University of Virginia Library

1. PETER PLODDY,
AND
OTHER ODDITIES.

PETER PLODDY'S DREAM.

Let no one be unjust to Ploddy—to Peter Ploddy,
once “young man” to Mr. Figgs, the grocer, and now
junior partner of the flourishing firm of Figgs and
Ploddy. Though addicted a little to complaint, and apt
to institute comparisons unfavourable to himself, it would
be a harsh judgment to set him down as ever having
been envious, in the worst sense of the word. It is true,
no doubt, that at the period of his life concerning which
we are now called upon to speak, a certain degree of
discontent with his own position occasionally embittered
his reflections; but he had no wish to deprive others of
the advantage they possessed, nor did he hate them on
the score of their supposed superiority. It was not his
inclination to drag men down, let them be situated as
loftily as they might; and whatever of vexation or perplexity
he experienced in contemplating their elevation, arose
altogether from the fact that he could not clearly understand
why he should not be up there too. It was not
productive of pleasurable sensations to Ploddy, to see
folks splashed who were more elegantly attired than himself.
He never laughed from a window over the disastrous
results of a sudden shower; nor could he find it in
his heart to hope it would rain when his neighbours set
gayly forth on a rural excursion. It is a question, indeed,
whether it had been a source of satisfaction to him to see
any one's name on a list of bankrupts. The sheriff's advertisements
of property “seized and taken in execution,”
were never conned over with delight by Peter Ploddy;

and when the entertainments given in his section of the
town were as splendid as luxury and profusion could
make them, it was yet possible for Peter to turn in his bed
at the sound of the music and of the merriment, without
a snarl about “there you go,” and without a hint that
there are headaches in store for the gentlemen, with a
sufficient variety of coughs and colds for the ladies. He
never said, because an invitation had not been addressed
to Ploddy, that affairs of this sort make work for the
doctors.

It will be observed then, that Peter was not of a cynical
turn. Neither did he attempt to delude himself, as
many do, into a belief that he despised the things which
were denied to him. When his hands found an amplitude
of room in empty pockets, he was candid to himself,
and wished them better filled, instead of vainly endeavouring
to exalt poverty above riches. When Thompson
married wealth, or Johnson espoused beauty, it was
no part of Peter's philosophy to think that extravagant
habits might neutralize the one, and that the love of admiration
could render the other rather a torment than a
blessing. In short, Peter would have been pleased if
both together had fallen to his share. Wealth and beauty
might unite in Mrs. Peter Ploddy without causing consternation
in his mind, and he confessed that the said
Thompson and Johnson were lucky fellows.

It being conceded that pedestrianism is a healthy exercise,
and that being jumbled in an omnibus is a salutary
impulse to the physical constitution, still Peter remained
unshaken in the opinion, somewhat theoretical though it
were, that a fine horse is not to be taken amiss, and that
a smooth rolling carriage, however conducive to indolence
it may be, is not an appendage to be altogether
contemned. It is true, to be sure, that horses are often
perilous to a rider's limbs, and it needs no demonstration

at this late day to show that vehicular mischances are
many; but Peter was willing to encounter the risk, and
to exchange the toilsome security of going on foot for the
dangers incident to more elevated conveyance. Haughtily
as they might travel by, he never even indulged himself
in a charitable hope that certain people might break
their necks before they reached home, notwithstanding
the quantity of dust thrown in his eyes. On such occasions,
it was the habit with Peter to wipe his optics as
carefully as possible, as he wondered why it was not his
lot to kick up a similar cloud, to the astonishment of
some other Peter.

Here lay the trouble. Why was not Peter Ploddy
otherwise than he was, if not in circumstances, at least in
personal attributes? Why was he environed by disadvantages,
when the favours of nature and of fortune had
been so profusely distributed around him—when almost
everybody but himself had something to boast about or
to make capital of?—There, for instance, was his young
friend Smith, at the apothecary's, over the way—Smith
was a wit and a mimic—Smith could imitate all sorts of
things, from the uncorking of a bottle to the plaintive
howl of an imprisoned dog—his “bumbly-bee” was
equal to any thing of the sort to be heard among the
clover blossoms or in the buckwheat field—his mosquito
would render a sound sleeper uneasy, and he could perform
a cat's concert so naturally that old Mr. Quiverton,
who is nervous in his slumbers, has thus been made,
more than once, to leap from his bed and dash his slippers
into the yard, as he uttered imprecations upon the
feline race in general and the apothecary's cats in particular.
The gifted Smith! As a calf, too, he was
magnificent. No one in town could bleat half so well.
Why could not Ploddy have accomplishments like Smith?
—accomplishments which are the instinct of genius, and

not attainable by labour. For had not Ploddy tried the
effect of practice? Had he not, in the solitude of his
dormitory, devoted whole evenings to corking and uncorking
a bottle, listening with all the ears he had to its
peculiarities of expression—had he not given himself
assiduously to the study of the “bumbly-bee”—endeavoured
to analyze the vocalism of gallinippers, and whined
industriously through successive hours? And with what
result, as the reward of so much intensity of application
and usefulness of labour? A request from Figgs to quit
his infernal noise o' nights, without the least doubt on the
part of that respectable gentleman that the said noise was
Peter's work. He did not even desire him to abstain
from imitations—he did not recognise imitation in the
matter at all. He spoke only of noise, without the slightest
zoological or entomological allusion. And as for Mrs.
Figgs, when Peter wished to test his progress by an effort
at the “cat's concert” in the open air, did not her night-cap
appear at the window and think that Peter Ploddy—
“you Pete”—had better go to bed than stand screeching
there? She did not ask whether it was Pete—she did not
say “'scat”—she knew it was Pete, in the dark. Yet
Smith had never been so disparaged. He could pass for
a cat, or for any thing he pleased. He had no difficulty
in causing people to jump and to cry “get out!” And
hence every one was proud of knowing Smith. It was
equal to a free admission to the menagerie.

Then there was Bill Baritone, at the dry-goods store.
Bill sang delightfully, and was “invited out” every
evening. A serenade was not regarded as complete
without him. Nobody could be in greater demand than
Bill Baritone, whose sentimental strains went to the heart
of every young damsel. But when Peter Ploddy tried
to sing, people stopped their ears—the neighbours sent
in to know “what's the matter,” and the boys in the

street were of opinion that something had “broke loose”
—a species of compliment for which Peter had no great
relish, especially as the droll Mr. Smith had woven the
affair into a story, and gave prime imitations of his vocal
efforts, which were described as a bunch of “keys,” and
all sorts of “time,” past, present, and to come. Peter
had bought several music books, and had gone so far as
to ask the price of a guitar; but he soon abandoned the
hope of competing with Baritone, though he continued
to wish that he could sing—at least a little—just enough
to enable his friends to discover what tune it was, or what
tune it was meant to be. It is so discouraging to be
obliged to tell them the name of it.

Tom Quillet, who was reading law round the corner,
how he could talk—how he did talk—how he could
not be prevented from talking! Ploddy had not the
shadow of a chance when Tom was present. In the
first place, Ploddy was not very rapid in raking up an
idea—it often took him a considerable time to find any
thing to talk about, and to determine whether it was
worth talking about, when he had found it; and then it
was to be brushed up and dressed in words fit to go out.
Tom Quillet, on the contrary, was a walking vocabulary,
who sent forth his words to look for ideas, being but
little particular whether they found them or not; and he
was, therefore, fully entered upon a speech which scorned
subjection to the “one hour rule,” before Ploddy had
discovered a corner in his mind where a thought lay burrowing.
Tom, in truth, used his friends as a target, and
remorselessly practised elocution and oratory upon them
on all occasions. He could talk Peter Ploddy right up,
with the greatest ease. He was, in the comparison, like
steam against sails. He could talk all round Peter—before,
behind, and on every side. Ploddy was not voluble,
and Quillet either brought down or scared away

the game, while he was priming his gun to take sight
at it.

“Why can't I express myself like that everlasting
Tom Quillet?” thought Ploddy, in petulance; “what he
says don't often amount to much, to be sure, when you
come to think of it, but it stretches over a deal of ground
and hammers out broad and thin. A little goes a great
way. I wonder if he ever heard anybody but himself
say any thing? I wonder if he believes that any
body but himself has a right to say any thing? How
does he do when he goes to church, I'd like to
know, and must sit still without contradicting or giving
his notions on the subject? How does he manage to
stop his confounded clack long enough to get asleep?—
Should there ever be a Mrs. Tom Quillet, and should
she ever happen to want to make an observation, which
is very likely, she will die as certain as fate, of not being
allowed to speak her mind. She'll die of a checked utterance
and of a congestion of words. Her thoughts will
be dammed up till she chokes with them. Tom will
never give her a chance. He never gives me one—not
half a one.”

Quillet was a politician, and a rising youth upon the
stump, whither Ploddy ventured not to follow him. His
elocutionary failure in social life had closed the gate of
his ambition in this respect, and he felt assured that to
gain distinction by the power of tongue did not fall
within the compass of possibility, so far as he was concerned.
Still he thought it a great thing to be able to
talk—to be the operator rather than the patient—the
surgeon in preference to being the subject—a Quillet
rather than a Ploddy—on the general principle which obtains
in warfare, that the offensive is apt to be a surer
game than the defensive, as it affords room for choice in

the time and method of attack, whereas the other party is
never safe, and must always be on the qui vive.

All these dashing qualities, with others that might be
named, which are placed first in order as coming first in
Ploddy's estimation, could perhaps have been dispensed
with, had he been able to discover things in himself calculated
to compensate for their absence. As a matter of
immediate concern, he fell back upon his quiet common
sense and sound unobtrusive judgment. We always
think much of our common sense and sound judgment,
when surpassed in more showy characteristics. Almost
everybody has a wonderful degree of judgment—judgment
more precious than other people's genius; and who
is endowed with talent equal in value to our common
sense? Like the rest of the world, Peter derived consolations
from this source; but it was his youthful desire to
be able to flash and glitter, if he could only discover the
way to excel, or the line for which he was qualified. He
had consumed no little time in fruitless efforts, musical,
mimetic and otherwise, to acquire accomplishments
which were impossibilities to him, as has happened and
will continue to happen in more cases than that of Mr.
Peter Ploddy, and he had encountered both toil and disappointment
to convince himself of disqualifications obvious
from the first to every one except himself. But in
giving up these, he sighed for others equally unattainable.
He saw that every man's life is a story, and that every
man must perforce, and for want of a better, be the hero
of his own story. Now, in examining the magazines,
the nouvellettes, and the historiettes of the day, it will be
discovered that heroes are always tall and generally
valiant. Peter Ploddy was not much above five feet,
and he resigned from the Thunderpump fire company because
he had no fancy for riots, or for being hit over the
head with brass trumpets and iron spanners. He never

liked “games of that sort.” Heroes are graceful too! but
Ploddy's dancing was not at all admired. It would have
been strange if it had been. Heroes are handsome,
moreover, with dark eyes, clustering curls and umbrageous
whiskers. But the mirror insisted upon it to Ploddy
that he was not handsome—verging rather in another
direction—that his eyes were of a dubious lightness, his
hair sandy, and his whiskers discontinuous, uncertain
and sparse. He gazed sadly upon Mr. Daffodil Twod,
the pretty man in the perfumery way and the fancy line.
Sweet Mr. Twod!—with such loveliness, it is worth
one's while to strap tight and to make costume a science.
But Ploddy was not improvable into any resemblance,
however remote, to the Narcissus family. Nor could he
approximate otherwise to his impressive friend, Samson
Hyde, the currier, who was wild and wonderful,
at the corner of the street. Samson Hyde—what
a martial figure he was gifted with—what mountains of
chest, and what acres of shoulder. And his frown—so
terrific. How Samson Hyde could fight—how he did
fight, whenever opportunity occurred. “I wish I was
Samson Hyde the currier,” ejaculated Ploddy, as he
doubled his fists and endeavoured to scowl Dick, the
shop-boy, into entire and utter annihilation. As Dick
only asked whether Mr. Ploddy had got something in his
eye, that he made such funny faces, Mr. Ploddy felt that
the attempt to pulverize the boy by mesmerization was
an undeniable failure—he felt at once, as he attempted
to hide his confusion by adjusting a box of candles, that
there was nothing fascinating in his qualities, picturesque
in his appearance, or heroic in his composition—that he
could not surpass the men, attract the women or confound
the urchins—that he had not even the genius to make a
fortune at a blow, like Mr. Headover Slapdash, the speculator,
who rolled in wealth and built long rows of houses
—that he had no inward or outward gifts to afford success
or prominence—undistinguished and undistinguishable
Peter Ploddy, young man to Mr. Figgs, the grocer!

In meditating upon the injustices of nature and the inequalities
of fortune, Peter, even at his post of business,
grew melancholy and abstracted. He sometimes sold
salt for sugar, and sent people honey instead of oil, to fill
their lamps and to illuminate their ways. Mr. Figgs
found it necessary to take him aside and to “talk to him
seriously,” which all who have chanced to be subjected
to it know to be as unpleasant an operation as a young
man can undergo and expect to survive. There is
nothing worse than being “talked to seriously,” in an
empty room, the door locked and no help at hand,
though elderly gentlemen are so much addicted to it.

Mrs. Figgs, however, with the gentleness peculiar to
her sex, was not so cruel. She had not much faith in
having persons “talked to,” and, besides, she was convinced
that the young man must be crossed in love, as
she had an exalted idea of the potency of the tender
passion, particularly among those employed in the retail
grocery business, which she regarded as calculated to
increase the susceptibilities and to soften the heart. Figgs
had been struck with her, and she had been struck with
Figgs, under circumstances of this description, and it had
ever since rendered her firm in the faith that a young
woman, whether she be sent for soap, sugar or tea, is
very likely to be smitten by the insinuating individual
who waits upon her, and that the insinuating individual
himself is in love all the time, and, for the most part, with a
great many at a time. However this may be as a general
rule, though not exactly applicable in the instance under
discussion, it is nevertheless true that employments have
their effect, somewhat in the manner suggested by Mrs.
Figgs. Your baker's boy, for example, who serves customers

of a morning—what a destroyer of hearts is he!
what a concentration of coquettishness, as he goes flirting
from door to door, distributing loaves of bread, words of
love and seductive glances all over town. He is a dangerous
fellow, that same baker's boy—none the less so
because his experience is so extensive that his own heart
is Cupid-proof, and is rarely, even in extreme cases,
scratched deeper than his tally.

“Peter's crossed in love,” repeated Mrs. Figgs, at the
tea-table, in the little back room; “Peter's crossed in
love. He snores so loud you can hear him all over the
house, and that's a sure sign of being blighted in the
affections and nipped in the bud, as a body may say.
First, they snore, and then they borrow pistols, and buy
clothes-lines, and fippenny-bits-worth's of corroding sublimity,
done up in white paper, with the name pasted on
the outside. It is actually shocking the cruelty of us
women,” and Mrs. Figgs “wiped away a tear.”

“I've heard Peter sythe by the hour,” observed Miss
Priscilla Figgs, in corroboration of her mother.

“Yes, my dear,” added Mrs. Figgs, “young gentlemen
that have got the mitten, or young gentlemen who
think they are going to get the mitten, always sythe. It
makes 'em feel bad, poor innocent little things, and `then
they heave a sythe,' as the song says. You should have
heard your father when he was in a state of suspension
about whether I was going to have him or not. Several
people thought it was a porpus.”

“Do porpusses get the mitten, ma?” interjected little
Timothy Figgs, who was always on the search for information.
“I didn't think fishes ever wore mittens.”

“Pshaw, you're always talking about love and mittens
and stuff, as if people had time for such nonsense now-a-days,”
said Mr. Figgs, sternly. Figgs had survived
his sentimental era, and grew impatient at any reminiscences

of it. The reference to the “porpus” nettled him.
“If Peter is crossed as you say, wait till we take an account
of stock next week. That will cure him, I'll be
bound. But the long and the short of it is, that if he
keeps growing stupid, I'll send him adrift. I'm afraid
he is beginning to read books and buys cheap publications.
Reading books is enough to ruin anybody.
There ought to be tee-total societies against it.”

But Peter was not then in love, or, if he were he was
not fully conscious of the fact; nor did he read books
enough to do him material injury. His complaint was
ambition. He wanted to be something, and he did not
know what, which is an embarrassing situation of affairs
—he cared not what—rich, handsome, wise, witty, eloquent,
great upon the stump or fierce in regard to whisker—he
would be a meteor, large or small—courted or
feared—loved or envied—if not a cataract, at least a
ripple on the wave,—more than Peter Ploddy had ever
been or was like to be,—as funny as Smith, as musical
as Baritone, as voluble and as impudent as Quillet, as
pretty as Daffodil Twod, as big and as forocious as
Samson Hyde, as wealthy as Headover Slapdash was
reputed to be.

It was one of those afternoons at the close of the
month of June, which seem to have no end to them—
when the sun, broad and blazing, appears to be unwilling
to approach the horizon, and endeavours to make the
night his own as well as the day—when the eye wearies
of excess of light—when ice-creams are in their first
flush of popularity and little boys paddle in the brook—
when crops rejoice in green, while people swelter in
white,—when nature clothes herself thickly in leaves,
while the rest of the world divests itself of garments to
as great an extent as the customs of society will permit.

It was such an afternoon as this, and the Figgs family
were abroad for recreation. Dick, the boy, was out on
an errand, trying how many hours could be consumed in
a transit from one given point to another. Peter Ploddy
was alone in the shop, labouring under a suspicion that
customers must have departed this life, and that buying
things had become an “obsolete idea”—so he availed
himself of the opportunity and of a friction match, to find
recreation in the smoking of a segar. Reclining upon
coffee bags, he puffed and he mused, he mused and he
puffed, until the smoke circled around him in lazy clouds,
and his brain grew as hazy as the atmosphere. Light
faded, sounds melted indistinctly away, and, at last, Peter
imagined that he was rapidly travelling over the gulf of
time, using his coming years for stepping stones, and
anticipating the occurrences of the future, as if he were
turning over the pages of a book of prints. The beginning
and the end were equally within his ken, and, fixing
himself at a point some eight or ten years after date, it
struck him that he would like to know where “funny
Smith” might chance to be at that period.

The place certainly had somewhat the appearance of a
theatre; but of a theatre in a very small way—of a theatre
in a consumption, and troubled with a difficulty of
breathing. The room itself was not very large, but it
was much too large for the audience, who disposed of
themselves in various picturesque positions, as if desirous
of making up in effect what they wanted in numbers.
One individual had his pedal extremities on the bench
before him, and looked, as it were, from a rest, his elbows
placed upon his knees, while his chin reposed in the
palms of his hands. Another was longitudinally extended,
with his back against the wall; while others intersected
at least three benches in their desire for repose,
lifting their heads at intervals to see what was going on.

The gentleman in the window seemed to be as comfortable
as any, in his zigzag attitude, with his feet on one side
and his shoulders on the other; and he had the advantage
too of seeing all that occurred, both inside and out, as
was evident from his frequent remonstrances with certain
juveniles in the street, who were poking him with a stick
because he obstructed their view. “Git down, I tell
you!” cried Zigzag, impatiently, every now and then.
The candles were few and ghastly; a single fiddle comprised
the strength of the orchestra, and it was quite
enough; for had there been more of the same sort, it would
have been a questionable experiment upon the limits of
auricular endurance. Ploddy paid his entrance money to
a faded-looking woman, with one disconsolate child in
her arms, and several others, equally forlorn and unkempt,
hanging about her, while she herself, who, in her own
person, united the offices of treasurer, check-taker and
policeman, (in which latter capacity she often visited the
window aforesaid, to aid Mr. Zigzag in making them
“git down” on the outside,) was a singular compound of
the remains of beauty, of the slattern and of the virago—
care-worn indeed, but theatrical still, like the odd volume
of a romance, thumbed to tatters in the kitchen. A performer
was sustaining the regular drama by a series of
“barn-yard imitations,” which struck Ploddy's ear as
familiar, as also seemed the figure of the imitator, though
his hollow cheeks, painted face and flaxen wig set recognition
for a moment at defiance. The well-known finale
of the “cat's concert,” however, dissipated doubt. It
was Smith—the funny Smith—the envied Smith, who
soon came round to “the front” to hold the baby and
mind the door, while Mrs. Smith delighted the audience
with a fancy dance. His countenance told a sad tale of
disappointment, poverty and suffering, and rendered explanation
unnecessary.

“It is just as well,” thought Ploddy, as he slipped
sadly away, “that I never could succeed in being a funny
fellow, and made so poor a business of it at the cat's
concert, and at imitating the bottle and the cork. This
trying to make people laugh every night, from year to
year, especially when their mouths are full of gingerbread,
wouldn't do for me, and doesn't seem to do for Smith.
I'd rather be Ploddy than Smith, if that's the way it's to be.”

As Peter went meditating along, musing upon the
melancholy situation to which funny apothecaries, who
think more of creating merriment than of wielding the
pestle, may be reduced, he found himself, at the small
hours of the night, in the streets of the city. He was
startled by the sound of rattles, and almost overthrown
by a rush of tipsy and uproarious gentlemen, who battled
the watch, and would have battled also with Peter,
but that he secured a birds-eye view of the scene from a
lofty flight of steps. Mars proved false to Bacchus, and
victory perched like an eagle upon the banner of the
functionaries.

“Well, bang my kerkus for a drum,” panted Dogberry,
“if this 'ere isn't that 'ere singing chap agin. I knows
him by his mulberry nose. He's on a shindy somewhere
or other every night, and gets knock'd down and tuck'd
up three times a week, rig'ler. Old Calico, his daddy-in-law,
has turned him out—couldn't stand it no longer,
no how it could be fixed; he got so blue and blew it out
so strong. He's a musical genus, you see.”

“The corporation should make a contract for ketching
him by the month, or else they should keep him ketch'd
all the time,” replied Verges.

“Put the genus in a wheelbarrow,” exclaimed Dogberry,
in tones of command, “and make the t'other fellers
walk.”

A shade of doubt passed over Peter's mind as to

whether the gifts of Bill Baritone had really, and in the
long run, proved of benefit to him, and whether it was
desirable, after all, to enjoy that degree of popularity
which causes a youth to be “invited out” to convivialities
every evening. It was a distinction, perhaps, but
Peter did not exactly like the order to “put the genus in
the wheelbarrow.”

“But I must go to Quillet,” said Peter, “and ask him
to talk the police people over in the morning, to get poor
Bill out of his troubles.”

Quillet, however, had exhaled and evaporated. The
places that had known him, now knew him no more—
no Quillet at the ward meetings—no Quillet on the stump.
His talking abilities had converted him at last into a
mere hanger-on of party—he neglected clients, and clients
returned the compliment by being equally neglectful
of him. People praised him that he might do the work
necessary for political triumph; but when that was accomplished,
it so happened always, that somebody else
reaped the advantage. “Good fellow, Quillet,” said
they, “but not popular—obnoxious—too much before the
public. Can't recommend him, you know. Habits not
very good—doesn't attend to his business—oughtn't to
go to so many meetings;” and the unlucky Quillet was
finally starved out, to do his talking elsewhere.

And the pretty man, in the fancy line, Mr. Twod—what
disposition had these years made of him? He had
dressed so well and lounged so much in the resorts of
fashion, by way of showing what nature and the tailor had
done for him, that in the end “Twod's Perfumery” was
disposed of at public sale, without the slightest regard to
his feelings on the subject; and some remorseless stripling,
whose face must have been as hard as the contents of his
bosom, had disfigured the door by a chalked inscription
to the effect that “Pretty Mr. Twod is now safe in quod.”

“A face is not always a fortune,” inferred Peter;
“there are decided differences between being useful and
being ornamental;” and he had his own notions on another
subject, when he became impressed with a belief that
Samson Hyde, the currier, had disappeared suddenly, to
avoid the consequences of a fatal fray, in which he was
deeply implicated. Broad shoulders and alarming whiskers
were sinking below par—a man may have too much
spirit.

Ploddy was not sure, but it struck him that the barkeeper
at the Spread Eagle had a marvellous resemblance
to Mr. Headover Slapdash, the speculator,—a
little older, but yet as restless as ever. What had possibly
become of his equipages, his magnificent mansion
in town, his beautiful retreat in the country, his long
rows of houses, and his immense accumulation of lots?
Gone! Could it be? There was nothing more likely.

“How different things seem to be in the end, from
what they promise to be in the beginning,” muttered
Peter, as he moved uneasily upon the coffee-bags.
“Strange, strange, very strange,” and his foot dislodged
a demijohn from its perch. The crash aroused him from
slumbers and dreams, and he sprang to his feet in bewilderment.

“Headover Slapdash has exploded—didn't you hear
the smash?” shouted Peter.

“Crossed in love, poor thing,” said Mrs. Figgs, as
she rummaged for her sympathizing pocket-handkerchief.

“Who crossed him, I'd like to know?” cried Priscilla,
with a twinge of jealousy.

“He's becoming foolish,” added Figgs.

“He's been asleep, and has had an inkeybus,” observed
the youthful Timothy, whose bias was in a scientific
direction.

But Peter was rejoicing that it was only in his imagination

that his friends had suffered,—that however real
and however probable the whole matter appeared, it was
still no more than a dream. There were hints in it, notwithstanding,
which might be rendered useful, not to
himself only, but to the other parties concerned. Peter
was sure, at all events, that he had learned something
about contentment with his position, with his faculties
and with his physical endowments, which he had never
acquired before, although he stood greatly in need of it.
He had, in half an hour or so, anticipated the trying experiences
of years, and saw that every condition has its
compensations—that the higher the elevation, the more
imminent the danger of a fall—that brilliancy may
betray to ruin, and that successes are often lures to destruction.
Humbleness looked by no means so despicable
as he had previously considered it.

“Tol de rol!” said Ploddy.

“You can't sing, Peter,” remarked Mrs. Ploddy.

“I'm glad of it,” returned Ploddy, thinking of “genus”
on the wheelbarrow; “I'll mind my business all the
better.”

It was to this observation, coupled with a confirmatory
change in his general business deportment, that Peter
eventually was indebted for his position as a member of
the firm of “Figgs and Ploddy,” and a very prosperous,
respectable, and wealthy firm it came to be, owing in part
to Peter's dream, which also gained him the reputation
of being a philosopher, in secretly furnishing the material
for wise discourses upon the folly of inordinate ambition
and vain desires.

There was, however, another event in Peter's life
which deserves to be chronicled as important.

It was evident that there was something on his mind as
he fidgetted before the glass—an unusual event with him
—and he rumpled his hair in all directions.

“It's labour thrown away, Peter—you can't make
yourself handsome,” hinted Priscilla Figgs, rather maliciously,
as she glanced over her sewing.

But Peter had not been studying himself in the mirror.
His eyes were on the reflected image of Miss Priscilla
Figgs, who was by no means a disagreeable object.
Ploddy had too much taste to look at himself when she
was near.

“Ha! ha!—ho! ho!—I know it,” said Peter; “I've
had a lucky escape.”

“Not a very narrow one, I'm sure,” replied Priscilla,
tossing her head, “whatever Sally Jones may think.”

“Sally who?”

“Sally Jones,” responded Priscilla, poutingly. She appeared
uncommonly pretty at that moment, and Peter had
a sensation.

“Now, Priscilla!”

“Now Peter, you know—”

“I don't—I don't know,” and Peter drew nearer to
the damsel, whose head was turned coquettishly away,
but not far enough to prevent her downward glance from
noting the progress of the approach.

What explanations were made relative to Sally Jones,
the historian saith not; but the inference is that they
were satisfactory.

“Peter, Peter, there's ma!” cried Miss Priscilla Figgs
as she flew to the opposite side of the room, assuming a
look of intense demureness, which was perhaps a little
overacted, if not also a little contradicted by the mantling
colour of her cheek and the dewy softness of her eyes.

“Let her come,” said Peter, with delight, “all the
ma's there are, and pa into the bargain.”

Figgs had no objection to Peter as a son-in-law, now
that he had “got over his foolishness,” and was so strict
in his attention to business, and “ma” was charmed to

think that her theory of the tender passion in reference
to grocers, had been so happily illustrated, the more especially
as she had somewhat risked her reputation upon
it that Peter was in love.

Smith, Baritone, Quillet, Twod and Samson Hyde were
at the wedding, and you may be sure there was a
merry party. Peter told them his dream as a bachelor's
legacy of warning against the dangers to which they
were individually exposed, and the effect was no doubt
salutary. Certain it is, that Peter Ploddy heard the clever
imitations, the funny stories, and the good songs—listened
to Quillet's neat and appropriate speeches—saw the pretty
man dance and the valiant man look heroic, without a
shadow of discontent or envy, satisfied to be, in every
particular, as he was and as he was like to be. Priscilla
was decidedly good-looking enough for both, and Peter
Ploddy was a happy man.