dressed in his
Sunday clothes, he looked the model of a dissenting minister; witness
his black coat, waistcoat and trousers, and primly tied white
neckerchief, with no shirt-collar visible. For some quarter of an hour
had this interesting trio been standing at their parlor window, in
anxious expectation of Titmouse's arrival; their only amusement being
the numberless dusty stage-coaches driving every five minutes close past
their gate, (which was about ten yards from their house,) at once
enlivening and ruralizing the scene. Oh, that poor laburnum--laden with
dust, drooping with drought, and evidently in the very last stage of a
decline--that was planted beside the little gate! Tag-rag spoke of
cutting it down; but Mrs. and Miss Tag-rag begged its life a little
longer, because none of their neighbors had one!--and then _that_
subject dropped. How was it that though both the ladies had sat under a
thundering discourse from Mr. Dismal Horror that morning--they had never
once since thought or spoken of him or his sermon--never even opened his
exhilarating "_Groans_"? The reason was plain. They thought of Titmouse,
who was bringing "airs from heaven;" while Horror brought only "blasts
from----!" and _those_ they had every day in the week, (his sermons on
the Sunday, his "_Groans_" on the weekday.) At length Miss Tag-rag's
little heart fluttered violently, for her papa told her that Titmouse
was coming up the road--and so he was. Not dreaming that he could be
seen, he stood beside the gate for a moment, under the melancholy
laburnum; and, taking a dirty-looking silk handkerchief out of his hat,
slapped it vigorously about his boots, (from which circumstance it may
be inferred that he had walked,) and replaced it in his hat. Then he
unbuttoned his surtout, adjusted it nicely, and disposed his chain and
eyeglass just so as to let the tip only of the latter be seen peeping
out of his waistcoat; twitched up his shirt-collar, plucked down his
wristbands, drew the tip of a white pocket handkerchief out of the
pocket in the breast of his surtout, pulled a white glove halfway on his
left hand; and having thus given the finishing touches to his toilet,
opened the gate, and--Tittlebat Titmouse, Esquire, the great guest of
the day, for the first time in his life (swinging a little ebony cane
about with careless grace) entered the domain of Mr. Tag-rag.

The little performance I have been describing, though every bit of it
passing under