What the good woman said was indubitably true. She had face enough for any two moderately-visaged wives, and enough over and above to have supplied anyone who might have lost a portion of theirs. However, I will be more polite than the landlady, and acquaint the reader, that no one yet of the establishment had seen the lady's face, nor was it intended that anyone should. As this squabble was growing into a quarrel the physician arrived; he had not been long alone with the unknown, before he sent for a surgeon, and the surgeon for a nurse. There was so much bustle, alarm, and secrecy, above-stairs, that the landlord began to consider which of the two undertakers, his friends, he should favour with the anticipated job, and rubbed his hands as he dwelt on the idea of a coroner's inquest, and the attendant dinner. The landlady was nearly raving mad at being excluded from what she supposed was the bed of death. Hot flannels and warm water were now eagerly called for--and these demands were looked upon as a sure sign that dissolution approached. The stairs approaching the lady's chamber were lined with master, mistress, man-servant and maid-servants, all eagerly listening to the awful bustle within. At length there is a dead silence of some minutes. The listeners shuddered. "It is all over with her!" ejaculates one tender-hearted manoeuvrer of the warming-pan, with her apron in the corner her eye. "Poor lady! it is all over with her!" It was exactly two in the morning of the 21st that a shrill cry was heard. Shortly after, the door was flung open by the nurse, and a new edition of an embryo reefer appeared in her arms, and very manfully did the play of his lungs make everyone present aware that _somebody_ had made his appearance. The supposed bed of death turned out to be a bed of life, and another being was born to wail, to sin, and to die, as myriads have wailed, and sinned, and died before him. CHAPTER TWO. I AM DECIDEDLY AN INCUMBRANCE--BEGIN LIFE WITH HALF A DOZEN FRUITLESS JOURNEYS--FIND A HOME AND A FOSTER FATHER--AND TALK LEARNEDLY OF TRIANGLES AND ARCHBISHOPS. What is to be done with the child? It is a fearful question, and has been often asked under every degree of suffering. Of all possible articles, a child is the most difficult to dispose of; a wife may be dispensed with without much heart-breaking--even a friend and rubbish may be shot out of the way, and the bosom remain tranquil; but a helpless, new-born infant!--O there is a pleading eloquence in its feeble wail that goes to the heart and ear of the stranger--and must act like living fire in the bowels of the mother.