snowed, and still it snowed,
    and never left off snowing.

    We performed Auld Lang Syne the whole day; seeing nothing, out of towns
    and villages, but the track of stoats, hares, and foxes, and sometimes of
    birds. At nine o'clock at night, on a Yorkshire moor, a cheerful burst
    from our horn, and a welcome sound of talking, with a glimmering and
    moving about of lanterns, roused me from my drowsy state. I found that
    we were going to change.

    They helped me out, and I said to a waiter, whose bare head became as
    white as King Lear's in a single minute, "What Inn is this?"

    "The Holly-Tree, sir," said he.

    "Upon my word, I believe," said I, apologetically, to the guard and
    coachman, "that I must stop here."

    Now the landlord, and the landlady, and the ostler, and the post-boy, and
    all the stable authorities, had already asked the coachman, to the wide-
    eyed interest of all the rest of the establishment, if he meant to go on.
    The coachman had already replied, "Yes, he'd take her through
    it,"--meaning by Her the coach,--"if so be as George would stand by him."
    George was the guard, and he had already sworn that he would stand by
    him. So the helpers were already getting the horses out.

    My declaring myself beaten, after this parley, was not an announcement
    without preparation. Indeed, but for the way to the announcement being
    smoothed by the parley, I more than doubt whether, as an innately bashful
    man, I should have had the confidence to make it. As it was, it received
    the approval even of the guard and coachman. Therefore, with many
    confirmations of my inclining, and many remarks from one bystander to
    another, that the gentleman could go for'ard by the mail to-morrow,
    whereas to-night he would only be froze, and where was the good of a
    gentleman being froze--ah, let alone buried alive (which latter clause
    was added by a humorous helper as a joke at my expense, and was extremely
    well received), I saw my portmanteau got out stiff, like a frozen body;
    did the handsome thing by the guard and coachman; wished them good-night
    and a prosperous journey; and, a little ashamed of myself, after all, for
    leaving them to fight it out alone, followed the landlord, landlady, and
    waiter of the Holly-Tree up-stairs.

    I thought I had never seen such a large room as that into which they
    showed me. It had five windows, with dark red curtains that would have
    absorbed the light of a general illumination; and there were
    complications of drapery at the top of the curtains, that went wandering
    about the wall in a most extraordinary manner. I asked for a smaller
    room, and they told me there was no smaller room.

    They could screen me in, however, the landlord said. They brought a
    great old japanned screen, with natives (Japanese, I suppose) engaged in
    a variety of idiotic pursuits all over it; and left me roasting whole
    before an immense fire.

    My bedroom was some quarter of a mile off, up a great staircase at the
    end of a long gallery; and nobody knows what a misery this is to a
    bashful man who would rather not meet people on the stairs. It was the
    grimmest room I have ever had the nightmare in; and all the furniture,
    from the four posts of the bed to the two old silver candle-sticks, was
    tall, high-shouldered, and spindle-waisted. Below, in my sitting-room,
    if I looked round my screen, the wind rushed at me like a mad bull; if I
    stuck to my arm-chair, the fire scorched me to the colour of a new brick.
    The chimney-piece was very high, and there was a bad glass--what I may
    call a wavy glass--above it, which, when I stood up, just showed me my
    anterior phrenological developments,--and these never look well, in any
    subject, cut short off at the eyebrow. If I stood with my back to the
    fire, a gloomy vault of darkness above and beyond the screen insisted on
    being looked at; and, in its dim remoteness, the drapery of the ten
    curtains of the five windows went twisting and creeping about, like a
    nest of gigantic worms.

    I suppose that what I observe in myself must be observed by some other
    men of similar character in _themselves_; therefore I am emboldened to
    mention, that, when I travel, I never arrive at a place but I immediately
    want to go away from it. Before I had finished my supper of broiled fowl
    and mulled port, I had impressed upon the waiter in detail my
    arrangements for departure in the morning. Breakfast and bill at eight.
    Fly at nine. Two horses, or, if needful, even four.

    Tired though I was, the night appeared about a week long. In cases of
    nightmare, I thought of Angela, and felt more depressed than ever by the
    reflection that I was on the shortest road to Gretna Green. What had _I_
    to do with Gretna Green? I was not going _that_ way to the Devil, but by
    the American route, I remarked in my bitterness.

    In the morning I found that it was snowing still, that it had snowed all
    night, and that I was snowed up. Nothing could get out of that spot on
    the moor, or could come at it, until the road had been cut out by
    labourers from the market-town. When they might cut their way to the
    Holly-Tree nobody could tell me.

    It was now Christmas-eve. I should have had a dismal Christmas-time of
    it anywhere, and consequently that did not so much matter; still, being
    snowed up was like dying of frost, a thing I had not bargained for. I
    felt very lonely. Yet I could no more have proposed to the landlord and
    landlady to admit me to their society (though I should have liked it--very
    much) than I could have asked them to present me with a piece of plate.
    Here my great secret, the real bashfulness of my character, is to be
    observed. Like most bashful men, I judge of other people as if they were
    bashful too. Besides being far too shamefaced to make the proposal
    myself, I really had a delicate misgiving that it would be in the last
    degree disconcerting to them.

    Trying to settle down, therefore, in my solitude, I first of all asked
    what books there were in the house. The waiter brought me a _Book of
    Roads_, two or three old Newspapers, a little Song-Book, terminating in a
    collection of Toasts and Sentiments, a little Jest-Book, an odd volume of
    _Peregrine Pickle_, and the _Sentimental Journey_. I knew every word of
    the two last already, but I read them through again, then tried to hum
    all the songs (Auld Lang Syne was among them); went entirely through the
    jokes,--in which I found a fund of melancholy adapted to my state of
    mind; proposed all the toasts, enunciated all the sentiments, and
    mastered the papers. The latter had nothing in them but stock
    advertisements, a meeting about a county rate, and a highway robbery. As
    I am a greedy reader, I could not make this supply hold out until night;
    it was exhausted by tea-time. Being then entirely cast upon my own
    resources, I got through an hour in considering what to do next.
    Ultimately, it came into my head (from which I was anxious by any means
    to exclude Angela and Edwin), that I would endeavour to recall my
    experience of Inns, and would try how long it lasted me. I stirred the
    fire, moved my chair a little to one side of the screen,--not daring to
    go far, for I knew the wind was waiting to make a rush at me, I could
    hear it growling,--and began.

    My first impressions of an Inn dated from the Nursery; consequently I
    went back to the Nursery for a starting-point, and found myself at the
    knee of a sallow woman with a fishy eye, an aquiline nose, and a green
    gown, whose specially was a dismal narrative of a landlord by the
    roadside, whose visitors unaccountably disappeared for many years, until
    it was discovered that the pursuit of his life had been to convert them
    into pies. For the better devotion of himself to this branch of
    industry, he had constructed a secret door behind the head of the bed;
    and when the visitor (oppressed with pie) had fallen asleep, this wicked
    landlord would look softly in with a lamp in one hand and a knife in the
    other, would cut his throat, and would make him into pies; for which
    purpose he had coppers, underneath a trap-door, always boiling; and
    rolled out his pastry in the dead of the night. Yet even he was not
    insensible to the stings of conscience, for he never went to sleep
    without being heard to mutter, "Too much pepper!" which was eventually
    the cause of his being brought to justice. I had no sooner disposed of
    this criminal than there started up another of the same period, whose
    profession was originally house-breaking; in the pursuit of which art he
    had had his right ear chopped off one night, as he was burglariously
    getting in at a window, by a brave and lovely servant-maid (whom the
    aquiline-nosed woman, though not at all answering the description, always
    mysteriously implied to be herself). After several years, this brave and
    lovely servant-maid was married to the landlord of a country Inn; which
    landlord had this remarkable characteristic, that he always wore a silk
    nightcap, and never would on any consideration take it off. At last, one
    night, when he was fast asleep, the brave and lovely woman lifted up his
    silk nightcap on the right side, and found that he had no ear there; upon
    which she sagaciously perceived that he was the clipped housebreaker, who
    had married her with the intention of putting her to death. She
    immediately heated the poker and terminated his career, for which she was
    taken to King George upon his throne, and received the compliments of
    royalty on her great discretion and valour. This same narrator, who had
    a Ghoulish pleasure, I have long been persuaded, in terrifying me to the
    utmost confines of my reason, had another authentic anecdote within her
    own experience, founded, I now believe, upon _Raymond and Agnes, or the
    Bleeding Nun_. She said it happened to her brother-in-law, who was
    immensely rich,--which my father was not; and immensely tall,--which my
    father was not. It was always a point with this Ghoul to present my
    clearest relations and friends to my youthful mind under circumstances of
    disparaging contrast. The brother-in-law was riding once through a
    forest on a magnificent horse (we had no magnificent horse at our house),
    attended by a favourite and valuable Newfoundland dog (we had no dog),
    when he found himself benighted, and came to an Inn. A dark woman opened
    the door, and he asked her if he could have a bed there. She answered
    yes, and put his horse in the stable, and took him into a room where
    there were two dark men. While he was at supper, a parrot in the room
    began to talk, saying, "Blood, blood! Wipe up the blood!" Upon which
    one of the dark men wrung the parrot's neck, and said he was fond of
    roasted parrots, and he meant to have this one for breakfast in the
    morning. After eating and drinking heartily, the immensely rich, tall
    brother-in-law went up to bed; but he was rather vexed, because they had
    shut his dog in the stable, saying that they never allowed dogs in the
    house. He sat very quiet for more than an hour, thinking and thinking,
    when, just as his candle was burning out, he heard a scratch at the door.
    He opened the door, and there was the Newfoundland dog! The dog came
    softly in, smelt about him, went straight to some straw in the corner
    which the dark men had said covered apples, tore the straw away, and
    disclosed two sheets steeped in blood. Just at that moment the candle
    went out, and the brother-in-law, looking through a chink in the door,
    saw the two dark men stealing up-stairs; one armed with a dagger that
    long (about five feet); the other carrying a chopper, a sack, and a
    spade. Having no remembrance of the close of this adventure, I suppose
    my faculties to have been always so frozen with terror at this stage of
    it, that the power of listening stagnated within me for some quarter of
    an hour.

    These barbarous stories carried me, sitting there on the Holly-Tree
    hearth, to the Roadside Inn, renowned in my time in a sixpenny book with
    a folding plate, representing in a central compartment of oval form the
    portrait of Jonathan Bradford, and in four corner compartments four
    incidents of the tragedy with which the name is associated,--coloured
    with a hand at once so free and economical, that the bloom of Jonathan's
    complexion passed without any pause into the breeches of the ostler, and,
    smearing itself off into the next division, became rum in a bottle. Then
    I remembered how the landlord was found at the murdered traveller's
    bedside, with his own knife at his feet, and blood upon his hand; how he
    was hanged for the murder, notwithstanding his protestation that he had
    indeed come there to kill the traveller for his saddle-bags, but had been
    stricken motionless on finding him already slain; and how the ostler,
    years afterwards, owned the deed. By this time I had made myself quite
    uncomfortable. I stirred the fire, and stood with my back to it as long
    as I could bear the heat, looking up at the darkness beyond the screen,
    and at the wormy curtains creeping in and creeping out, like the worms in
    the ballad of Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogene.

    There was an Inn in the cathedral town where I went to school, which had
    pleasanter recollections about it than any of these. I took it next. It
    was the Inn where friends used to put up, and where we used to go to see
    parents, and to have salmon and fowls, and be tipped. It had an
    ecclesiastical sign,--the Mitre,--and a bar that seemed to be the next
    best thing to a bishopric, it was so snug. I loved the landlord's
    youngest daughter to distraction,--but let that pass. It was in this Inn
    that I was cried over by my rosy little sister, because I had acquired a
    black eye in a fight. And though she had been, that Holly-Tree night,
    for many a long year where all tears are dried, the Mitre softened me
    yet.

    "To be continued to-morrow," said I, when I took my candle to go to bed.
    But my bed took it upon itself to continue the train of thought that
    night. It carried me away, like the enchanted carpet, to a distant place
    (though still in England), and there, alighting from a stage-coach at
    another Inn in the snow, as I had actually done some years before, I
    repeated in my sleep a curious experience I had really had there. More
    than a year before I made the journey in the course of which I put up at
    that Inn, I had lost a very near and dear friend by death. Every night
    since, at home or away from home, I had dreamed of that friend; sometimes
    as still living; sometimes as returning from the world of shadows to
    comfort me; always as being beautiful, placid, and happy, never in
    association with any approach to fear or distress. It was at a lonely
    Inn in a wide moorland place, that I halted to pass the night. When I
    had looked from my bedroom window over the waste of snow on which the
    moon was shining, I sat down by my fire to write a letter. I had always,
    until that hour, kept it within my own breast that I dreamed every night
    of the dear lost one. But in the letter that I wrote I recorded the
    circumstance, and added that I felt much interested in proving whether
    the subject of my dream would still be faithful to me, travel-tired, and
    in that remote place. No. I lost the beloved figure of my vision in
    parting with the secret. My sleep has never looked upon it since, in
    sixteen years, but once. I was in Italy, and awoke (or seemed to awake),
    the well-remembered voice distinctly in my ears, conversing with it. I
    entreated it, as it rose above my bed and soared up to the vaulted roof
    of the old room, to answer me a question I had asked touching the Future
    Life. My hands were still outstretched towards it as it vanished, when I
    heard a bell ringing by the garden wall, and a voice in the deep
    stillness of the night calling on all good Christians to pray for the
    souls of the dead; it being All Souls' Eve.

    To return to the Holly-Tree. When I awoke next day, it was freezing
    hard, and the lowering sky threatened more snow. My breakfast cleared
    away, I drew my chair into its former place, and, with the fire getting
    so much the better of the landscape that I sat in twilight, resumed my
    Inn remembrances.

    That was a good Inn down in Wiltshire where I put up once, in the days of
    the hard Wiltshire ale, and before all beer was bitterness. It was on
    the skirts of Salisbury Plain, and the midnight wind that rattled my
    lattice window came moaning at me from Stonehenge. There was a hanger-on
    at that establishment (a supernaturally preserved Druid I believe him to
    have been, and to be still), with long white hair, and a flinty blue eye
    always looking afar off; who claimed to have been a shepherd, and who
    seemed to be ever watching for the reappearance, on the verge of the
    horizon, of some ghostly flock of sheep that had been mutton for many
    ages. He was a man with a weird belief in him that no one could count
    the stones of Stonehenge twice, and make the same number of them;
    likewise, that any one who counted them three times nine times, and then
    stood in the centre and said, "I dare!" would behold a tremendous
    apparition, and be stricken dead. He pretended to have seen a bustard (I
    suspect him to have been familiar with the dodo), in manner following: He
    was out upon the plain at the close of a late autumn day, when he dimly
    discerned, going on before him at a curious fitfully bounding pace, what
    he at first supposed to be a gig-umbrella that had been blown from some
    conveyance, but what he presently believed to be a lean dwarf man upon a
    little pony. Having followed this object for some distance without
    gaining on it, and having called to it many times without receiving any
    answer, he pursued it for miles and miles, when, at length coming up with
    it, he discovered it to be the last bustard in Great Britain, degenerated
    into a wingless state, and running along the ground. Resolved to capture
    him or perish in the attempt, he closed with the bustard; but the
    bustard, who had formed a counter-resolution that he should do neither,
    threw him, stunned him, and was last seen making off due west. This
    weird main, at that stage of metempsychosis, may have been a sleep-walker
    or an enthusiast or a robber; but I awoke one night to find him in the
    dark at my bedside, repeating the Athanasian Creed in a terrific voice. I
    paid my bill next day, and retired from the county with all possible
    precipitation.

    That was not a commonplace story which worked itself out at a little Inn
    in Switzerland, while I was staying there. It was a very homely place,
    in a village of one narrow zigzag street, among mountains, and you went
    in at the main door through the cow-house, and among the mules and the
    dogs and the fowls, before ascending a great bare staircase to the rooms;
    which were all of unpainted wood, without plastering or papering,--like
    rough packing-cases. Outside there was nothing but the straggling
    street, a little toy church with a copper-coloured steeple, a pine
    forest, a torrent, mists, and mountain-sides. A young man belonging to
    this Inn had disappeared eight weeks before (it was winter-time), and was
    supposed to have had some undiscovered love affair, and to have gone for
    a soldier. He had got up in the night, and dropped into the village
    street from the loft in which he slept with another man; and he had done
    it so quietly, that his companion and fellow-labourer had heard no
    movement when he was awakened in the morning, and they said, "Louis,
    where is Henri?" They looked for him high and low, in vain, and gave him
    up. Now, outside this Inn, there stood, as there stood outside every
    dwelling in the village, a stack of firewood; but the stack belonging to
    the Inn was higher than any of the rest, because the Inn was the richest
    house, and burnt the most fuel. It began to be noticed, while they were
    looking high and low, that a Bantam cock, part of the live stock of the
    Inn, put himself wonderfully out of his way to get to the top of this
    wood-stack; and that he would stay there for hours and hours, crowing,
    until he appeared in danger of splitting himself. Five weeks went
    on,--six weeks,--and still this terrible Bantam, neglecting his domestic
    affairs, was always on the top of the wood-stack, crowing the very eyes
    out of his head. By this time it was perceived that Louis had become
    inspired with a violent animosity towards the terrible Bantam, and one
    morning he was seen by a woman, who sat nursing her goitre at a little
    window in a gleam of sun, to catch up a rough billet of wood, with a
    great oath, hurl it at the terrible Bantam crowing on the wood-stack, and
    bring him down dead. Hereupon the woman, with a sudden light in her
    mind, stole round to the back of the wood-stack, and, being a good
    climber, as all those women are, climbed up, and soon was seen upon the
    summit, screaming, looking down the hollow within, and crying, "Seize
    Louis, the murderer! Ring the church bell! Here is the body!" I saw
    the murderer that day, and I saw him as I sat by my fire at the Holly-
    Tree Inn, and I see him now, lying shackled with cords on the stable
    litter, among the mild eyes and the smoking breath of the cows, waiting
    to be taken away by the police, and stared at by the fearful village. A
    heavy animal,--the dullest animal in the stables,--with a stupid head,
    and a lumpish face devoid of any trace of insensibility, who had been,
    within the knowledge of the murdered youth, an embezzler of certain small
    moneys belonging to his master, and who had taken this hopeful mode of
    putting a possible accuser out of his way. All of which he confessed
    next day, like a sulky wretch who couldn't be troubled any more, now that
    they had got hold of him, and meant to make an end of him. I saw him
    once again, on the day of my departure from the Inn. In that Canton the
    headsman still does his office with a sword; and I came upon this
    murderer sitting bound, to a chair, with his eyes bandaged, on a scaffold
    in a little market-place. In that instant, a great sword (loaded with
    quicksilver in the thick part of the blade) swept round him like a gust
    of wind or fire, and there was no such creature in the world. My wonder
    was, not that he was so suddenly dispatched, but that any head was left
    unreaped, within a radius of fifty yards of that tremendous sickle.

    That was a good Inn, too, with the kind, cheerful landlady and the honest
    landlord, where I lived in the shadow of Mont Blanc, and where one of the
    apartments has a zoological papering on the walls, not so accurately
    joined but that the elephant occasionally rejoices in a tiger's hind legs
    and tail, while the lion puts on a trunk and tusks, and the bear,
    moulting as it were, appears as to portions of himself like a leopard. I
    made several American friends at that Inn, who all called Mont Blanc
    Mount Blank,--except one good-humoured gentleman, of a very sociable
    nature, who became on such intimate terms with it that he spoke of it
    familiarly as "Blank;" observing, at breakfast, "Blank looks pretty tall
    this morning;" or considerably doubting in the courtyard in the evening,
    whether there warn't some go-ahead naters in our country, sir, that would
    make out the top of Blank in a couple of hours from first start--now!

    Once I passed a fortnight at an Inn in the North of England, where I was
    haunted by the ghost of a tremendous pie. It was a Yorkshire pie, like a
    fort,--an abandoned fort with nothing in it; but the waiter had a fixed
    idea that it was a point of ceremony at every meal to put the pie on the
    table. After some days I tried to hint, in several delicate ways, that I
    considered the pie done with; as, for example, by emptying fag-ends of
    glasses of wine into it; putting cheese-plates and spoons into it, as
    into a basket; putting wine-bottles into it, as into a cooler; but always
    in vain, the pie being invariably cleaned out again and brought up as
    before. At last, beginning to be doubtful whether I was not the victim
    of a spectral illusion, and whether my health and spirits might not sink
    under the horrors of an imaginary pie, I cut a triangle out of it, fully
    as large as the musical instrument of that name in a powerful orchestra.
    Human provision could not have foreseen the result--but the waiter mended
    the pie. With some effectual species of cement, he adroitly fitted the
    triangle in again, and I paid my reckoning and fled.

    The Holly-Tree was getting rather dismal. I made an overland expedition
    beyond the screen, and penetrated as far as the fourth window. Here I
    was driven back by stress of weather. Arrived at my winter-quarters once
    more, I made up the fire, and took another Inn.

    It was in the remotest part of Cornwall. A great annual Miners' Feast
    was being holden at the Inn, when I and my travelling companions
    presented ourselves at night among the wild crowd that were dancing
    before it by torchlight. We had had a break-down in the dark, on a stony
    morass some miles away; and I had the honour of leading one of the
    unharnessed post-horses. If any lady or gentleman, on perusal of the
    present lines, will take any very tall post-horse with his traces hanging
    about his legs, and will conduct him by the bearing-rein into the heart
    of a country dance of a hundred and fifty couples, that lady or gentleman
    will then, and only then, form an adequate idea of the extent to which
    that post-horse will tread on his conductor's toes. Over and above
    which, the post-horse, finding three hundred people whirling about him,
    will probably rear, and also lash out with his hind legs, in a manner
    incompatible with dignity or self-respect on his conductor's part. With
    such little drawbacks on my usually impressive aspect, I appeared at this
    Cornish Inn, to the unutterable wonder of the Cornish Miners. It was
    full, and twenty times full, and nobody could be received but the post-
    horse,--though to get rid of that noble animal was something. While my
    fellow-travellers and I were discussing how to pass the night and so much
    of the next day as must intervene before the jovial blacksmith and the
    jovial wheelwright would be in a condition to go out on the morass and
    mend the coach, an honest man stepped forth from the crowd and proposed
    his unlet floor of two rooms, with supper of eggs and bacon, ale and
    punch. We joyfully accompanied him home to the strangest of clean
    houses, where we were well entertained to the satisfaction of all
    parties. But the novel feature of the entertainment was, that our host
    was a chair-maker, and that the chairs assigned to us were mere frames,
    altogether without bottoms of any sort; so that we passed the evening on
    perches. Nor was this the absurdest consequence; for when we unbent at
    supper, and any one of us gave way to laughter, he forgot the peculiarity
    of his position, and instantly disappeared. I myself, doubled up into an
    attitude from which self-extrication was impossible, was taken out of my
    frame, like a clown in a comic pantomime who has tumbled into a tub, five
    times by the taper's light during the eggs and bacon.

    The Holly-Tree was fast reviving within me a sense of loneliness. I
    began to feel conscious that my subject would never carry on until I was
    dug out. I might be a week here,--weeks!

    There was a story with a singular idea in it, connected with an Inn I
    once passed a night at in a picturesque old town on the Welsh border. In
    a large double-bedded room of this Inn there had been a suicide committed
    by poison, in one bed, while a tired traveller slept unconscious in the
    other. After that time, the suicide bed was never used, but the other
    constantly was; the disused bedstead remaining in the room empty, though
    as to all other respects in its old state. The story ran, that whosoever
    slept in this room, though never so entire a stranger, from never so far
    off, was invariably observed to come down in the morning with an
    impression that he smelt Laudanum, and that his mind always turned upon
    the subject of suicide; to which, whatever kind of man he might be, he
    was certain to make some reference if he conversed with any one. This
    went on for years, until it at length induced the landlord to take the
    disused bedstead down, and bodily burn it,--bed, hangings, and all. The
    strange influence (this was the story) now changed to a fainter one, but
    never changed afterwards. The occupant of that room, with occasional but
    very rare exceptions, would come down in the morning, trying to recall a
    forgotten dream he had had in the night. The landlord, on his mentioning
    his perplexity, would suggest various commonplace subjects, not one of
    which, as he very well knew, was the true subject. But the moment the
    landlord suggested "Poison," the traveller started, and cried, "Yes!" He
    never failed to accept that suggestion, and he never recalled any more of
    the dream.

    This reminiscence brought the Welsh Inns in general before me; with the
    women in their round hats, and the harpers with their white beards
    (venerable, but humbugs, I am afraid), playing outside the door while I
    took my dinner. The transition was natural to the Highland Inns, with
    the oatmeal bannocks, the honey, the venison steaks, the trout from the
    loch, the whisky, and perhaps (having the materials so temptingly at
    hand) the Athol brose. Once was I coming south from the Scottish
    Highlands in hot haste, hoping to change quickly at the station at the
    bottom of a certain wild historical glen, when these eyes did with
    mortification see the landlord come out with a telescope and sweep the
    whole prospect for the horses; which horses were away picking up their
    own living, and did not heave in sight under four hours. Having thought
    of the loch-trout, I was taken by quick association to the Anglers' Inns
    of England (I have assisted at innumerable feats of angling by lying in
    the bottom of the boat, whole summer days, doing nothing with the
    greatest perseverance; which I have generally found to be as effectual
    towards the taking of fish as the finest tackle and the utmost science),
    and to the pleasant white, clean, flower-pot-decorated bedrooms of those
    inns, overlooking the river, and the ferry, and the green ait, and the
    church-spire, and the country bridge; and to the pearless Emma with the
    bright eyes and the pretty smile, who waited, bless her! with a natural
    grace that would have converted Blue-Beard. Casting my eyes upon my
    Holly-Tree fire, I next discerned among the glowing coals the pictures of
    a score or more of those wonderful English posting-inns which we are all
    so sorry to have lost, which were so large and so comfortable, and which
    were such monuments of British submission to rapacity and extortion. He
    who would see these houses pining away, let him walk from Basingstoke, or
    even Windsor, to London, by way of Hounslow, and moralise on their
    perishing remains; the stables crumbling to dust; unsettled labourers and
    wanderers bivouacking in the outhouses; grass growing in the yards; the
    rooms, where erst so many hundred beds of down were made up, let off to
    Irish lodgers at eighteenpence a week; a little ill-looking beer-shop
    shrinking in the tap of former days, burning coach-house gates for
    firewood, having one of its two windows bunged up, as if it had received
    punishment in a fight with the Railroad; a low, bandy-legged,
    brick-making bulldog standing in the doorway. What could I next see in
    my fire so naturally as the new railway-house of these times near the
    dismal country station; with nothing particular on draught but cold air
    and damp, nothing worth mentioning in the larder but new mortar, and no
    business doing beyond a conceited affectation of luggage in the hall?
    Then I came to the Inns of Paris, with the pretty apartment of four
    pieces up one hundred and seventy-five waxed stairs, the privilege of
    ringing the bell all day long without influencing anybody's mind or body
    but your own, and the not-too-much-for-dinner, considering the price.
    Next to the provincial Inns of France, with the great church-tower rising
    above the courtyard, the horse-bells jingling merrily up and down the
    street beyond, and the clocks of all descriptions in all the rooms, which
    are never right, unless taken at the precise minute when, by getting
    exactly twelve hours too fast or too slow, they unintentionally become
    so. Away I went, next, to the lesser roadside Inns of Italy; where all
    the dirty clothes in the house (not in wear) are always lying in your
    anteroom; where the mosquitoes make a raisin pudding of your face in
    summer, and the cold bites it blue in winter; where you get what you can,
    and forget what you can't: where I should again like to be boiling my tea
    in a pocket-handkerchief dumpling, for want of a teapot. So to the old
    palace Inns and old monastery Inns, in towns and cities of the same
    bright country; with their massive quadrangular staircases, whence you
    may look from among clustering pillars high into the blue vault of
    heaven; with their stately banqueting-rooms, and vast refectories; with
    their labyrinths of ghostly bedchambers, and their glimpses into gorgeous
    streets that have no appearance of reality or possibility. So to the
    close little Inns of the Malaria districts, with their pale attendants,
    and their peculiar smell of never letting in the air. So to the immense
    fantastic Inns of Venice, with the cry of the gondolier below, as he
    skims the corner; the grip of the watery odours on one particular little
    bit of the bridge of your nose (which is never released while you stay
    there); and the great bell of St. Mark's Cathedral tolling midnight. Next
    I put up for a minute at the restless Inns upon the Rhine, where your
    going to bed, no matter at what hour, appears to be the tocsin for
    everybody else's getting up; and where, in the table-d'hote room at the
    end of the long table (with several Towers of Babel on it at the other
    end, all made of white plates), one knot of stoutish men, entirely
    dressed in jewels and dirt, and having nothing else upon them, _will_
    remain all night, clinking glasses, and singing about the river that
    flows, and the grape that grows, and Rhine wine that beguiles, and Rhine
    woman that smiles and hi drink drink my friend and ho drink drink my
    brother, and all the rest of it. I departed thence, as a matter of
    course, to other German Inns, where all the eatables are soddened down to
    the same flavour, and where the mind is disturbed by the apparition of
    hot puddings, and boiled cherries, sweet and slab, at awfully unexpected
    periods of the repast. After a draught of sparkling beer from a foaming
    glass jug, and a glance of recognition through the windows of the student
    beer-houses at Heidelberg and elsewhere, I put out to sea for the Inns of
    America, with their four hundred beds apiece, and their eight or nine
    hundred ladies and gentlemen at dinner every day. Again I stood in the
    bar-rooms thereof, taking my evening cobbler, julep, sling, or cocktail.
    Again I listened to my friend the General,--whom I had known for five
    minutes, in the course of which period he had made me intimate for life
    with two Majors, who again had made me intimate for life with three
    Colonels, who again had made me brother to twenty-two civilians,--again,
    I say, I listened to my friend the General, leisurely expounding the
    resources of the establishment, as to gentlemen's morning-room, sir;
    ladies' morning-room, sir; gentlemen's evening-room, sir; ladies' evening-
    room, sir; ladies' and gentlemen's evening reuniting-room, sir; music-
    room, sir; reading-room, sir; over four hundred sleeping-rooms, sir; and
    the entire planned and finited within twelve calendar months from the
    first clearing off of the old encumbrances on the plot, at a cost of five
    hundred thousand dollars, sir. Again I found, as to my individual way of
    thinking, that the greater, the more gorgeous, and the more dollarous the
    establishment was, the less desirable it was. Nevertheless, again I
    drank my cobbler, julep, sling, or cocktail, in all good-will, to my
    friend the General, and my friends the Majors, Colonels, and civilians
    all; full well knowing that, whatever little motes my beamy eyes may have
    descried in theirs, they belong to a kind, generous, large-hearted, and
    great people.

    I had been going on lately at a quick pace to keep my solitude out of my
    mind; but here I broke down for good, and gave up the subject. What was
    I to do? What was to become of me? Into what extremity was I
    submissively to sink? Supposing that, like Baron Trenck, I looked out
    for a mouse or spider, and found one, and beguiled my imprisonment by
    training it? Even that might be dangerous with a view to the future. I
    might be so far gone when the road did come to be cut through the snow,
    that, on my way forth, I might burst into tears, and beseech, like the
    prisoner who was released in his old age from the Bastille, to be taken
    back again to the five windows, the ten curtains, and the sinuous
    drapery.

    A desperate idea came into my head. Under any other circumstances I
    should have rejected it; but, in the strait at which I was, I held it
    fast. Could I so far overcome the inherent bashfulness which withheld me
    from the landlord's table and the company I might find there, as to call
    up the Boots, and ask him to take a chair,--and something in a liquid
    form,--and talk to me? I could, I would, I did.

    SECOND BRANCH--THE BOOTS

    Where had he been in his time? he repeated, when I asked him the
    question. Lord, he had been everywhere! And what had he been? Bless
    you, he had been everything you could mention a'most!

    Seen a good deal? Why, of course he had. I should say so, he could
    assure me, if I only knew about a twentieth part of what had come in his
    way. Why, it would be easier for him, he expected, to tell what he
    hadn't seen than what he had. Ah! A deal, it would.

    What was the curiousest thing he had seen? Well! He didn't know. He
    couldn't momently name what was the curiousest thing he had seen--unless
    it was a Unicorn, and he see _him_ once at a Fair. But supposing a young
    gentleman not eight year old was to run away with a fine young woman of
    seven, might I think _that_ a queer start? Certainly. Then that was a
    start as he himself had had his blessed eyes on, and he had cleaned the
    shoes they run away in--and they was so little that he couldn't get his
    hand into 'em.

    Master Harry Walmers' father, you see, he lived at the Elmses, down away
    by Shooter's Hill there, six or seven miles from Lunnon. He was a
    gentleman of spirit, and good-looking, and held his head up when he
    walked, and had what you may call Fire about him. He wrote poetry, and
    he rode, and he ran, and he cricketed, and he danced, and he acted, and
    he done it all equally beautiful. He was uncommon proud of Master Harry
    as was his only child; but he didn't spoil him neither. He was a
    gentleman that had a will of his own and a eye of his own, and that would
    be minded. Consequently, though he made quite a companion of the fine
    bright boy, and was delighted to see him so fond of reading his fairy
    books, and was never tired of hearing him say my name is Norval, or
    hearing him sing his songs about Young May Moons is beaming love, and
    When he as adores thee has left but the name, and that; still he kept the
    command over the child, and the child _was_ a child, and it's to be
    wished more of 'em was!

    How did Boots happen to know all this? Why, through being
    under-gardener. Of course he couldn't be under-gardener, and be always
    about, in the summer-time, near the windows on the lawn, a mowing, and
    sweeping, and weeding, and pruning, and this and that, without getting
    acquainted with the ways of the family. Even supposing Master Harry
    hadn't come to him one morning early, and said, "Cobbs, how should you
    spell Norah, if you was asked?" and then began cutting it in print all
    over the fence.

    He couldn't say he had taken particular notice of children before that;
    but really it was pretty to see them two mites a going about the place
    together, deep in love. And the courage of the boy! Bless your soul,
    he'd have throwed off his little hat, and tucked up his little sleeves,
    and gone in at a Lion, he would, if they had happened to meet one, and
    she had been frightened of him. One day he stops, along with her, where
    Boots was hoeing weeds in the gravel, and says, speaking up, "Cobbs," he
    says, "I like _you_." "Do you, sir? I'm proud to hear it." "Yes, I do,
    Cobbs. Why do I like you, do you think, Cobbs?" "Don't know, Master
    Harry, I am sure." "Because Norah likes you, Cobbs." "Indeed, sir?
    That's very gratifying." "Gratifying, Cobbs? It's better than millions
    of the brightest diamonds to be liked by Norah." "Certainly, sir."
    "You're going away, ain't you, Cobbs?" "Yes, sir." "Would you like
    another situation, Cobbs?" "Well, sir, I shouldn't object, if it was a
    good Inn." "Then, Cobbs," says he, "you shall be our Head Gardener when
    we are married." And he tucks her, in her little sky-blue mantle, under
    his arm, and walks away.

    Boots could assure me that it was better than a picter, and equal to a
    play, to see them babies, with their long, bright, curling hair, their
    sparkling eyes, and their beautiful light tread, a rambling about the
    garden, deep in love. Boots was of opinion that the birds believed they
    was birds, and kept up with 'em, singing to please 'em. Sometimes they
    would creep under the Tulip-tree, and would sit there with their arms
    round one another's necks, and their soft cheeks touching, a reading
    about the Prince and the Dragon, and the good and bad enchanters, and the
    king's fair daughter. Sometimes he would hear them planning about having
    a house in a forest, keeping bees and a cow, and living entirely on milk
    and honey. Once he came upon them by the pond, and heard Master Harry
    say, "Adorable Norah, kiss me, and say you love me to distraction, or
    I'll jump in head-foremost." And Boots made no question he would have
    done it if she hadn't complied. On the whole, Boots said it had a
    tendency to make him feel as if he was in love himself--only he didn't
    exactly know who with.

    "Cobbs," said Master Harry, one evening, when Cobbs was watering the
    flowers, "I am going on a visit, this present Midsummer, to my
    grandmamma's at York."

    "Are you indeed, sir? I hope you'll have a pleasant time. I am going
    into Yorkshire, myself, when I leave here."

    "Are you going to your grandmamma's, Cobbs?"

    "No, sir. I haven't got such a thing."

    "Not as a grandmamma, Cobbs?"

    "No, sir."

    The boy looked on at the watering of the flowers for a little while, and
    then said, "I shall be very glad indeed to go, Cobbs,--Norah's going."

    "You'll be all right then, sir," says Cobbs, "with your beautiful
    sweetheart by your side."

    "Cobbs," returned the boy, flushing, "I never let anybody joke about it,
    when I can prevent them."

    "It wasn't a joke, sir," says Cobbs, with humility,--"wasn't so meant."

    "I am glad of that, Cobbs, because I like you, you know, and you're going
    to live with us.--Cobbs!"

    "Sir."

    "What do you think my grandmamma gives me when I go down there?"

    "I couldn't so much as make a guess, sir."

    "A Bank of England five-pound note, Cobbs."

    "Whew!" says Cobbs, "that's a spanking sum of money, Master Harry."

    "A person could do a good deal with such a sum of money as that,--couldn't
    a person, Cobbs?"

    "I believe you, sir!"

    "Cobbs," said the boy, "I'll tell you a secret. At Norah's house, they
    have been joking her about me, and pretending to laugh at our being
    engaged,--pretending to make game of it, Cobbs!"

    "Such, sir," says Cobbs, "is the depravity of human natur."

    The boy, looking exactly like his father, stood for a few minutes with
    his glowing face towards the sunset, and then departed with, "Good-night,
    Cobbs. I'm going in."

    If I was to ask Boots how it happened that he was a-going to leave that
    place just at that present time, well, he couldn't rightly answer me. He
    did suppose he might have stayed there till now if he had been anyways
    inclined. But, you see, he was younger then, and he wanted change.
    That's what he wanted,--change. Mr. Walmers, he said to him when he gave
    him notice of his intentions to leave, "Cobbs," he says, "have you
    anythink to complain of? I make the inquiry because if I find that any
    of my people really has anythink to complain of, I wish to make it right
    if I can." "No, sir," says Cobbs; "thanking you, sir, I find myself as
    well sitiwated here as I could hope to be anywheres. The truth is, sir,
    that I'm a-going to seek my fortun'." "O, indeed, Cobbs!" he says; "I
    hope you may find it." And Boots could assure me--which he did, touching
    his hair with his bootjack, as a salute in the way of his present
    calling--that he hadn't found it yet.

    Well, sir! Boots left the Elmses when his time was up, and Master Harry,
    he went down to the old lady's at York, which old lady would have given
    that child the teeth out of her head (if she had had any), she was so
    wrapped up in him. What does that Infant do,--for Infant you may call
    him and be within the mark,--but cut away from that old lady's with his
    Norah, on a expedition to go to Gretna Green and be married!

    Sir, Boots was at this identical Holly-Tree Inn (having left it several
    times since to better himself, but always come back through one thing or
    another), when, one summer afternoon, the coach drives up, and out of the
    coach gets them two children. The Guard says to our Governor, "I don't
    quite make out these little passengers, but the young gentleman's words
    was, that they was to be brought here." The young gentleman gets out;
    hands his lady out; gives the Guard something for himself; says to our
    Governor, "We're to stop here to-night, please. Sitting-room and two
    bedrooms will be required. Chops and cherry-pudding for two!" and tucks
    her, in her sky-blue mantle, under his arm, and walks into the house much
    bolder than Brass.

    Boots leaves me to judge what the amazement of that establishment was,
    when these two tiny creatures all alone by themselves was marched into
    the Angel,--much more so, when he, who had seen them without their seeing
    him, give the Governor his views of the expedition they was upon.
    "Cobbs," says the Governor, "if this is so, I must set off myself to
    York, and quiet their friends' minds. In which case you must keep your
    eye upon 'em, and humour 'em, till I come back. But before I take these
    measures, Cobbs, I should wish you to find from themselves whether your
    opinion is correct." "Sir, to you," says Cobbs, "that shall be done
    directly."

    So Boots goes up-stairs to the Angel, and there he finds Master Harry on
    a e-normous sofa,--immense at any time, but looking like the Great Bed of
    Ware, compared with him,--a drying the eyes of Miss Norah with his pocket-
    hankecher. Their little legs was entirely off the ground, of course, and
    it really is not possible for Boots to express to me how small them
    children looked.

    "It's Cobbs! It's Cobbs!" cries Master Harry, and comes running to him,
    and catching hold of his hand. Miss Norah comes running to him on
    t'other side and catching hold of his t'other hand, and they both jump
    for joy.

    "I see you a getting out, sir," says Cobbs. "I thought it was you. I
    thought I couldn't be mistaken in your height and figure. What's the
    object of your journey, sir?--Matrimonial?"

    "We are going to be married, Cobbs, at Gretna Green," returned the boy.
    "We have run away on purpose. Norah has been in rather low spirits,
    Cobbs; but she'll be happy, now we have found you to be our friend."

    "Thank you, sir, and thank you, miss," says Cobbs, "for your good
    opinion. _Did_ you bring any luggage with you, sir?"

    If I will believe Boots when he gives me his word and honour upon it, the
    lady had got a parasol, a smelling-bottle, a round and a half of cold
    buttered toast, eight peppermint drops, and a hair-brush,--seemingly a
    doll's. The gentleman had got about half a dozen yards of string, a
    knife, three or four sheets of writing-paper folded up surprising small,
    a orange, and a Chaney mug with his name upon it.

    "What may be the exact natur of your plans, sir?" says Cobbs.

    "To go on," replied the boy,--which the courage of that boy was something
    wonderful!--"in the morning, and be married to-morrow."

    "Just so, sir," says Cobbs. "Would it meet your views, sir, if I was to
    accompany you?"

    When Cobbs said this, they both jumped for joy again, and cried out, "Oh,
    yes, yes, Cobbs! Yes!"

    "Well, sir," says Cobbs. "If you will excuse my having the freedom to
    give an opinion, what I should recommend would be this. I'm acquainted
    with a pony, sir, which, put in a pheayton that I could borrow, would
    take you and Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, (myself driving, if you
    approved,) to the end of your journey in a very short space of time. I
    am not altogether sure, sir, that this pony will be at liberty to-morrow,
    but even if you had to wait over to-morrow for him, it might be worth
    your while. As to the small account here, sir, in case you was to find
    yourself running at all short, that don't signify; because I'm a part
    proprietor of this inn, and it could stand over."

    Boots assures me that when they clapped their hands, and jumped for joy
    again, and called him "Good Cobbs!" and "Dear Cobbs!" and bent across him
    to kiss one another in the delight of their confiding hearts, he felt
    himself the meanest rascal for deceiving 'em that ever was born.

    "Is there anything you want just at present, sir?" says Cobbs, mortally
    ashamed of himself.

    "We should like some cakes after dinner," answered Master Harry, folding
    his arms, putting out one leg, and looking straight at him, "and two
    apples,--and jam. With dinner we should like to have toast-and-water.
    But Norah has always been accustomed to half a glass of currant wine at
    dessert. And so have I."

    "It shall be ordered at the bar, sir," says Cobbs; and away he went.

    Boots has the feeling as fresh upon him at this minute of speaking as he
    had then, that he would far rather have had it out in half-a-dozen rounds
    with the Governor than have combined with him; and that he wished with
    all his heart there was any impossible place where those two babies could
    make an impossible marriage, and live impossibly happy ever afterwards.
    However, as it couldn't be, he went into the Governor's plans, and the
    Governor set off for York in half an hour.

    The way in which the women of that house--without exception--every one of
    'em--married _and_ single--took to that boy when they heard the story,
    Boots considers surprising. It was as much as he could do to keep 'em
    from dashing into the room and kissing him. They climbed up all sorts of
    places, at the risk of their lives, to look at him through a pane of
    glass. They was seven deep at the keyhole. They was out of their minds
    about him and his bold spirit.

    In the evening, Boots went into the room to see how the runaway couple
    was getting on. The gentleman was on the window-seat, supporting the
    lady in his arms. She had tears upon her face, and was lying, very tired
    and half asleep, with her head upon his shoulder.

    "Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, fatigued, sir?" says Cobbs.

    "Yes, she is tired, Cobbs; but she is not used to be away from home, and
    she has been in low spirits again. Cobbs, do you think you could bring a
    biffin, please?"

    "I ask your pardon, sir," says Cobbs. "What was it you--?"

    "I think a Norfolk biffin would rouse her, Cobbs. She is very fond of
    them."

    Boots withdrew in search of the required restorative, and when he brought
    it in, the gentleman handed it to the lady, and fed her with a spoon, and
    took a little himself; the lady being heavy with sleep, and rather cross.
    "What should you think, sir," says Cobbs, "of a chamber candlestick?" The
    gentleman approved; the chambermaid went first, up the great staircase;
    the lady, in her sky-blue mantle, followed, gallantly escorted by the
    gentleman; the gentleman embraced her at her door, and retired to his own
    apartment, where Boots softly locked him up.

    Boots couldn't but feel with increased acuteness what a base deceiver he
    was, when they consulted him at breakfast (they had ordered sweet milk-
    and-water, and toast and currant jelly, overnight) about the pony. It
    really was as much as he could do, he don't mind confessing to me, to
    look them two young things in the face, and think what a wicked old
    father of lies he had grown up to be. Howsomever, he went on a lying
    like a Trojan about the pony. He told 'em that it did so unfortunately
    happen that the pony was half clipped, you see, and that he couldn't be
    taken out in that state, for fear it should strike to his inside. But
    that he'd be finished clipping in the course of the day, and that
    to-morrow morning at eight o'clock the pheayton would be ready. Boots's
    view of the whole case, looking back on it in my room, is, that Mrs.
    Harry Walmers, Junior, was beginning to give in. She hadn't had her hair
    curled when she went to bed, and she didn't seem quite up to brushing it
    herself, and its getting in her eyes put her out. But nothing put out
    Master Harry. He sat behind his breakfast-cup, a tearing away at the
    jelly, as if he had been his own father.

    After breakfast, Boots is inclined to consider that they drawed
    soldiers,--at least, he knows that many such was found in the fire-place,
    all on horseback. In the course of the morning, Master Harry rang the
    bell,--it was surprising how that there boy did carry on,--and said, in a
    sprightly way, "Cobbs, is there any good walks in this neighbourhood?"

    "Yes, sir," says Cobbs. "There's Love Lane."

    "Get out with you, Cobbs!"--that was that there boy's expression,--"you're
    joking."

    "Begging your pardon, sir," says Cobbs, "there really is Love Lane. And
    a pleasant walk it is, and proud shall I be to show it to yourself and
    Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior."

    "Norah, dear," said Master Harry, "this is curious. We really ought to
    see Love Lane. Put on your bonnet, my sweetest darling, and we will go
    there with Cobbs."

    Boots leaves me to judge what a Beast he felt himself to be, when that
    young pair told him, as they all three jogged along together, that they
    had made up their minds to give him two thousand guineas a year as head-
    gardener, on accounts of his being so true a friend to 'em. Boots could
    have wished at the moment that the earth would have opened and swallowed
    him up, he felt so mean, with their beaming eyes a looking at him, and
    believing him. Well, sir, he turned the conversation as well as he
    could, and he took 'em down Love Lane to the water-meadows, and there
    Master Harry would have drowned himself in half a moment more, a getting
    out a water-lily for her,--but nothing daunted that boy. Well, sir, they
    was tired out. All being so new and strange to 'em, they was tired as
    tired could be. And they laid down on a bank of daisies, like the
    children in the wood, leastways meadows, and fell asleep.

    Boots don't know--perhaps I do,--but never mind, it don't signify either
    way--why it made a man fit to make a fool of himself to see them two
    pretty babies a lying there in the clear still sunny day, not dreaming
    half so hard when they was asleep as they done when they was awake. But,
    Lord! when you come to think of yourself, you know, and what a game you
    have been up to ever since you was in your own cradle, and what a poor
    sort of a chap you are, and how it's always either Yesterday with you, or
    else To-morrow, and never To-day, that's where it is!

    Well, sir, they woke up at last, and then one thing was getting pretty
    clear to Boots, namely, that Mrs. Harry Walmerses, Junior's, temper was
    on the move. When Master Harry took her round the waist, she said he
    "teased her so;" and when he says, "Norah, my young May Moon, your Harry
    tease you?" she tells him, "Yes; and I want to go home!"

    A biled fowl, and baked bread-and-butter pudding, brought Mrs. Walmers up
    a little; but Boots could have wished, he must privately own to me, to
    have seen her more sensible of the woice of love, and less abandoning of
    herself to currants. However, Master Harry, he kept up, and his noble
    heart was as fond as ever. Mrs. Walmers turned very sleepy about dusk,
    and began to cry. Therefore, Mrs. Walmers went off to bed as per
    yesterday; and Master Harry ditto repeated.

    About eleven or twelve at night comes back the Governor in a chaise,
    along with Mr. Walmers and a elderly lady. Mr. Walmers looks amused and
    very serious, both at once, and says to our missis, "We are much indebted
    to you, ma'am, for your kind care of our little children, which we can
    never sufficiently acknowledge. Pray, ma'am, where is my boy?" Our
    missis says, "Cobbs has the dear child in charge, sir. Cobbs, show
    Forty!" Then he says to Cobbs, "Ah, Cobbs, I am glad to see _you_! I
    understood you was here!" And Cobbs says, "Yes, sir. Your most
    obedient, sir."

    I may be surprised to hear Boots say it, perhaps; but Boots assures me
    that his heart beat like a hammer, going up-stairs. "I beg your pardon,
    sir," says he, while unlocking the door; "I hope you are not angry with
    Master Harry. For Master Harry is a fine boy, sir, and will do you
    credit and honour." And Boots signifies to me, that, if the fine boy's
    father had contradicted him in the daring state of mind in which he then
    was, he thinks he should have "fetched him a crack," and taken the
    consequences.

    But Mr. Walmers only says, "No, Cobbs. No, my good fellow. Thank you!"
    And, the door being opened, goes in.

    Boots goes in too, holding the light, and he sees Mr. Walmers go up to
    the bedside, bend gently down, and kiss the little sleeping face. Then
    he stands looking at it for a minute, looking wonderfully like it (they
    do say he ran away with Mrs. Walmers); and then he gently shakes the
    little shoulder.

    "Harry, my dear boy! Harry!"

    Master Harry starts up and looks at him. Looks at Cobbs too. Such is
    the honour of that mite, that he looks at Cobbs, to see whether he has
    brought him into trouble.

    "I am not angry, my child. I only want you to dress yourself and come
    home."

    "Yes, pa."

    Master Harry dresses himself quickly. His breast begins to swell when he
    has nearly finished, and it swells more and more as he stands, at last, a
    looking at his father: his father standing a looking at him, the quiet
    image of him.

    "Please may I"--the spirit of that little creatur, and the way he kept
    his rising tears down!--"please, dear pa--may I--kiss Norah before I go?"

    "You may, my child."

    So he takes Master Harry in his hand, and Boots leads the way with the
    candle, and they come to that other bedroom, where the elderly lady is
    seated by the bed, and poor little Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, is fast
    asleep. There the father lifts the child up to the pillow, and he lays
    his little face down for an instant by the little warm face of poor
    unconscious little Mrs. Harry Walmers, Junior, and gently draws it to
    him,--a sight so touching to the chambermaids who are peeping through the
    door, that one of them calls out, "It's a shame to part 'em!" But this
    chambermaid was always, as Boots informs me, a soft-hearted one. Not
    that there was any harm in that girl. Far from it.

    Finally, Boots says, that's all about it. Mr. Walmers drove away in the
    chaise, having hold of Master Harry's hand. The elderly lady and Mrs.
    Harry Walmers, Junior, that was never to be (she married a Captain long
    afterwards, and died in India), went off next day. In conclusion, Boots
    put it to me whether I hold with him in two opinions: firstly, that there
    are not many couples on their way to be married who are half as innocent
    of guile as those two children; secondly, that it would be a jolly good
    thing for a great many couples on their way to be married, if they could
    only be stopped in time, and brought back separately.

    THIRD BRANCH--THE BILL

    I had been snowed up a whole week. The time had hung so lightly on my
    hands, that I should have been in great doubt of the fact but for a piece
    of documentary evidence that lay upon my table.

    The road had been dug out of the snow on the previous day, and the
    document in question was my bill. It testified emphatically to my having
    eaten and drunk, and warmed myself, and slept among the sheltering
    branches of the Holly-Tree, seven days and nights.

    I had yesterday allowed the road twenty-four hours to improve itself,
    finding that I required that additional margin of time for the completion
    of my task. I had ordered my Bill to be upon the table, and a chaise to
    be at the door, "at eight o'clock to-morrow evening." It was eight
    o'clock to-morrow evening when I buckled up my travelling writing-desk in
    its leather case, paid my Bill, and got on my warm coats and wrappers. Of
    course, no time now remained for my travelling on to add a frozen tear to
    the icicles which were doubtless hanging plentifully about the farmhouse
    where I had first seen Angela. What I had to do was to get across to
    Liverpool by the shortest open road, there to meet my heavy baggage and
    embark. It was quite enough to do, and I had not an hour too much time
    to do it in.

    I had taken leave of all my Holly-Tree friends--almost, for the time
    being, of my bashfulness too--and was standing for half a minute at the
    Inn door watching the ostler as he took another turn at the cord which
    tied my portmanteau on the chaise, when I saw lamps coming down towards
    the Holly-Tree. The road was so padded with snow that no wheels were
    audible; but all of us who were standing at the Inn door saw lamps coming
    on, and at a lively rate too, between the walls of snow that had been
    heaped up on either side of the track. The chambermaid instantly divined
    how the case stood, and called to the ostler, "Tom, this is a Gretna
    job!" The ostler, knowing that her sex instinctively scented a marriage,
    or anything in that direction, rushed up the yard bawling, "Next four
    out!" and in a moment the whole establishment was thrown into commotion.

    I had a melancholy interest in seeing the happy man who loved and was
    beloved; and therefore, instead of driving off at once, I remained at the
    Inn door when the fugitives drove up. A bright-eyed fellow, muffled in a
    mantle, jumped out so briskly that he almost overthrew me. He turned to
    apologise, and, by heaven, it was Edwin!

    "Charley!" said he, recoiling. "Gracious powers, what do you do here?"

    "Edwin," said I, recoiling, "gracious powers, what do _you_ do here?" I
    struck my forehead as I said it, and an insupportable blaze of light
    seemed to shoot before my eyes.

    He hurried me into the little parlour (always kept with a slow fire in it
    and no poker), where posting company waited while their horses were
    putting to, and, shutting the door, said:

    "Charley, forgive me!"

    "Edwin!" I returned. "Was this well? When I loved her so dearly! When
    I had garnered up my heart so long!" I could say no more.

    He was shocked when he saw how moved I was, and made the cruel
    observation, that he had not thought I should have taken it so much to
    heart.

    I looked at him. I reproached him no more. But I looked at him. "My
    dear, dear Charley," said he, "don't think ill of me, I beseech you! I
    know you have a right to my utmost confidence, and, believe me, you have
    ever had it until now. I abhor secrecy. Its meanness is intolerable to
    me. But I and my dear girl have observed it for your sake."

    He and his dear girl! It steeled me.

    "You have observed it for my sake, sir?" said I, wondering how his frank
    face could face it out so.

    "Yes!--and Angela's," said he.

    I found the room reeling round in an uncertain way, like a labouring,
    humming-top. "Explain yourself," said I, holding on by one hand to an
    arm-chair.

    "Dear old darling Charley!" returned Edwin, in his cordial manner,
    "consider! When you were going on so happily with Angela, why should I
    compromise you with the old gentleman by making you a party to our
    engagement, and (after he had declined my proposals) to our secret
    intention? Surely it was better that you should be able honourably to
    say, 'He never took counsel with me, never told me, never breathed a word
    of it.' If Angela suspected it, and showed me all the favour and support
    she could--God bless her for a precious creature and a priceless wife!--I
    couldn't help that. Neither I nor Emmeline ever told her, any more than
    we told you. And for the same good reason, Charley; trust me, for the
    same good reason, and no other upon earth!"

    Emmeline was Angela's cousin. Lived with her. Had been brought up with
    her. Was her father's ward. Had property.

    "Emmeline is in the chaise, my dear Edwin!" said I, embracing him with
    the greatest affection.

    "My good fellow!" said he, "do you suppose I should be going to Gretna
    Green without her?"

    I ran out with Edwin, I opened the chaise door, I took Emmeline in my
    arms, I folded her to my heart. She was wrapped in soft white fur, like
    the snowy landscape: but was warm, and young, and lovely. I put their
    leaders to with my own hands, I gave the boys a five-pound note apiece, I
    cheered them as they drove away, I drove the other way myself as hard as
    I could pelt.

    I never went to Liverpool, I never went to America, I went straight back
    to London, and I married Angela. I have never until this time, even to
    her, disclosed the secret of my character, and the mistrust and the
    mistaken journey into which it led me. When she, and they, and our eight
    children and their seven--I mean Edwin and Emmeline's, whose oldest girl
    is old enough now to wear white for herself, and to look very like her
    mother in it--come to read these pages, as of course they will, I shall
    hardly fail to be found out at last. Never mind! I can bear it. I
    began at the Holly-Tree, by idle accident, to associate the Christmas
    time of year with human interest, and with some inquiry into, and some
    care for, the lives of those by whom I find myself surrounded. I hope
    that I am none the worse for it, and that no one near me or afar off is
    the worse for it. And I say, May the green Holly-Tree flourish, striking
    its roots deep into our English ground, and having its germinating
    qualities carried by the birds of Heaven all over the world!
    If you're writing a The Holly Tree essay and need some advice, post your Charles Dickens essay question on our Facebook page where fellow bookworms are always glad to help!

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