A HONEYMOON IN HIGHLOW TERRACE.

By the Author of The Prettiest Miss Prettyman.

Illustrated by CHR

Oct. 30, 1867, from Judy, Or The London Serio-Comic Journal.

CHAPTER I.

We Make A Bad Beginning.

I am married !

Please to italicize the "am," and put, if possible, a triumphant curl into the note of admiration.

Yes, I am married. The affair made some little stir, I have reason to believe, out Hoxton way, and was mentioned at more than one tea-table in Tufnell Park. It was, I will allow, some time in coming off ; but it has come off now - very much so, indeed, and I AM MARRIED !

There was a breakfast, of course, and a blessing. Also a slipper (which hit me ) ; but it was thought advisable to do away with the tour.

We therefore begin life right off in Highlow Terrace, and our friends see us in.

I am married. I said that before, I know ; but I repeat it exultingly. Moreover, I am a householder ! Is that nothing ? I have a stake in the country, a vote, a door, five windows, four chimney-pots, eight and twenty feet of land, and a bronze knocker - all for thirty pounds a year.

"Isn't the house rather small, dear ?" observes ROSE ANNA.

I told you I was married. I didn't tell you my wife's names were ROSE ANNA.

"Pokey !" says my father-in-law, decisively.

"You must have iron bars to all those windows," declares my mother, "or your lives won't be worth an hour's purchase."

"Snug !"  is the verdict of my bachelor friend, but I fancy he meant to be sarcastic.

My wife's mother sniffs disdainfully, and asks me if I call that a water-butt ?

Upon this I retreat from the door-steps, where I have been contemplating my stucco front, and seek shelter in the garden, and direct my attention to my brick back, and so strengthen my conviction that Number One Highlow Terrace is a sweet spot :but am presently summoned from my contemplative seclusion by a tremendous smash, followed by a crash, and accompanied by screams.

I rush into my drawing-room, hitting my head on the way against the gas-lamp in the passage, raising a lump and breaking a glass. My drawing-room is crowded by four people in separate corners, while a fifth (my bachelor friend) writhes upon the floor amongst fragments.

ROSE ANNA flings herself weeping into my arms, and in doing so knocks off a china vase from a side-table. My father attempts to catch it, but only succeeds in upsetting the table as well, for we are rather cramped for space.

"I told you what would come of cheap furniture and bachelor friends," says my mother-in-law severely, with a defiant look at my companion of other days, who is examining his coat-tails ruefully.

At last they all go, scowling and dissatisfied. It rains ; they borrow umbrellas. It is cold; they beg wraps. They grumble as they descend the steps. I forgot to tell you that my hall door is approached by a majestic flight of steps - three in all, counting the little one. And my wife and I are alone.

She weeps. If ROSE ANNA has a weakness it is tears. The servant - our servant - my servant - comes in.

"Please 'm, would you look at the beetles? they're a-coming in by millions !"

We go and look at the beetles.

"And please 'm, would you look at the washus? The rain's a-coming through the roof."

We look at the "washus."

She also mentions, while upon the subject, that the cellar's mouldy, and the kitchen fire won't burn ; that the cat has eaten up the fish, and the butcher has not sent the meat. Furthermore, she wishes to know whether she can have a holiday the day after to-morrer.

I see the dew-drops on my ROSE - which is my poetical expression (registered) for tears in my wife's eyes. I comfort her. She shivers.

In the morning I send for Mr. COMPO, my landlord.

He is a red-faced man, with a two-foot rule for ever sticking from his pocket. His manner is savage, his words curt, his looks ferocious.

"Well," says he, planting two muddy boots on my new carpet, "what's up, sir?"

"The wash-house is flooded."

"Ah !," he answers, "it will dry up right enough when the fine weather comes."

"Yes : but there's a hole in the roof, and the rain comes in ; and you must mend it, Mr. COMPO," says my wife.

"Ah !" he says, "that's strange in a new house."

I say, "It is - very."

He says, "You'd better have it mended without loss of time."

But I suggest, "Why not you ?"

"Show me the 'greement," he replies. "Let me see it in writing that I got to do it, and then I'll see about it."

I know, and he knows, there is no agreement. My wife and I look blankly at each other. Mr. COMPO whistles.

After awhile, Mr. COMPO says he doesn't wish to be hard upon me.

I feel grateful.

He says he thinks he sees his way. I am more grateful. His way that he sees is that I should give him five pounds and leave it all to him. He refuses to have it all left to him without the five pounds, so I give him the money, and he goes away. In the course of the afternoon he sends two lads and a ladder; the ladder is laid on a flower-bed sown with the choicest seed ; the lads seat themselves on my door-step and play at shove-halfpenny.

The day passes by. In the evening Mr. COMPO comes again, redder in the face, particularly about the nose - muddier in the person, particularly about the boots. He wants to see me. He has his wish. His speech is thick - his utterance is indistinct. He expresses his desire to "fetch someone a sender," which I do not encourage. He expresses a further desire to drink, adding, at my expense, which I refuse to entertain. He expresses an opinion that I am no gentleman, and then calls upon me for a song. I retreat. He howls defiance after me.

He continues to howl. A policeman appears. I tell him to turn Mr. COMPO out of the house. He says he has no authority. Eventually Mr. COMPO falls out himself. I close the door. Quiet begins, and I am happy.

In an hour's time I hear noises in the kitchen, and find the policeman making himself at home. In answer to my question, he says he's been looking at the window-fastenings. I ask him the name of his inspector, and he says "Walker." Servant laughs. I wonder why. Policeman adds, furthermore, it's dry work looking at window-fastenings, and he'd like to drink my health, if it's all the same to me. It isn't all the same to me ; but he departs with the avowed intention of drinking my health, touching his hat, till I begin to think there is something wrong. Looking in my purse, find I've given him half-a-sovereign instead of sixpence.

Later on I hear a giggling in the kitchen. Go down and find the servant cleaning a pair of boots. Ask her if she's been giggling ? She says, "Lor, no;" and hazards a guess that it might have been the black beetles. ROSE ANNA doesn't think it likely. Midnight - Bed. Sleep ? No. Noises, whisperings, and hammerings outside the window. It isn't beetles this time. ROSE ANNA trembles, and suggests thieves. She also hints at murder. Where are my pistols?

(To be continued.)