A PRETTY TIME OF NIGHT. FROM SECOND SERIES OF CHARCOAL SKETCHES.

WE know it to be theoretical in certain schools in the kitchen, for instance, which is the most orthodox and sensible of the schools-that, as a general rule, the leading features of character are indicated by the mode in which we pull a bell; and that, to a considerable extent, we may infer the kind of person who is at the door-just as we do the kind of fish that bobs the cork-by the species of vibration which is given to the wire. Rash, impetuous, choleric and destructive, what chance has the poor little bell in such hands? But the considerate, modest, lowly and retiring-do you ever know such people to break things? Depend upon it, too, that our self-estimate is largely indicated by our conduct in this respect. If it does not betray what we really are, it most assuredly discloses the temper of the mind at the moment of our ringing.

"Tinkle!"

Did you hear?

Nothing could be more amiable or more unobtrusive than that. It would scarcely disturb the nervous system of a mouse; and whoever listened to it, might at once understand, that it was the soft tintinnabulary whisper of a gentleman of the convivial turn and of the "locked out" description, who, conscious probably of default, is desirous of being admitted to his domiciliary comforts, upon the most pacific and silent terms that can be obtained from those who hold the citadel and possess the inside of the door.

«Tinkle!"

Who can doubt that he-Mr. Tinkle-would take off his boots and go up stairs in his stockingfeet, muttering rebuke to every step that creaked? What a deprecating mildness there is in the deportment of the "great locked out!" How gently do they tap, and how softly do they ring; while perchance, in due proportion to their enjoyment in untimely and protracted revel, is the penitential aspect of their return. There is a "never-do-soany-more-ishness"all about them-yea-even about the bully boys "who would'nt go home till morning till daylight does appear," singing up to the very door; and when they

"Tinkle!"

It is intended as a hint merely, and not as a broad annunciation-insinuated-not proclaimed aloud -that somebody who is very sorry-who "didn't go to help it," and all that-is at the threshold, and that if it be the same to you, he would be exceeding glad to come in, with as little of scolding and rebuke as may be thought likely to answer the purpose. There is a hope in it—a subdued hope"Tinkle!"

-that perchance a member of the family-goodnatured as well as insomnolent-may be spontaneously awake, and disposed to open the door without clamouring up Malcolm, Donalbain, and the whole house. Why should every one know? But

66 Tinkle-tankle!"

Even patience itself on a damp, chilly, un

wholesome night-patience at the street door, all alone by itself and disposed to slumber-as patience is apt to be after patience has been partaking of potations and of collations-even patience itself cannot be expected to remain tinkling there"pianissimo"-hour after hour, as if there were nothing else in this world worthy of attention but the ringing of bells. Who can be surprised, that patience at last becomes reckless and desperate, let the consequences-rhinoceroses or Hyrcan tigers -assume what shape they may?

There is a furious stampede upon the marblea fierce word or two of scathing Saxon, and then"Rangle-ja-a-a-ngle-ra-a-a-ng!!!"—the sound being of that sharp, stinging, excruciating kind, which leads to the conclusion that somebody is "worse," and is getting in a rage.

That one, let me tell you, was Mr. Dawson Dawdle, in whom wrath had surmounted discretion, and who, as a forlorn hope, had now determined to make good his entrance-assault, storm, escalade -at any hazard and at any cost. Dawson Dawdle was furious now" sevagerous”— -as you have been, probably, when kept at the door till your teeth rattled like castanets and cachuchas.

Passion is picturesque in attitude as well as poetic in expression. Dawson Dawdle braced his feet one on each side of the door-post, as a purchase, and tugged at the bell with both hands, until windows flew up in all directions, and nightcapped heads in curious variety were projected into the gloom. Something seemed to be the matter at Dawdle's.

"Who's sick?" cried one.

"Where's the fire?" asked another.

"The Mexicans are come!" shouted a third. But Dawson Dawdle had reached that state of intensity, which is regardless of every consideration but that of the business in hand, and he continued to pull away, as if at work by the job, while several observing watchmen stood by in admiration of his zeal. Yet there was no answer to this pealing appeal for admittance-not that Mrs. Dawson Dawdle was deaf-not she-nor dumb either. Nay, she had recognised Mr. Dawdle's returning step -that husband's "foot," which should, according to the poet,

"Have music in't,

As he comes up the stair."

But Dawdle was allowed to make his music in the street, while his wife-obdurate-listened with a smile bordering, we fear, a little upon exultation, at his progressive lessons and rapid improvements in the art of ringing "triple-bob-majors."

"Let him wait," remarked Mrs. Dawson Dawdle; "let him wait-'twill do him good. I'm sure I've been waiting long enough for him."

And so she had; but, though there be a doubt whether this process of waiting had "done good" in her own case, yet if there be truth or justice in the vengeful practice which would have us act towards others precisely as they deport themselves to us, and every one concedes that it is very agreeable, however wrong, to carry on the war after this fashion,-Mrs. Dawson Dawdle could

have little difficulty in justifying herself for the course adopted.

Only to think of it, now!

Mrs. Dawson Dawdle is one of those natural and proper people, who become sleepy of evenings, and who are rather apt to yawn after tea. Mr. Dawson Dawdle, on the other hand, is of the unnatural and improper species, who are not sleepy or yawny of evenings-never so, except of mornings. Dawson insists on it that he is no chicken to go to roost at sundown; while Mrs. Dawson Dawdle rises with the lark. The larks he prefers, are larks at night. Now, as a corrective to these differences of opinion, Dawson Dawdle had been cunningly deprived of his pass-key, that he might be induced to remember not to forget" to come home betimes—a thing he was not apt to remember, especially if good companionship intervened.

Thus, Mrs. Dawdle was "waiting up" for him...* To indulge in an episode here, apropos to the general principle involved, it may be said, pertinently enough, that this matter of waiting, if you have nerves" waiting up," or "waiting down"choose either branch of the dilemma-is not to be ranged under the head of popular amusements, or classified in the category of enlivening recreation. To wait-who has not waited ?-fix it as we will -is always more or less of a trial; and whether the arrangement be for "waiting up"-disdainful of sleep-or for "waiting down"-covetous of dozes-it rarely happens that the intervals are employed in the invocation of other than left-handed blessings, on the head of those who have caused this deviation from comfortable routine; or that, on their tardy arrival-people conscious of being waited for, always stay out as long and as provokingly as they can-we find ourselves at all disposed to amiable converse, or complimentary expression.

And reason good. If we lie down, for instance, when my young lady has gone to a "Polka party," or my young gentleman has travelled away to an affair of the convivialities, do we ever find it conducive to refreshing repose, this awkward consciousness, overpending like the sword of Damocles, that sooner or later the disturbance must come, to call us startingly from dreams? Nor, after we have tossed and tumbled into a lethargy, is it to be set down as a pleasure to be aroused, all stupid and perplexed, to scramble down the stairway, for the admission of delinquents, who-the fact admits of no exception-ring, ring, ring, or knock, knock, knock away, long after you have heard them, and persist in goading you to frenzies, by peal upon peal, when your very neck is endangered by rapidity of movement in their behalf. It is a lucky thing for them when they so ungratefully ask “why you didn't make haste," as they always do, or mutter about being kept there all night," as they surely will, that despotic powers are unknown in these regions, and that you are not invested with su preme command. But now get thee to sleep again, as quickly as thou canst, though it may be that the task is not the easiest in the world.

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Waiting up," too; this likewise has its delecta

tions. The very clock seems at last to have entered into the conspiracy—the hands move with sluggish weariness, and there is a laggard sound in the swinging of the pendulum, which almost says that time itself is tired, as it ticks its progress to the drowsy ear. There is a bustle in the street, no doubt, as you sit down doggedly to wakefulness; and many feet are pattering from the theatre and circus. For a time the laugh is heard, and people chatter as they pass, boy calling unto boy, or deepmouthed men humming an untuned song. Now doors are slammed, and shutters closed, and bolts are shooting, in earnest of retirements for the night. Forsaken dogs bark round and round the house, and vocal cats beset the portico. The rumbling of the hack dwindles in the distance, as the cabs roll by from steamboat wharf and railroad depot. You are deserted and alone-tired of book-sated with newspaper-indisposed to thought. You nod-ha! ha!—bibetty bobetty!-as your hair smokes and crackles in the lamp. But it is folly now to peep forth. Will they never come? No-do they ever, until all reasonable patience is exhausted?-Yes -here they are!-Pshaw!-sit still-it is but a straggling step; and hour drags after hour, until you have resolved it o'er and o'er again, that this shall be the last of your vigils, let who will request it as a favour that you will be good enough to sit up for them. I wouldn't do it!

So it is not at all to be marvelled at that Mrs. Dawson Dawdle-disposed as we know her to be, to sleepiness at times appropriate to sleep-was irate at the non-appearance of Mr. Dawson Dawdle, or that after he had reached home, she detained him vengefully at the street door, as an example to such dilatoriness in general, for it is a prevailing fault in husbandry, and that, in particular, being thus kept out considerably longer than he wished to keep out too much of a good thing being good for nothing-he might be taught better, on the doctrine of curing an evil by aggravation-both were aggravated.

But the difficulty presents itself here, that Mr. Dawson Dawdle has a constitutional defect, beyond reach of the range of ordinary remedial agents. Being locked out, is curative to some people, for at least a time-till they forget it, mostly. But Dawson Dawdle is the man who is always too latehe must be too late-he would not know himself if he were not too late-it would not be he, if he were not too late. Too late is to him a matter of course a fixed result in his nature. He had heard of "soon," and he believed that perhaps there might occasionally be something of the sort-spasmodic and accidental-but, for his own part, he had never been there himself. And as for "too soon;" he regarded it as imaginative altogetheran incredibility. The presumption is, that he must have been born an hour or so too late, and that he had never been able to make up the difference. In fact, Dawson Dawdle is a man to be relied on-no mistake as to Dawson Dawdle. Whenever he makes an appointment, you are sure he will not keep it, which saves a deal of trouble on your side of the question; and at the best, if an early hour

be set, any time will answer, in the latter part of the day. Dawson Dawdle forgets, too;-how complimentary it is to be told that engagements in which we are involved are so readily forgotten! Leave it to the Dawdles to forget; and never double the affront by an excuse that transcends the original offence.-Or else, Dawson Dawdle did not know it was so late; and yet Dawson might have been sure of it. When was it otherwise than late with the late Mr. Dawson Dawdle?

Well," said he at the bell-handle all this time, "Well, I suppose it's late again-it rings as if it was late; and somehow or other it appears to me that it always is late, especially and particularly when my wife tells me to be sure to be home early -you, Dawson, come back soon; d'ye hear?' and all that sort o' thing. I wish she wouldn't-it puts me out, to keep telling me what I ought to do; and when I have to remember to come home early, it makes me forget all about it, and discomboberates my ideas so that I'm a great deal later than I would be if I was left to my own sagacity. Let me alone, and I'm great upon sagacity; but yet what is sagacity when it has no key and the deadlatch is down? What chance has sagacity got when sagacity's wife won't let sagacity in? I'll have another pull at the bell-exercise is good for one's health."

This last peal-as peals, under such circumstances, are apt to be-was louder, more sonorous, and in all respects more terrific than any of its "illustrious predecessors," practice in this respect tending to the improvement of skill on the one hand, just as it adds provocation to temper on the other. For a moment, the fate of Dawson Dawdle quivered in the scale, as the eye of his exasperated lady glanced fearfully round the room for a means of retaliation and redress. Nay, her hand rested for an instant upon a pitcher, while thoughts of hydropathies, douches, showerbaths, Graefenbergs, and Priessnitzes, in their medicinal application to dilatory husbands, presented themselves in quick aquatic succession, like the rushings of a cataract. Never did man come nearer to being drowned than Mr. Dawson Dawdle.

"But no," said she, relenting; "if he were to ketch his death o' cold, he'd be a great deal more trouble than he is now-husbands with bad colds -coughing husbands and sneezing husbands-are the stupidest and tiresomest kind of husbands-bad as they may be, ducking don't improve 'em. I'll have recourse to moral suasion; and if that won't answer, I'll duck him afterwards."

Suddenly and in the midst of a protracted jangle, the door flew widely open, and displayed the form of Mrs. Dawson Dawdle, standing sublime-silent -statuesque-wrapped in wrath and enveloped in taciturnity. Dawdle was appalled.

My dear!" and his hand dropped nervelessly from the bell-handle. "My dear, it's me-only me!" Not a word of response to the tender appeal the lady remained obdurate in silence-chilly and voiceless as the marble, with her eyes sternly fixed upon the intruder. Dawson Dawdle felt himself running down.

My dear-he! he!" and Dawson laughed with a melancholy quaver-"it's me that's come home -you know me-it's late, I confess-it's most always late-and I-ho! ho!-why don't you say something, Mrs. Dawson Dawdle?-Do you think I'm going to be skeered, Mrs. Dawdle?"

As the parties thus confronted each other, Mrs. Dawdle's "masterly inactivity" proved overwhelming. For reproaches, Dawson was prepared-he could bear part in a war of opinion-the squabble is easy to most of us-but where are we when the antagonist will not deign to speak, and environs us, as it were, in an ambuscade, so that we fear the more because we know not what to fear?

"Why don't she blow me up?" queried Dawdle to himself, as he found his valour collapsing-"why don't she blow me up like an affectionate woman and a loving wife, instead of standing there in that ghostified fashion?"

Mrs. Dawdle's hand slowly extended itself towards the culprit, who made no attempt at evasion or defence slowly it entwined itself in the folds of his neck-handkerchief, and, as the unresisting Dawson had strange fancies relative to bow-strings, he found himself drawn inward by a sure and steady grasp. Swiftly was he sped through the darksome entry and up the winding stair, without a word to comfort him in his stumbling progress. "Dawson Dawdle!-Look at the clock!—A pretty time of night, indeed, and you a married man. Look at the clock, I say, and see."

Mrs. Dawson Dawdle, however, had, for the moment, lost her advantage in thus giving utterance to her emotion; and Mr. Dawson Dawdle, though much shaken, began to recover his spirits.

"Two o'clock, Mr. Dawdle-two!-isn't it two, I ask you?"

"If you are positive about the fact, Mrs. Dawdle, it would be unbecoming in me to call your veracity in question, and I decline looking. So far as I am informed, it generally is two o'clock just about this time in the morning—at least, it always has been whenever I stayed up to see. If the clock is right, you'll be apt to find it two just as it strikes two-that's the reason it strikes, and I don't know that it could have a better reason." A pretty time!"

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Yes-pretty enough!" responded Dawdle; "when it don't rain, one time of night is as pretty as another time of night-it's the people that's up in the time of night, that's not pretty; and you, Mrs. Dawdle, are a case in pint-keeping a man out of his own house. It's not the night that's not pretty, Mrs. Dawdle, but the goings on, that's not-and you are the goings on. As for me, I'm for peace-a dead-latch key and peace; and I move that the goings on be indefinitely postponed, because, Mrs. Dawdle, I've heard it all before-I know it like a book; and if you insist on it, Mrs. Dawdle, I'll save you trouble, and speak the whole speech for you right off the reel, only I can't cry good when I'm jolly."

But Dawson Dawdle's volubility, assumed for the purpose of hiding his own misgivings, did not answer the end which he had in view; for Mrs.