which came later were thought a triumph, and the snuffers disappeared.  They also are to be seen in the Curio Shops.

How curious, too, the encroachment of a too practical age on the old romance.  “Fainting” was the regular thing in the Pickwickian days, in any agitation; “burnt feathers” and the “sal volatile” being the remedy.  The beautiful, tender and engaging creatures we see in the annuals, all fainted regularly—and knew how to faint—were perhaps taught it.  Thus when Mr. Pickwick

was assumed to have “proposed” to his landlady, she in business-like fashion actually “fainted;” now-a-days “fainting” has gone out as much as duelling.

In the travellers’ rooms at Hotels—in the “commercial” room—we do not see people smoking “large Dutch pipes”—nor is “brandy and water” the only drink of the smoking room.  Mr. Pickwick and his friends were always “breaking the waxen seals” of their letters—while Sam, and people of his degree, used the wafer.  (What by the way was the “fat little boy”—in the seal of Mr. Winkle’s penitential letter to his sire?  Possibly a cupid.)  Snuff taking was then common enough in the case of professional people like Perker.

At this moment there is to be seen in the corner of many an antique Hall—Sedan chair laid up in ordinary—of black leather, bound with brass-nails.  We can well recall in our boyish days, mamma in full dress and her hair in “bands,” going out to dine in her

chair.  On arriving at the house the chair was taken up the steps and carried bodily into the Hall—the chair men drew out their poles, lifted the head, opened the door and the dame stepped out.  The operation was not without its state.

Gone too are the “carpet bags” which Mr. Pickwick carried and also Mr. Slurk—(why he brought it with him into the kitchen is not very clear). [30]

Skates were then spelt “Skaits.”  The “Heavy smack,” transported luggage—to the Provinces by river or canal.  The “Twopenny Postman” is often alluded to.  “Campstools,” carried about for use, excited no astonishment.  Gentlemen don’t go to Reviews now, as Mr. Wardle did, arrayed in “a blue coat and bright buttons, corduroy (Boz also spells it corderoy) breeches and top boots,” nor ladies “in scarfs and feathers.”  It is curious, by the way, that Wardle talks

something after the fashionable manner of our day, dropping his g’s—as who should say “huntin’,” or “rippin’”—“I spent some evnins” he says “at your club.”  “My gals,” he says also.  “Capons” are not much eaten now.  “Drinking wine” or “having a glass of wine” has gone out, and with it Mr. Tupman’s gallant manner of challenge to a fair one, i.e. “touching the enchanting Rachel’s wrist with one hand and gently elevating his bottle with the other.”  “Pope Joan” is little played now, if at all; “Fish” too; how rarely one sees those mother-of-pearl fish!  The “Cloth is not drawn” and the table exposed to view, to be covered with dessert, bottles, glasses, etc.  The shining mahogany was always a brave show, and we fear this comes of using cheap made up tables of common wood.  Still we wot of some homes, old houses in the country, where the practice is kept up.  It is evident that Mr. Wardle’s dinner was at about 3 or 4 o’clock, for none was offered to the party

that arrived about 6.  This we may presume was the mode in old fashioned country houses.  Supper came at eleven.

A chaise and four could go at the pace of fifteen miles an hour.

A “1000 horse-power” was Jingle’s idea of extravagant speed by steam agency.  Now we have got to 4, 5, and 10 thousand horsepower.  Gentlemen’s “frills” in the daytime are never seen now.  Foot gear took the shape of “Hessians’” “halves,” “painted tops,” “Wellington’s” or “Bluchers.”  There are many other trifles which will evidence these changes.  We are told of the “common eighteen-penny French skull cap.”  Note common—it is exhibited on Mr. Smangle’s head—a rather smartish thing with a tassel.  Nightcaps, too, they are surely gone by now: though a few old people may wear them, but then boys and young men all did.  It also had a tassel.  There is the “Frog Hornpipe,” whatever dance that was: the “pousette;” while “cold srub,” which

is not in much vogue now, was the drink of the Bath Footmen.  “Botany Bay ease, and New South Wales gentility,” refer to the old convict days.  This indeed is the most startling transformation of all.  For instead of Botany Bay, and its miserable associations, we have the grand flourishing Australia, with its noble cities, Parliaments and the rest.  Gone out too, we suppose, the “Oxford-mixture trousers;” “Oxford grey” it was then called.

Then for Sam’s “Profeel machine.”  Mr. Andrew Lang in his notes wonders what this “Profeel machine” was, and fancies it was the silhouette process.  This had nothing to do with the “Profeel machine”—which is described in “Little Pedlington,” a delightful specimen of Pickwickian humour, and which ought to be better known than it is.  “There now,” said Daubson, the painter of “the all but breathing Grenadier,” (alas! rejected by the Academy).  “Then get up and sit down, if

you please, mister.”  “He pointed to a narrow high-backed chair, placed on a platform; by the side of the chair was a machine of curious construction, from which protruded a long wire.  ‘Heady stiddy, mister.’  He then slowly drew the wire over my head and down my nose and chin.”  Such was the “Profeel machine.”

There are many antiquated allusions in Pickwick—which have often exercised the ingenuity of the curious.  Sam’s “Fanteegs,” has been given up in despair—as though there were no solution—yet, Professor Skeat, an eminent authority, has long since furnished it. [34]

“Through the button hole”—a slang term for the mouth, has been well “threshed out”—as it is called.  Of “My Prooshian Blue,” as his son affectedly styled his parent, Mr. Lang correctly suggests the solution, that the term came of George IV’s intention of changing

the uniform of the Army to Blue.  But this has been said before.

Boz in his Pickwickian names was fond of disguising their sense to the eye, though not to the ear.  Thus Lady Snuphanuph, looks a grotesque, but somewhat plausible name—snuff-enough—a further indication of the manners and customs.  So with Lord Mutanhed, i.e. “Muttonhead.”  Mallard, Serjeant Snubbin’s Clerk, I have suspected, may have been some Mr. Duck—whom “Boz” had known—in that line.

“A MONUMENTAL PICKWICK.”

The fruitfulness of Pickwick, and amazing prolificness, that is one of its marvels.  It is regularly “worked