the man, extending a hand the size of the yellow clump of fingers which sometimes swings over a glover's door. Certainly not,' said Mr. Pickwick, with great alacrity. . . . . Allow me the honour, sir?' said the gentleman with the whiskers, presenting his dexter hand, and aspirating his h. 'With much pleasure, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick; and having executed a very long and solemn shake, he got into bed again."* When Mr. Pickwick is released, a cavalcade accompanies him, and only separate "after having shaken hands all round."+ When he reconciles the Winkles, all the company "shook hands for five minutes together"-then an interval, and then-" there was another shaking of hands for five minutes longer." And on the wedding-morning at old Wardle's, we see Mr. Pickwick "shaking hands, over and over again, with the same people, and when his own were not so employed, rubbing them with pleasure."§ Which may serve to remind us of Hood's Sir Jacob the Father's demeanour in his Golden Legend of the Precious Leg:

And Sir Jacob the Father strutted and bow'd,
And smiled to himself, and laugh'd aloud,
To think of his heiress and daughter-
And then in his pockets he made a grope,
And then, in the fulness of joy and hope,
Seem'd washing his hands with invisible soap
In imperceptible water.[]

Nicholas Nickleby and John Browdie have words, almost blows, and then shake hands "across the table with much gravity; and such was the imposing nature of the ceremonial, that Miss Squeers was overcome and shed tears." After the fracas at Dotheboys Hall the usher meets the Yorkshireman, and a deal of shaking of hands is the result.** Mrs. Vincent Crummles, on the hero's joining her theatrical company, "shook him by the hand. . . . ; he saw it [?] was a large one, but had not expected quite such an iron grip as that with which she honoured him."++ John Browdie meets him again in London, and shakes him "by the hand again and again, slapping his palm with great violence between each shake, to add warmth to the reception." The Brothers Cheeryble, too, what a deal of hand-shaking they do, and enjoin, in Chapter Sixty-Three!

Master Humphrey brings us back to Mr. Pickwick, who, "taking my hand in his, shook it again and again with a warmth of manner perfectly irresistible." All this time he kept alternately releasing my hand, and grasping it again," &c. §§ "After shaking me heartily by both hands at once, he patted me gently on the back," &c. &c. "I saw him to the

door; an omnibus was passing... which Mr. Pickwick hailed and ran after with extraordinary nimbleness. When he had got about half way he turned his head and . . . stopped, evidently irresolute whether to come back and shake hands again, or to go on." "Our first proceeding when we are assembled, is, to shake hands all round."¶¶-When the Garlands get inside Mr. Witherden's office, there is "a great shaking of hands"*** -and on some remark being made, "another shaking of hands in consequence"-and when the consultation is over, "the shaking of hands" is

renewed. Every renewal being conscientiously recorded. When sick Dick Swiveller is being tended by "the Marchioness," we find him, at his dry-toast and tea performance, "stopping every now and then to shake her by the hand."* Mr. Garland comes in, and talks to the patient, who, however, relieves the conversation ever and anon by the request, "Another shake of the hand, Marchioness, if you please." Next day, the meal and the concomitant performance (again before company) are repeated. "The manner of his meal was this:-Mr. Swiveller, holding the slice of toast or cup of tea in his left hand, and taking a bite or drink as the case might be, constantly kept, in his right, one palm of the Marchioness tight locked; and to shake... this imprisoned hand, he would stop every now and then, in the very act of swallowing, with perfect seriousness of intention, and the utmost gravity."+

Turning to another work, we have Mr. Tigg "shaking Mr. Pecksniff heartily by both hands"-Martin and Tom Pinch "shaking hands again" —“Thank you,' says Martin, shaking his hand”—Mr. Tigg "shook him warmly by the hand again"-the hostess "very soon put both her hands in Mark's and shook them heartily," "and once more shook him by both hands” "They all shake hands with Mr. Pecksniff, and drink the toast"-Tom Pinch rose from his seat and "shook his friend by both hands"-John Westlock "seized Tom Pinch by both hands the instant he appeared, and fairly hugged him"-" The captain of the ship came up to shake hands with the colonel, and seeing a well-dressed stranger on the deck... shook hands with him also."-Mr. Jefferson Brick, on being introduced, "shook hands with Martin with an air of patronage designed to reassure him"-General Fladdock "shook hands with the Norrises three times all round"-Mr. Scadder "shook hands with each of them—nothing is done in America without shaking hands" (nor in England either, at least as Mr. Dickens represents us)" One after another, dozen by dozen, score after score, up they came: all shaking hands with Martin. Such varieties of hands, the thick, the thin, the short, the long, the fat, the lean, the coarse, the fine; such differences of temperature, the hot, the cold, the dry, the moist, the flabby; such diversities of grasp, the tight, the loose, the short-lived, and the lingering!"-" The languid Mr. Pogram shook hands with Martin, like a clockwork figure that was just running down" -"Mr. Pogram shook hands with him, and everybody else, once more" -"Mark Tapley, too!' said Tom Pinch, running to the door, and shaking hands with somebody else," Tom "was constantly running between Mark and Martin, shaking hands with them alternately," and then "Tom ran off to cut them some bread-and-butter . . . and then he shook hands with them again"—" If he so much as laid down his knife and fork, somebody put out a hand to shake with him"-and old Fips "pounced on Tom... and in the first place shook him by one hand, and in the second place shook him by the other," &c. &c.‡

From "David Copperfield" we might adduce more than as many examples, sometimes two or three in a page. As where "I then shook hands with Mr. Dick, who shook hands with me a great many times" (153-by which numerals we intend the page, not the number of times

† Ch. lxvi.

* Old Curiosity Shop, ch. Ixiv. Martin Chuzzlewit (edit. 1844), pp. 39, 57, 75, 81, 87, 88, 112, 147, 150, 196, 198, 218, 266, 276, 400, 405, 546, 613, 614. Other instances at pp. 195, 202, 208, 222, 262, 267, 270, 338, 377, 386, 404, 419, 423, 509, 620.

-which probably reached a somewhat higher figure). Or with Uriah Heep, who "shook hands with me-his hand felt like a fish in the dark” (168). Or, "We all drank the toast, and all shook hands with Mr. Jack Maldon" (174). Or, “In a moment we were all shaking hands with one another," Mr. Peggotty keeping "over and over again shaking hands with me, and then with Steerforth, and then with me" (220). Or, "Traddles,' said I, shaking hands with him again, after I had sat down" (283). Or, Mr. Micawber "shook me by both hands with the utmost fervour," and "Mr. Micawber immediately reappeared, and shook hands with me again” (287). Or," Mr. Micawber then shook hands with me again, and left me" (288). Or, "Mr. Jack Maldon shook hands with me; but not very warmly, I believed; and with an air of languid patronage" (370). Or, "said Mr. Dick, shaking hands with me in a corner" (374). Or, "I begged Mr. Micawber to fill us bumpers, and proposed the toast in due form; shaking hands with him across the table" (378). Or," said Mr. Dick, reaching across in high glee to shake hands with me" (462). Or, Mr. Dick "shook hands with Mr. Micawber at least half a dozen times in a minute" (502). Or, “My dear sir,' said Mr. Micawber, for Mr. Dick was shaking hands with him again," ," and "Mr. Micawber was quite overcome by these friendly words, and by finding Mr. Dick's hand again within his own" (503). Or, "My dear sir,' to Mr. Dick, who shook hands with him violently," and "shook hands with him again" (527). Or, "He [Traddles] now hugged me again; and I hugged him; and we both sat down, and shook hands across the hearth" (585). Or, "Thank you, my dear Copperfield,' said Traddles, as we shook hands once more" (586). Or, “On my telling him my name, he [Mr. Chillip] was really moved. He quite shook hands with me-which was a violent proceeding for him, his usual course being to slide a tepid little fish-slice, an inch or two in advance of his hip, and evince the greatest discomposure when anybody grappled with it. Even now, he put his hand in his coat pocket as soon as he could disengage it, and seemed relieved when he had got it safe back" (590).

We have exhausted, not our stock of illustrations, far from that, but the reader's patience. "Bleak House" must therefore be left unexplored,* and the remainder of the author's fictions. We have called this redundancy one of the curiosities of current literature. Not many would call it a curiosa felicitas. Nevertheless, it bespeaks a kindly, demonstrative, hand-grasping nature: a nature akin, perhaps, (with a difference,) to the comprehensive hand-shaker described by Crabbe:

The wish that Roman necks in one were found,

That he who form'd the wish might deal the wound,
This man has never heard; but of the kind,

Is that desire which rises in his mind;

He'd have all English hands (for further he
Cannot conceive extends our charity),

All but his own, in one right-hand to grow,

And then what hearty shake would he bestow !†

Any one caring, however, to look up some of the hand-shakings in "Bleak House," may find them in pp. 13, 17, 25, 45, 59, 110, 199, 218, 224, 243, 245, 248, 249, 333, 390, 430, 442, 477, 490, 501, 512, 534, 602, 604, 605, of the original edition.

†The Borough, letter xvii.

523

OUR DIAMONDS RESET;

OR, A COQUETTE'S CAPITULATION.

BY OUIDA.

I.

WHERE I MET ROSALIE RIVERS AGAIN.

SHERRYZINSEIDLITZ, to my mind, is the pleasantest of pleasant German Bads. I like its linden-trees, I like its green, sunny nest among the hills; I like its Kursaal, where one can have either intoxication à son gré, bright eyes gleaming in a waltz, or bright sovereigns heaped up before the roulette-wheel; I like its shoals of tourists, as amusing in their infinite variety of human form as a book of Leech's Sketches; I like its ducal sovereign with his five-and-twenty Christian names, and his Lilliputian kingdom, and his penniless exchequer, as exquisite a satire on the purple, in his way, as the Lectures on the Georges are in theirs. I don't like its travelling English generally: papa from his Stockwell villa, with his 'Change atmosphere still hanging about him, and his deep-rooted British prejudices for all things foreign, thinking of his dinner as he drives through the Simplon, and digesting his sworn-at breakfast as he puffs up the Chamounix valley; mamma and the girls full of ecstasies at their dear baron picked up at the table d'hôte, and their ostentatious parade of foreign languages, which, having been "finished" after the manner of English ladies of the middle class, they pronounce so that the puzzled shop-people and waiters are in doubt as to whether it is Japanese, or Hindostanee; the sons spending their congé from Coutts's, or Somerset House, with their badly-done blasé-ism, and their impossible touring costumes, and their "Not bad!" to scenes that would have brought tears of joy to Shelley or to Shakspeare's eyes. Who does like them, though, anywhere? so it is scarcely fair to place them among the désagrémens of Sherryzinseidlitz, when Rhine steamers and Nice hotels, the Lung' Arno, and the Corso, the beauty of Monte Rosa, and the filth of Cologne, every nook and corner of the Continent, from the most crowded café on the Boulevards to the most isolated spot on the Tyrol range, where the pole and hat stick out of the snow in such grim significance, is ruined for one's enjoyment by them and their confrères. In every Pompeii, alas! we meet the “ Baby Simmons" of that gay, kindly humorist so lately gone from amongst us, and from her little apple cheeks and marvellous bonnet de nuit which push the Righi down that one fatal step which divides the sublime from the ridiculous, to her horrified conjuration, "Oh ma, dear, how I've torn my dress!" which breaks shrilly upon our ear in the delicious stillness of a Como twilight; she and her kind drive us perforce out of Europe to see if we can go somewhere, no matter where, whether to Livingstone's Central Africa or

Wilson's Canadian salmon-streams, out of the beaten track of the English tourist, the mark of whose heel on the sand is worse to us than the savage's was to Robinson Crusoe. So it is scarcely fair to put them against Sherryzinseidlitz, since they are a drawback shared with all the rest of the Continent, in common with fleas, dirt, bad odours, miserably puzzling "small change," extortionate bills, where that filthy omelette we couldn't eat is charged exactly four times the price of the best pâté de foie gras going, and other small disagreeables incidental to touring. Sherryzinseialitz is a very jolly little place, particularly so to anybody who will dwell on its agrémens, and not on its hundredth single shortcoming, instead of inversing the practice, as is the custom of the generality with everything they meet with in this little world, where nothing is, and nothing ever will be, entirely and spotlessly perfect. It has always been a favourite place of mine; and four years after I had left Cambridge for good, my degree being kindly given to me because my mother had the civility to belong to one of the notable names in Burke, I found myself under its linden-trees again, drinking a bottle of Marcobrunnen, and smoking a pipe in the balcony of one of its capital hotels, talking to Hermann Swartz, a notability of the district as far as sporting went, about the possible chance of a boar or a wolf hunt up among those green, sloping, pleasant, wooded hills, that stretched up and up into the golden evening haze, with little villages dotted about them, like the children's toy hamlets out of the Pantheon, and here and there a little steeple, red or brown, whose bell came dimly down the mountain-side, with the lowing of the cattle, and the scent of the larch and pine woods, into the valley below.

It was pleasant there, drinking my Marcobrunnen and smoking peaceably, and reckoning of a possible, perhaps even probable, boar, and looking lazily down on the town below, and the pleasant sunny hills around, and thinking of never mind what. I may tell my friends' loves, griefs, and follies, but not my own-bien obligé! My cousin, Lady Cecil Rougepot, tells me a great many scandales, very wicked ones, too, of her darling ally, Gwen Vandeleur,, of her good brother the dean, of her quasi-chaperone, Mrs. De Corset, of her old cavalier servant, Philip Cartouche of Ours, of everybody and anybody, but I never heard her let out a single cancan from her own life, though if hers isn't a regular repertoire of naughty stories I don't know whose is.

The Marcobrunnen was finished, Black Hermann had gone his ways, my pipe was smoked to the last ash, I was just thinking of going out to see if there was anybody I knew at the Bad, when a travelling-carriage rolled up to the door of the Koenig Carl in the warm, sunny glow of the August evening, and I leaned over the balcony to look who the new comers might be, old or young, male or female, nouveaux mariés come to enhance their elysium or while away their ennui with foreign air, or a superannuated bon viveur forced to do penance for the whitebait, Lafitte, and turtle-soup of his past season, by the mineral waters of Sherryzinseidlitz. There were only three females, two ladies and a maid; the femme de chambre was jaunty, neat, and merry-eyed as a soubrette at the Bouffes, the elder lady was a passée, flighty, pretty-looking woman, entirely absorbed in the care of a minute terrier, who was making abortive at