"'Mr. Squeers, I believe, sir?'

"'The same, sir,' said Mr. Squeers, with an assumption of extreme surprise.

"'The gentleman,' said the stranger, 'that advertised in the Times newspaper?'

"'Morning Post, Chronicle, Herald, and Advertiser, regarding the academy called Dotheboys Hall, at the delightful village of Dotheboys near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire,' added Mr. Squeers. 'You come on business, sir, I see by my young friends....'

"'Hem!' said the other; 'twenty pounds per annum, I believe, Mr. Squeers?'

"'Guineas,' rejoined the schoolmaster, with a persuasive smile.

"'Pounds for two I think, Mr. Squeers,' said Mr. Snawley, solemnly.

"'I don't think it could be done, sir,' replied Mr. Squeers, as if he had never considered the proposition before. 'Let me see: four times five is twenty, double that, and deduct the —— Well, a pound either way shall not stand betwixt us. You must recommend me to your connection, sir, and make it up that way....'

"'And this,' resumed Snawley, 'has made me anxious to put them to some school a good distance off, where there are no holidays—none of those ill-judged comings home twice a-year that unsettles children's minds so—and where they may rough it a little; you comprehend?'"

"It is a very fine country—fresh mountain air. Dotheboys Hall is still here, no longer a school. Mr. Shaw, the original of Squeers, married a Miss Laidman, who was a sort of cousin of my father. The school buildings are pulled down, but the house (Dotheboys) is still a very nice handsome one, with large offices, cowhouses, etc. We learn from our landlady that in the room where we are now sitting (Unicorn Inn, Bowes) Dickens had lunch the day he and a friend rode over from Barnard Castle to see and make sketches of Mr. Shaw's school, and this same old lady, Mrs. Highmoor, waited on them. Dickens was only here that day, but he stayed longer in Barnard Castle, and got a great deal of gossip, not too true, about the school from one ——, a quondam usher of Shaw's and 'a bad lot,' who had, indeed, been turned off for bad conduct.

"Mrs. Highmoor tells me, as indeed my father always says, that Dotheboys Hall is a most exaggerated caricature. But somehow the description was in some respects so correct that everybody recognized it. Poor Shaw quite took it to heart, and did no more good, got childish and paralytic, and soon died. The school went down fast. Mrs. Shaw also died broken-hearted. But a good deal of money was left behind. Mrs. Highmoor says there were an immense number of boys; that Mr. Shaw chartered a special coach to bring them from London (this place is on one of the great coaching roads between York and Glasgow); and that there was great joy in the village on the arrival of the coach and its precious freight—quite the event it was. She says the boys were used very well, and fed as well as could be expected for £20 a-year; that there might be things wrong, but no complaints were ever made; that Shaw made money, because on his own farm he grazed the cows and fed the sheep and pigs which supplied the boys' food.

"My impression is that Yorkshire schools were bad, but not so bad as Dickens makes out, and Shaw's was better than most of them. There is a strong feeling here of indignation against Dickens, who no doubt ruined poor Shaw."

"An old pupil of Mr. Squires—the Mr. Squeers of Dickens's 'Nicholas Nickleby'—has died at New Brunswick, leaving behind a record of his schooldays. This is to be published as a sort of post-mortem vindication of Mr. Squires, whose career as a pedagogue was rather unfairly caricatured by the novelist. The old pupil is the Rev. Ralph Willis, a native of London. He went to school at Bowes, in Yorkshire, and it was through his father that Dickens heard of the school. Many of the scenes in the book he describes as inventions; but the moral of the reminiscences is that Squires was not as black as he was painted" (Globe, June 5, 1895).

"At last, hurried steps are heard, and the door opening briskly, Mr. Jackson (the host) in person appears, who excuses himself for his delay on account of some business, which, he says, kept him; he shakes your hands, both at once, in each of his, and tells you dinner is served; and then you offer your arm to Mrs. Jackson, I take that of the timid eldest daughter, and we descend to the ground floor, to the dining-room, which, like the two drawing-rooms, is everywhere the same, in form, size, and situation. You can hardly fail to observe all the brilliant plate, not only on the table but also on the sideboard, where trays of every size, goblets, covers, plates, and other objects of the same metal are ranged against the wall; this display puts one in mind of a silversmith's shop.

"The table is out of all proportion long; each end is occupied, the one by Mr. Jackson, who undertakes to serve the fish and to carve the large joints (such as an immense turbot, and then an enormous piece of roast beef); the other end by madame, who, having placed you on her right, and me on her left, begins to serve the soup; she will afterwards ask you to carve the everlasting boiled fowls, À la sauce blanche. As for the French ragouts, which are ranged lengthwise down the table in covered dishes, be careful and avoid them; I recommend it as a friend. You have accepted soup, and I see that you are astonished to find little cÔtelettes, bones, forced meat balls, etc., swimming about; the cayenne pepper and other hot spices cause you to make a grimace, whilst they burn your throat; never mind! eat some turbot, you will find it excellent.

"You must now bravely 'screw your courage to the sticking place;' you are nailed to that chair for the space of two hours and a half at least, without any chance of conversation, except only a few interrupted words, each person speaking occasionally in a low tone to his or her neighbour. The burly Mr. Crack, to whom Mrs. Jackson introduced us, has, as yet, only opened his mouth for the purpose of endeavouring to satisfy his extraordinary appetite; this, however, appears to be labour in vain; he is placed in the middle of the table, and fills the place of two persons, whilst he eats enough for four. As to that soi-disant ÉlÉgant—that little personage placed next to Miss Maria, who cannot turn his head because of his stiff black stock which keeps it in prison—you will guess by his ridiculous affectation and exaggerated politeness to his neighbours to what sphere he belongs; particularly when, during the dessert, on her asking him the favour to give her an orange, he will take it up between two spoons, one in each hand, his elbows raised and his fingers extended. The only speech which you will have heard him utter was when good Mr. Jackson cried out, after emptying his glass, 'After all, the climate of England is the best in the world!' and he rejoined, 'It is unquestionably true!' Thus pass two hours! However, at last the cloth is removed, and we continue round the well-rubbed or polished mahogany table. At this point of the entertainment Mr. Jackson makes us a bow, pronouncing at the same time a few indistinct words; we all return his bow. This, after dinner, is a regular custom—a sort of agimus tibi gratias, which is thus said in abridgment.

"The table is now covered with crystal, fruit, and flowers, and wine decanters; these are first arranged in battle array before the host; and, at his signal, made by pushing the first round, they begin their promenade of the table, one gentleman sliding them along to the next; the ladies take a little, taste the fruit, and, having occupied some moments in putting on their white gloves, rise, following the example of Mrs. Jackson; we all do the same, but only to conduct them to the door of the room. Here, however, the force of habit makes you forget the recommendation I had given you—you try to escape; but a hand retains you by the tail of your coat; it is that of Mr. Jackson, who observes to you that you have still a bottle of claret to finish with him. Mr. Crack, too, had made a polite effort to rise on the departure of the ladies, but his own weight reseated him; he has now got to the raisins and preserved fruits, etc.

"After another mortal hour a servant enters, and announces that the tea and coffee are taken upstairs; we ascend. Mrs. Jackson advances to us immediately, she asks if we play or sing, and tells us how amiable we should be to do so—this is a request rarely addressed to an Englishman, one is too sure of a reply in the negative. Mrs. Jackson appears very much astonished that neither you nor I can satisfy her in this respect; and, after many protestations in order to convince her, she makes a sign to Miss Dorothy, the great musician of the family, who opens the piano, places her two feet on both the pedals, and begins a confused din, under which the instrument itself seems to suffer. When she has finished you will be much embarrassed to tell me whether it was an adagio, a waltz, or a quadrille which she has favoured us with. But, never mind; like great Mr. Crack, who is seated in his armchair, digesting his dinner, you cry out, 'Delightful!' This is all that is required. "At length midnight is nearly arrived, and ceremony and restraint, the nous ne savons que faire, still reigns at Mrs. Jackson's; having wished them good-night, let us go!"

"It appears to me that nothing can be better contrived to defeat its legitimate end than a large dinner-party in the London season—sixteen, for instance. The names of the guests are generally so announced that it is difficult to hear them; and, in the earlier part of the year, the assembling takes place in such obscurity that it is impossible to see. There is often a tedious and stupefying interval of waiting, caused perhaps by some affected fashionable, some important politician, or some gorgeously decked matron, or, it may be, by some culinary accident. At last comes the formal business of descending into the dining-room, where the blaze of light produces by degrees sundry recognitions; but many a slight acquaintance is prevented from being renewed by the chilling mode of assembling. In the long days the light is more favourable, but the waiting is generally more tedious, and half the guests are perhaps leaving the Park when they ought to be sitting down to dinner.

"At table intercourse is prevented as much as possible by a huge centre piece of plate and flowers, which cuts off the one half of the company from the other, and some very awkward mistakes have taken place in consequence, from guests having made personal observations upon those who were actually opposite to them. It seems strange that people should be invited to be hidden from one another. Besides the centre piece, there are usually massive branches to assist in interrupting communication; and perhaps you are placed between two persons with whom you are not acquainted, and have no community of interest to become so.

"When the company is arranged, then comes the perpetual motion of the attendants, the perpetual declining of what you do not want, and the perpetual waiting for what you do, or a silent resignation to your fate. To desire a potato, and to see the dish handed to your next neighbour, and taking its course in a direction from you round an immense table, with occasional retrograde movements and digressions, is one of the unsatisfactory occurrences which frequently take place; but, perhaps, the most distressing incident in a grand dinner is to be asked to take champagne, and, after much delay, to see the butler extract the bottle from a cooler, and hold it nearly parallel to the horizon, in order to calculate how much he is to put into the first glass to leave any for the second. To relieve him and yourself from the chilling difficulty, the only alternative is to change your mind and prefer sherry, which, under the circumstances, has rather an awkward effect. These and an infinity of minor evils are constantly experienced amidst the greatest displays, and they have, from sad experience, made me come to the conclusion that a combination of state and calculation is the horror of horrors. Some good bread and cheese and a jug of ale, comfortably set before me and heartily given, are heaven and earth in comparison.

"I must not omit to mention, amongst other obstacles to sociability, the present excessive breadth of fashionable tables, for the purpose of holding, first, the cumbrous ornaments and lights before spoken of; secondly, in some cases the dessert, at the same time with the side dishes; and, lastly, each person's cover, with its appurtenances; so that to speak across the table, and through the intervening objects, is so inconvenient as to be nearly impracticable. To crown all, is the ignorance of what you have to eat, and the impossibility of duly regulating your appetite. To be sure, in many particulars, you may form a tolerably accurate guess, as that, at one season, there will be partridges in the third course, and at another pigeons, in dull routine.

"No wonder that such a system produces many a dreary pause, in spite of every effort to the contrary, and that one is obliged, in self-defence, to crumble bread, sip wine, look at the paintings, if there are any, or, if there are not, blazon the arms on the plates; or, lastly, retreat into one's self in despair, as I have often and often done. When dinner is over, there is no peace till each dish in the dessert has made its circuit, after which the wine moves languidly round two or three times, and then settles for the rest of the evening, and coffee and small talk finish the heartless affair."

"I will give you, dear reader, an account of a dinner I have ordered this very day, at Lovegrove's at Blackwall, where, if you have never dined, so much the worse for you. This account will serve as an illustration of my doctrines on dinner-giving better than a long abstract discourse.

"The party will consist of seven men besides myself, and every guest is asked for some reason—upon which good fellowship mainly depends, for people brought together unconnectedly had, in my opinion, better be kept separate. Eight I hold to be the golden number, never to be exceeded without weakening the efficiency of concentration. The dinner is to consist of turtle, followed by no other fish but whitebait, which is to be followed by no other meat but grouse, which are to be succeeded by apple fritters and jelly; pastry on such occasions being quite out of place. With the turtle, of course, there will be punch, with the whitebait champagne, and with the grouse claret; the two former I have ordered to be particularly well iced, and they will all be placed in succession upon the table, so that we can help ourselves as we please. I shall permit no other wines, unless, perchance, a bottle or two of port, if particularly wanted, as I hold a variety of wines a great mistake. With respect to the adjuncts, I shall take care that there is cayenne, with lemons cut in halves, within reach of every one for the turtle, and that brown bread and butter in abundance is set upon the table for the whitebait. The dinner will be followed by ices and a good dessert, after which coffee and one glass of liqueur each and no more."