had no gold watch;
neither, of course, did I possess one. In those days a gold watch
was thought a good deal of, and made an impression in society, as a
three-hundred-guinea ring does now. Barwise was then considered the best
watchmaker in London, and perhaps in the world. So I went to his shop,
and chose two gold watches of good size and substance--none of your
trumpery catchpenny things, the size of a gilt pill trodden upon--at the
price of fifty guineas each. As I took the pair, the foreman let me have
them for a hundred pounds, including also in that figure a handsome gold
key for each, of exactly the same pattern, and a guard for the fob of
watered black-silk ribbon.

My reason for choosing these two watches, out of a trayful of similar
quality, was perhaps a little whimsical--viz., that the numbers they
bore happened to be sequents. Each had its number engraved on its white
enamel dial, in small but very clear figures, placed a little above the
central spindle; also upon the extreme verge, at the nadir below the
seconds hand, the name of the maker, "Barwise, London." They were not
what are called "hunting watches," but had strong and very clear lunette
glasses fixed in rims of substantial gold. And their respective numbers
were 7777 and 7778.

Carrying these in wash-leather bags, I gave George Bowring his choice
of the two; and he chose the one with four figures of seven, making some
little joke about it, not good enough to repeat, nor even bad enough to
laugh at.

CHAPTER II.

For six years after this all went smoothly with George Bowring and
myself. We met almost daily, although we did not lodge together (as once
we had done) nor spend the evening hours together, because, of course,
he had now his home and family rising around him. By the summer of 1832
he had three children, and was expecting a fourth at no very distant
time. His eldest son was named after me, "Robert Bistre," for such is
my name, which I have often thought of changing. Not that the name is
at all a bad one, as among friends and relations, but that, when I am
addressed by strangers, "Mr. Bistre" has a jingling sound, suggestive
of childish levity. "Sir Robert Bistre," however, would sound uncommonly
well; and (as some people say) less eminent artists--but perhaps, after
all, I am not so very old as to be in a hurry.

In the summer of 1832--as elderly people will call to mind, and the
younger sort will have heard or read--the choler