haven't come without 'Sweet Bird,'
and my scena from 'Medea,' I declare."

As these were indispensable to the amusements of the day, a servant was
despatched for them. He couldn't be gone longer than half an hour. Half
an hour! thought Bagshaw; 'tis eleven now; and the tide.--But the
servant was absent a few minutes beyond the half-hour, and poor Bagshaw
suffered severely from that gnawing impatience, amounting almost to
pain, which every mother's son of us has experienced upon occasions of
greater--or less importance than this. They were again at the very point
of starting, when a message was brought to Mrs. Snodgrass that little
Master Charles had cut his thumb dreadfully! What was to be done? Mrs.
Snodgrass vowed she shouldn't be easy in her mind the whole day unless
she knew the extent of the mischief; and as they _only_ lived in Euston
Square, and she could be there and back again in twenty minutes, she
would herself go see what really was the matter,--and away she went.
Twenty minutes! During all this time, Bagshaw--but who would attempt to
describe anguish indescribable? At length he was relieved by the return
of Mrs. Snodgrass; but, to the horror and consternation of himself and
of all present, she introduced the aforesaid Master Charles,--an ugly,
ill-tempered, blubbering little brat of seven years old, with a bloated
red face, scrubby white hair, and red eyes; and with the interesting
appendage of a thick slice of bread and butter in his hand.

"I'm sure you'll pardon this liberty," said the affectionate mamma; "but
poor Charley has cut himself very much, and he would not be pacified
till I consented to take him with us. He has promised to be very good.
There, don't cry any more, darling!" and, accordingly, the urchin roared
with tenfold vigor. There were no particular manifestations of joy at
this arrival; and it is just possible, although nothing was uttered to
that effect, that there did exist a general and cordial wish that young
Master Snodgrass were sprawling at the bottom of the deepest well in
England. Uncle John, indeed, did utter something about the pug and the
child--two such nuisances--people bringing their brats into grownup
company.

At length the procession set out: the Bagshaws, Uncle John, and Jack
Richards bringing up the rear in a hackney-coach. On reaching the corner
of the street, Mrs. Bagshaw called out to the driver to stop.

"What is the matter, dear?" said Bagshaw.

"Your eye-lot