the social empire of this kingdom
between them, hate each other naturally, making truce and uniting,
for the sordid interests of either. I like to see an old aristocrat,
swelling with pride of race, the descendant of illustrious Norman
robbers, whose blood has been pure for centuries, and who looks down
upon common Englishmen as a free American does on a nigger,--I like to
see old Stiffneck obliged to bow down his head and swallow his infernal
pride, and drink the cup of humiliation poured out by Pump and Aldgate's
butler. 'Pump and Aldgate, says he, 'your grandfather was a bricklayer,
and his hod is still kept in the bank. Your pedigree begins in a
workhouse; mine can be dated from all the royal palaces of Europe. I
came over with the Conqueror; I am own cousin to Charles Martel, Orlando
Furioso, Philip Augustus, Peter the Cruel, and Frederick Barbarossa.
I quarter the Royal Arms of Brentford in my coat. I despise you, but I
want money; and I will sell you my beloved daughter, Blanche Stiffneck,
for a hundred thousand pounds, to pay off my mortgages. Let your son
marry her, and she shall become Lady Blanche Pump and Aldgate.'

Old Pump and Aldgate clutches at the bargain. And a comfortable thing
it is to think that birth can be bought for money. So you learn to value
it. Why should we, who don't possess it, set a higher store on it than
those who do? Perhaps the best use of that book, the 'Peerage,' is to
look down the list, and see how many have bought and sold birth,--how
poor sprigs of nobility somehow sell themselves to rich City Snobs'
daughters, how rich City Snobs purchase noble ladies--and so to admire
the double baseness of the bargain.

Old Pump and Aldgate buys the article and pays the money. The sale
of the girl's person is blessed by a Bishop at St. George's, Hanover
Square, and next year you read, 'At Roehampton, on Saturday, the Lady
Blanche Pump, of a son and heir.

After this interesting event, some old acquaintance, who saw young Pump
in the parlour at the bank in the City, said to him, familiarly, 'How's
your wife, Pump, my boy?'

Mr. Pump looked exceedingly puzzled and disgusted, and, after a pause,
said, 'LADY BLANCHE PUMP' is pretty well, I thank you.'

'OH, I THOUGHT SHE WAS YOUR WIFE!' said the familiar brute, Snooks,
wishing him good-bye; and ten minutes after, the story was all over the
Stock Exchange, where it is told, when young Pump appears, to this very
day.

We can imagine the wear