per annum was under discussion, under the famous signature of Happy Jones. He was now happier than ever, as his family had largely increased since the date of the controversy, and requested that a Deputation from the Club would call upon him at his house, and the sooner, the better; as he, Mr. Jones, was in confident expectation of the occurrence of another interesting event. Let the G. C.’s, if they would avoid the reproach of unfounded scurrility and malice, come and witness with their own eyes the spectacle of an Englishman’s happiness!
The Hansom Cab soon reached York Place, and turned into St. John’s Wood Road. There was indeed something suggestive of family bliss in the little detached cottages, each of which stood apart in its little garden. A bachelor would not dare to thrust his unseasonable nose into a region so sacred to family joys. The pavement on either side was thronged with Perambulators. Whenever any of the little doors which afforded entrance to the little gardens were opened, you saw inside swarms of lovely children engaged in their blessed sports and pastimes. At one house there was standing a cart, which contained a huge Rocking Horse—with a ticket upon it of “A surprise for Freddy”—heavy, middle-aged gentlemen were drawing near to their blissful bowers—some bearing Noah’s Arks; some, paper bags containing Tops and Bottoms from Robb’s in St. Martin’s Lane—others, bottles of Dolby’s Cordial, a specific for children during Teething. The region was bright, sunshiny—and fresh. There was a twinny and prolific feeling in the air.
On—on! to No. 3, Olive Branch Row. There was no mistake about the house. On the front door, which opened into the road, a board was hanging out, with the inscription—
No Noise,
Push the Door!
When you did so, you found yourself in a garden which was divided off into little gardens with little labels denoting that the little patches were severally the property of—1, Jemmy; 2, Stephen; 3,Mary; 4, Jane; 5, Adolphus; 6, Sophy; 7, Louis Napoleon; 8, Catharine Ann; then there was a double patch, with the names of (9, 10,) Wilhelmina—Tom; and, finally, 11, Richard. The brass knocker on the green door was tied up with a white kid glove. As the cab drove up a stout middle-aged gentleman was standing on the trottoir, in a suit of plaid dittos and a Panama hat, and was thrusting his fist energetically in the face of a Savoyard, who was grinding upon his organ just under Mr. Jones’s window the tune of “Il segreto per essere felice.” Although a man of benevolent appearance, he was now much excited, and was expressing a wish that Savoy might soon pass under the stern rule of the French Emperor, whose first act, as he trusted, would be a treaty with England for the extradition of Savoyards. As the gentlemen drove up, they inquired of him whether this were Mr. Jones’s residence.
“Yes, gentlemen, it is—I am Mr. Jones!”
“We are the G.C.s.”
“Welcome, gentlemen! but at what a moment you are come! Here, you scoundrel! here’s a shilling—and go to the devil! What a moment! nurse tells me we may look for twins.”
Mr. Jones introduced them into the garden, where he was surrounded by his eleven existing olive branches—two of them being offered to his paternal embrace by a deputy nurse. At this moment a stout friendly-looking female face was thrust out from the window up-stairs over the door amongst the passion-flowers.
“A boy! a boy, sir!”
“Hurrah!”
“A girl! a girl, sir!”
“A mistake?”
“No, sir!—twins.”
“Hurrah! Tell Mrs. Jones to keep it up.”
Mr. Jones added, after a pause (during which no fresh announcement was made): “And now, gentlemen, will you walk in, and hear from me how an Englishman with a numerous family can enjoy perfect felicity on 300l. a-year.”
THE INDIAN MAIL.
The sun was going down behind the Rock, as a thrill passed through the huge frame of the Asia, marking the first revolutions of the screw which was to impel the good ship through the waters of the Atlantic on the last stage of her homeward voyage.
The passengers on board were not numerous. The first northward rush of the refugees from the Indian Mutiny was long since over, and the return of the officers who had done their work had not yet commenced, for the little garrison in Lucknow was still unrelieved. It was a time of pause, not of doubt, for the crowning victory at Delhi had proved that of the Englishman’s Raj from the Himalayas to Cape Comorin the end was not yet. But there was still plenty of stern work to be done in any case, even if the hot fever fit of rebellion should subside as quickly as it had risen into frenzy. One of the minor results was that very few passengers were on board the Asia as she steamed away on the night of which we are speaking, from under the heavy shadow of the Rock of Gibraltar across the Bay of Algeçiras and out into the Straits.
The white houses of San Roque soon faded in distance. Ceuta, too, on the African coast, which had been so anxiously looked for on the run from Malta, was now shut out. The far distant peaks of the Atlas Range might still be seen bathed in the rays of the setting sun. In latitude thirty-six degrees, the twilight is but of short duration, and the night dews begin to fall heavily almost before the sun has disappeared. The Asia kept on her way, and before she was well abreast of Tangier, day had changed into night. Shoals of porpoises were playing about, casting up the phosphorescent water as they rolled and tumbled in their sport. When Cape Spartel marked the entrance to the great Atlantic, now and again from the bulwarks of the Asia whales might be seen, and as they rose, plunged, and dived, and the water broke in streams from their backs, you would have taken them for gigantic black wheels in revolution. As a contrast to the uncouth performances of these sea monsters, it was pleasant to watch the millions upon millions of small fry shooting about many