solemnly charged to "take care of the house,"
during our absence—who it is that is expected
to run away with it, I have never been able
to ascertain—but somebody is, that is quite
clear. Then a dark cupboard under the staircase
is opened, from the depths of which a Guy
Fawkes is carefully taken to be placed in a chair
by the window in order to frighten away this
ill-disposed somebody, by showing him that
the house is not "unprotected." Miss Oldtown
constructed this Guy with infinite pains
and labour for this express purpose, and she
looks upon him—especially his face—as a
triumph of art. She has given him very short
legs, being constructed of a pair of child's
trousers stuffed with straw, and a very large
body, covered with the variegated and cut-out
paper which is used to decorate fire-places
in summer time. His head is adorned with
black crape flowers, to imitate fiercely dishevelled
locks; he has eyes made with ink,
one very high up, and the other very low
down; and a terrible moustache, made of
bright yellow ribbon, to obviate the difficulty
of painting a mouth. "And you see," says
Miss Oldtown, "I have put a red satin rosette
on one cheek to give him a colour. I was
obliged to make his nose of blue crape, because
I had nothing else, and you have no
idea how difficult it is to dress up a figure
when you have nothing to dress it with. It
requires so much management—and you see
I have given him the Order of the Garter
and everything, just like Guy Fawkes."
There is great difficulty in making him sit
upright in his chair, because, of course, he
has no anatomy. To seat him requires a vast
amount of coaxing, and punching, and patting,
and his head so often requires fixing on
tighter, that his neck must contain quite a
small fortune in pins by this time. And there
he sits, with his back to the window, and a
hat on, perusing with deep interest the Times
advertisements for eighteen hundred and
thirty-two, whenever we go out. The windows
opposite are full of curl-papers every morning
for two or three hours—first waiting to see
Guy, and then gazing at him with wrapt and
terrible interest. Then we lock up Susan so
securely that if the house took fire she could
not possibly escape, but must inevitably
perish miserably in the flames with poor
Guy, and then, at last, we go forth; and very
clever marketers we think we have been
when we return. We are always quite satisfied
with the result of our labours, and when
we sit down, at two o'clock, to enjoy it, we
say very sincerely with Goldsmith, "I like
these here dinners, so pretty and small." It
is very fortunate that we do, for there are no
means of making them larger. Even if an
extra chicken has to be roasted, Miss Oldtown
is obliged to give up her knitting-needles to
act as skewers; and Susan cannot cook anything
but chickens, legs of mutton, soles, and
a limited number of vegetables and puddings.

Of an evening Miss Oldtown likes a rubber.
Susan has to come up and take a hand, Miss
Oldtown having instructed her in the art—a
very good notion (though troublesome), for,
as Miss Oldtown says, "when a servant
spends the evening in the same room with
yourself, you know where she is." I think
our games must be rather singular, for I
never could distinguish kings from knaves,
and Miss Oldtown is constantly "provoking,"
she says, but I suppose she means "revoking,"
and I don't think Susan has quite mastered
the subject yet; especially with regard to
dummy.

Miss Oldtown's subjects of conversation
are generally supplied by what happens to
be going on in the street at the moment. On
week-days it is really very bustling and gay.
Of a morning we see all the genteel little
boys and girls walking demurely off to school,
books in hand, and all the ungenteel little
boys and girls going with coppers to the stale
greengrocer's, round the corner. Then, female
heads of families issue forth in straw bonnets
and large plaid shawls, followed by their
maid, with a cook's basket on her arm. By-
and-by they return home; and then presently
you will see the maids rushing alone across
the street in frantic haste—their little caps
nearly flying off their heads—to purchase.
a pat of butter, or two or three eggs.
Then, as the dinner-hour approaches, a
solemn stillness settles on our street; you
would think that every one had gone to be
buried. But at about half-past two a great
stir commences. Unaccountable people walk
on the foot-pavement, and look in at the
shop-windows—"Gentry," Miss Oldtown
says, but where can they come from? From
those queer, dull, curtain-drawn houses?
Are they the lawyer and the doctor, I
wonder? Presently Mrs. Vickerton drives
in from the Rectory, in her little brougham,
that is so much too small to hold all the
children. She stops at the shoemaker's, and
then, from unknown recesses of the brougham,
out come one, two, three, and three are six,
and two are eight—yes, eight children! Poor
Mr. Vickerton! Eight pairs of shoes at one
fell swoop!

Then, a gentleman in a long coat and a low-
crowned hat, goes into the bookseller's,
opposite, and comes out of it, presently, with a
great bundle of tracts and pamphlets. I say
to Miss Oldtown, "Who is that?" and she
replies, "A most extraordinary man. Mr.
Lower, the dissenter;" apparently under the
happy delusion that there is only one dissenter
in the world, and that Mr. Lower is that
singular being. Then comes a magnificent
sight. Lady Proudleigh dashes down the
street in her great barouche, as big as our
house; with a powdered footman reclining in
a graceful, supercilious, used-up sort of
attitude, in the rumble. He seems to look
straight over the top of our chimney as he
passes. They stop at the linen-draper's—
quite a grand shop; and Messrs. Valentine