A

COLD March wind was blowing, and many bushels of March dust were flying through the streets of London, driving their royal ransoms where they were not appreciated, into the eyes and throats and nostrils of morose pedestrians, as John Henry Arrowsmith, leaving the counting-house and warehouse in which he was head clerk and manager, turned his steps homeward after his day's work was done. He was a little later than usual, and had half a mind to indulge himself on that account with four-pennyworth of omnibus; but that was a temptation which came every day, and was every day resisted, except in rainy weather, when it was the truest economy to take an inside place-if it could be had. Fourpence a day, counting the working days only, would have come to something like

five pounds per annum, in addition to the.five pounds which the morning journey cost him, and that was a consideration to John Henry Arrowsmith, as it is to most of us. So he buttoned up his coat and his pocket, and setting his face to the wind, with his eyes half closed, stepped out as bravely as he could for the suburb in which his home was situated. Hungerford Place, Peckham, was Mr. Arrowsmith's address; a very appropriate one, he used to say, for a man with a large family and a great many hungry children.

The warehouse in which Mr. Arrowsmith had spent the greater part of his business life, first as assistant and afterwards as superintendent, belonged to Messrs. Grindall and Co., drysalters. If any one should ask in these days, "What is a drysalter?" the answer might be given offhand,

as once it was by a much greater authority than the writer of this humble history, "Tate and Brady." Not that the Psalter of Tate and Brady is altogether dry. There are noble verses in it that have never been surpassed, if equalled, by ancient or modern hymnologists, which is not surprising, if one considers the source divine from whence their poetry as well as inspiration is derived; but aphorisms are not always meant to be interpreted literally, and the brevity of wit may sometimes clip the wings of truth. The contents of Messrs. Grindall and Co.'s drysaltery warehouse also were anything but dry, consisting chiefly of pickles, sauces, oils, vinegars, and all kinds of preserves and condiments, for the supply of shipping and the wholesale trade.

But it does not much matter to our readers what went into or came out of Messrs. Grindall's stores. We have to do with their manager, not with their dry goods, and with his social and domestic affairs rather than with his business relations; and when we have stated that the whole income he derived from those relations amounted to no more than £250 per annum, we have said enough; enough, that is, for our readers, though very far from enough from Mr. Arrowsmith's point of view, which, as we have already hinted, was that of a man with a large family.

And here again a question may be asked. What is a large family?

A poor woman was complaining one day that she did not receive her proper share of charitable gifts and doles. Her neighbour, Mrs. Hawke, in the next court, came in for everything and "got more than ever she was entitled to; for Mrs. Hawke had no family-not to speak of; only nine." "Only nine! how many then have you? was the natural rejoinder. Fourteen living," she replied.

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But even fourteen is not such a very large number when one is used to it. Some one is Isaid to have begun a story of some trifling adventure which had befallen him with the words, "As I was crossing over Oxford Street the other day with fourteen of my daughters "-Laughter followed, and the narrator never got beyond those introductory words. Yet there was something fine, almost heroic, in the contented, matter-of-fact way in which that man spoke of his belongings. "Fourteen of my daughters!" naturally thinks of fourteen others left at home, to say nothing of sons, perhaps equally numerous. An unsympathising spectator, especially a cabman in a hurry to drive on, might have said that any one with such a following ought to have been crossing, not Oxford Street, but the Atlantic. But-tutte le cose si stímano per rapporto, as the proverb says. Everything depends upon the point of view from which things are regarded. We are apt to exaggerate our neighbours' burthens as well as their faults, and to forget the compensations of the former and the extenuations of the latter. Then again, the ages of the children and the status of the family have to be considered. There are "large little families," as they are called, which are the cause of infinite trouble and anxiety to their fond parents; and large families grown

up, the various members of which are often very helpful to each other, and a source of justifiable pride and pleasure to their authors. The old woman who lived in a shoe was, doubtless, very much to be pitied. All her many children must have been small, her house small, her income small; no mention is made of a husband; perhaps she was a widow; or perhaps her husband spent his time at a public-house, which under the circumstances would not be surprising. Yet, with all her difficulties, she could give her children broth, if she could not give them bread; and if they were short of clothing they had beds, or at least a bed to lie on, and she had other means of warming them; and if, after that, they gave her trouble, as the legend seems to imply, she had probably her own peculiar and old-fashioned ideas of discipline and education to thank for it.

John Henry Arrowsmith's large family had been very differently brought up; and it is hardly necessary to say that they were of different ages, and not all of the same size and standing as the old woman's "many children" seem to have been, from her impartial treatment of them "all round." There were eleven Arrowsmiths, not including the parents. "No family-not to speak of; only eleven." The eldest was a daughter, nineteen years of age, named Margaret; the youngest, also a daughter, who had been christened Julia, but who was generally spoken of as baby. Yet her father never called her baby: he was tired of that name or description, and preferred the lisping pronunciation of the little sisters and brothers, who of Julia made Thule. Thule suggested ultima; perhaps that was one reason why Paterfamilias liked it. There had always been a difficulty about the choice of names. If Mr. Arrowsmith had had to begin again, or if he could have known how many names would be wanted, he would have observed an alphabetical arrangement-Amanda, Belinda, Claudius, Dora, and so on, down to the eleventh, which might have been Katinka, or Kezia. Julia, however, with the ultima attached, was by far the best name to his mind, and he was quite satisfied with it and did not want to look beyond it. The ages of the children ranged from nineteen to three, hence when they stood up for inspection before going to church, being of very even growth, they rose in regular gradation, one above the other, like a flight of steps. The "parade in the passage" on Sunday mornings was a realistic copy of Cruikshank's amusing sketch, shoes of all sizes being arranged against the wall ready for use, from Julia's to papa's, increasing in length and size like the notes of a dulcimer or harmonicon. Poor John Henry Arrowsmith used to say mournfully, but not without a feeling of pride, that he walked in thirteen pairs of shoes every day, and wore thirteen hats and thirteen complete suits of clothes, of one kind or other. At all events he had to pay for them all, and very little to do it with.

As he walked home on that March afternoon with the east wind blowing in his teeth-southeast, to be more correct-with the dust in his eyes and care upon his brow, his mind was much exercised about a proposition which his wife had

made to him in the morning. John, their eldest son, ought now to be doing something, she had said: he was nearly eighteen years of age, active and intelligent, and it was time that he began to earn his own living. John, for his part, was willing. John was open to anything that might offer; open, not as some men are, who open their mouths and wait for good things to drop into them, but ready to bestir himself and to do anything in his power to help himself and his parents. John was not particular; he had no foolish pride;

anything," he used to say, he did not care what it was. "Anything" hitherto had proved to be almost nothing. John had held two or three temporary engagements, supplying him for the time with bread and cheese, but not of a kind to enable him sensibly to relieve the family exchequer.

"He is a steady youth," Mrs. Arrowsmith had said; "well educated, and fit for any position; good-looking, too."

John was very like what his father had been at about the same age, but Mrs. Arrowsmith did not give expression to that opinion just then. She looked at her husband, however, contemplatively, and repeated,

"Yes, nice-looking John is; anybody would take to him at first sight; but there seems to be no opening for him here. If he were to go to Liverpool, my uncle Walrus, who has only one son and one daughter, would, I have no doubt, find a place for him in his counting-house, and be very glad to have him."

Mr. Walrus was a ship-owner and oil merchant at the great seaport. Mrs. Arrowsmith had not seen or heard much of him for many years, but she and all her children had great faith in the strength and influence of family ties. "Blood is thicker than water," she used to say. Members of the same family, however distant the relationship, must naturally feel an interest, not to say affection, for each other. Time and space might separate them, but the bond of consanguinity would always more or less assert itself. Her own children were devoted to each other, a very united family, and she did not doubt that they would continue to be so-brothers and sisters all their lives through, whatever other ties they might contract. Mr. Walrus was her own uncle, and therefore great-uncle to her children, and Tom and Emily Walrus were cousins-second cousins, or cousins " removed," but cousins for all that—and they would be cousinly, no doubt.

"I have always said," Mrs. Arrowsmith remarked, as if that were a conclusive argument-"I have always said that Mr. Walrus, being my uncle, would be glad to do anything in his power for any of our children. He has a large staff of clerks and people in his business. I have always thought that the time would come when he would rejoice to be of service to us. Let John go down and

see him."

Those had been Mrs. Arrowsmith's last words to her husband when he left home on that March morning for business. John Henry had been thinking about them all day, and was still pondering them in his mind as he returned at even. There was truth in her remark, no doubt; there was wisdom in her proposal. But that showing himself involved additions to his wardrobe, as well as many other expenses, and it was necessary to be careful. Therefore Mr. Arrowsmith, although he had agreed with his wife in the main, had promised to think it over, and had kept his promise faithfully and fully.

MR.

CHAPTER II.-AN EXPERIMENT.

R. ARROWSMITH opened the door of his small house at Peckham with a latch-key: it saved trouble; though, to be sure, there was always some one about who could have opened the door without calling up Sophia, their one servant, from the kitchen. Time had been when Mrs. Arrowsmith herself, watching from the window for her husband's return, had never failed to open the door for him or ever his hand could reach the knocker; but Mrs. Arrowsmith had something else to do now, and had no time to spare for windows. Time had been also, a few years later, when little feet would run to meet him in the passage, and little arms would be outstretched to be lifted up in father's strong embrace and fondly kissed. But such greetings would have been inconvenient now; there was no room for them. Ten or eleven children running to meet their father in that narrow passage would have been nothing less than a block-"Too many by half," Mr. Arrowsmith had sometimes remarked. Ten or eleven kisses to be received and returned would have taken up a great deal of time, and would have been altogether de trop. Not that kisses had lost their virtue in that large little family; but, as the father once remarked, with a slight emphasis upon the last words of the quotation, "Est modus in re buss"—there is moderation even in the matter of kisses. Kisses, if we may venture upon a commonplace similitude, had come to be like the pickles and preserves upon the shelves in Messrs. Grindall's warehouse. They were the same genuine articles as always, but they would keep. They had derived character and strength from the adversities and pleasures (the vinegars and spices) with which they had been treated. Pickles and preserves are very good, but one does not require them as frequently, or in the same quantities, as fresh ripe fruits.

So Mr. Arrowsmith opened the door for himself with his own latch-key, and went, without, as it

happened, meeting any one on the way, to the little back parlour which, by a family fiction, he was allowed to call his own.

The first thing he saw lying on the table was a printed paper, of foolscap size, with an official endorsement, "Income tax return." Mr. Arrowsmith had his own opinion about the income tax : it was a burning question with him, and the sight of this obtrusive circular never failed to stir up his wrath and indignation. "Income, indeed!

he would say to himself, "income! That is the only thing they think of; they never consider the outgoings. What can be more unfair, more monstrous, than to tax a man with thirteen in farnily at the same rate as a young, harum-scarum bachelor who has nobody but himself to keep? A paternal Government, as ours is supposed to be, ought to add something to a man's income, under such conditions, instead of taking anything from it. Why, in Sparta, a man with a large family was looked upon as a benefactor to the State, and treated accordingly. The least they could do, in common fairness, would be to divide a man's income by the number to be maintained with it. Thirteen into two hundred and fiftyanswer, nineteen pounds two and ninepence. That ought to be my return; and, of course, I should then be exempt: but they won't allow it. It is no use writing to the Chancellor of the Exchequer; he won't see it. No matter which party is in, they won't listen to me or take any notice of my application. They ought to allow so much a head for the family, and then tax the surplus. They should be quite welcome to tax my surplus at any rate they pleased. I should like very much to see them do it."

Mrs. Arrowsmith entered the room while her husband was thus expressing himself. He held up the paper, and she knew at once what was rankling in his mind. She had heard the same arguments year after year; they seemed to be very good in themselves, but they led to nothing. So, without waiting for him to speak, she said,

"What have you decided about John?"

Mr. Arrowsmith was tired; his eyes were smarting with the dust; and the income tax paper had exasperated him; so he answered, rather shortly,

"I don't know."

It is very trying when one has a grievance not to be allowed to air it.

"I don't know," he repeated; "here's this." "Yes; that comes every year." "That makes no better of it." "But, about John?"

"When are we to have tea?"

"Directly, I hope."

Mrs. Arrowsmith took the hint and retired. After tea would be a more favourable moment for urging her proposals: it had been a mistake on her part to begin about them while her husband was so tired and so "put out." When tea was over and the children dispersed, she waited till Mr. Arrowsmith returned to the subject of his own accord.

"It would be a speculation, my dear," he said, "and it would cost money."

"let

"It would be well worth it," she replied; John go, and show himself. He won't come back. Uncle Walrus-"

"I was going to say," he interrupted, "that I have thought it well over, and-yes-John shall go. Where is John?"

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'Upstairs, mending his boots. I'll call him." It was characteristic of John Arrowsmith that he was generally employed in mending something or other. If a saucepan or a kettle " ran," John was the person to stop it; if a pane of glass was broken, he replaced it; if in the kitchen a jug "fell off its handle," or a chair broke its leg, Sophia appealed furtively to John, and by his help they were made whole again before anything could be said about them. The children, when they had accidents, repaired to John, and John repaired all damages. Boots caused him more trouble than anything else, but to a certain extent he was successful even with boots, and many a sixpence was saved by the heel-piece or the stitch-in-time which he supplied. John had a natural aptitude for mending things and keeping things in order, and was not above turning things to account generally in any way that offered. He whitewashed the kitchens, and would have swept the chimneys also without feeling in the least humiliated, if he had thought that there would have been true economy in doing so. As his mother said, John was open to anything; he would be a treasure to any one; and as for his personal appearance, nature had been bountiful to him, having endowed him with good looks and made a gentleman of him. him go to Liverpool and show himself.

NOT

CHAPTER III.-COMPANY IN THE TRAIN.

Let

OT more than a week elapsed before John Arrowsmith, responding eagerly to the proposals of his father and mother, had completed his preparations for going to Liverpool. He took an affectionate farewell of his brothers and sisters, who fell upon his neck or clung about his knees, according to their age and stature, grieving to part with him, and wondering what they should do without him. The younger children hoped he would come back soon; the elders trusted that it would be a long time before they should see his face again. John tore himself away, and went off at last, leaving both parents and children sorrowful and sad at his departure. Two of the boys accompanied him as far as the corner where the omnibus passed, carrying his portmanteau, and would have gone with him to the terminus at Euston but for reasons of finance. It would have done no good. Seeing people off is a melancholy business, and not to be recommended where it can be dispensed with. Meeting them on their arrival is much more sensible and pleasant.

Arrived at the terminus, John took his place in a third-class carriage, having a letter to "Uncle Walrus" in his breast pocket, and full of confidence in the result of his mother's recommendation to one so nearly related to them both. Family ties, he felt sure, would be duly recognised. What

could be more pleasant than to hold out the hand of friendship to a son of a daughter of a brother, absence from whom had doubtless "made the heart grow fonder"? An opening of some kind would, he felt sure, be found for him in the counting-house of Messrs. Walrus, Dugong, and Co., or in some other office through their interest and introduction. All John wanted was an opening. Let him once get his foot in, and he would take good care to keep it in; it would be the first step on the road to fortune, or at least to bread and cheese. He expected the former, but would be satisfied for the present with the latter. All that he wanted was to get his foot in.

He was meditating thus, being alone in the compartment, when the door was opened.

"Plenty of room here," said a porter; and a woman with a troop of children scrambled in, filling the nets with baskets and bundles, and making a great to do with other children and friends who had come to see them off. The kissing and leave-taking went on till something was dropped under the train. "One of the babies!" some one said, which caused great terror and commotion, though it turned out providentially to be only an umbrella. They had scarcely recovered from this shock when the train began to move, and handkerchiefs were waved and kisses thrown across John's face in great profusion.

"Off at last," said John to himself.

At the same instant a young man dashed at the carriage door, opened it, sprang in, gave the porter who followed him with his portmanteau a shilling (the first coin that came to hand), and sat down panting opposite to John.

"Touch and go," he said. "Children! what a nuisance! Don't belong to you, do they? Beg pardon if they do."

John shook his head, and the other laughed, expecting that he would sympathise with him in his objection to a family party.

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Always my fate," he said; "just in time to get a bad place and bad company. Beg pardon again; didn't mean you, of course; don't want to hurt anybody's feelings."

He was speaking in an undertone, so that only John could hear him.

"Always have to hurry," he went on; "and somehow or other always late, in spite of it."

"I generally manage to be too early," John replied, seeing that he was expected to say something.

"But you don't call that being punctual, do

you?"

"It is the next thing to it."

"So is being late."

"That's true; but there's a difference."

"I suppose there is-practically. I can't help it, though I always was late, I suppose I always shall be; it's not my fault, it's constitutional."

One of the children here began to cry, and the mother took out some buns and oranges, and distributed them.

"There you are again," said John's vis-à-vis. "That's one of the things I hate-eating in a railway carriage; the peculiar smell of sticky buns, too, and of orange peel; the window up,

and the ventilator closed, of course. I always did hate sticky buns; I can't help it, it's constitutional. Hullo, young man!"

These last words were addressed to one of the children. The family window being closed, the orange peel had to be thrown out of the window which was open, and some of it had fallen upon the stranger's lap.

"Beg your pardon, sir," Mrs. Manifold said: that was the mother's name.

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'Granted," said Ferdinand Skerry: that was his name. "Are those all your children ?"

"All, sir? Oh dear no; I have three more at home, and three out at service."

"You don't seem to care for children," John said, observing the comical look with which Mr. Skerry turned away from the last speaker.

"No, I don't; I am an only child myself. It is curious how some men have more brothers and sisters than they want, and others haven't any. I believe it is a consequence of statistics. A man I know has seven sons and no daughters; of course, somebody else is obliged to have seven daughters and no sons, to make things even; if he didn't it would upset statistics. Look at me again—I am an only son. The average strength of families in England is, let us say, six. My father had but one child; somebody else, as a consequence, has eleven. What are you laughing at ?"

"We are eleven," John said.

"There then, I told you so; it's obliged to be so, else what would become of statistics? Well, I am satisfied if you are, though it does seem hardly fair. I don't care for children myself, never did; can't help it, constitutional."

Here one of the little ones began again to cry "Oh, I say!" Mr. Skerry exclaimed; "I can't stand this. Must have a smoke. You don't mind, do you ?"

"I don't," John answered, "but this is not a smoking carriage."

"Never mind; lady won't object, I dare say; and he lighted his pipe, offering John at the same time a cigar, which the latter declined with thanks.

"Going to Liverpool?" Mr. Skerry asked, presently.

"Yes."