Arms." Such a shield it is! Such quarterings! Howard, Cavendish, De Ros,
De la Zouche, all mingled together.

Even our house, 46A, which Mrs. Cammysole has had painted white in
compliment to the Gardens of which it now forms part, is a sort of
impostor, and has no business to be called Gardens at all. Mr. Gibbs,
Sir Thomas's agent and nephew, is furious at our daring to take the
title which belongs to our betters. The very next door (No. 46, the
Honorable Mrs. Mountnoddy,) is a house of five stories, shooting up
proudly into the air, thirty feet above our old high-roofed low-roomed
old tenement. Our house belongs to Captain Bragg, not only the landlord
but the son-in-law of Mrs. Cammysole, who lives a couple of hundred
yards down the street, at "The Bungalow." He was the commander of the
"Ram Chunder" East Indiaman, and has quarrelled with the Pocklingtons
ever since he bought houses in the parish.

He it is who will not sell or alter his houses to suit the spirit of the
times. He it is who, though he made the widow Cammysole change the name
of her street, will not pull down the house next door, nor the baker's
next, nor the iron-bedstead and feather warehouse ensuing, nor the
little barber's with the pole, nor, I am ashamed to say, the tripe-shop,
still standing. The barber powders the heads of the great footmen from
Pocklington Gardens; they are so big that they can scarcely sit in his
little premises. And the old tavern, the "East Indiaman," is kept by
Bragg's ship-steward, and protests against the "Pocklington Arms."

Down the road is Pocklington Chapel, Rev. Oldham Slocum--in brick, with
arched windows and a wooden belfry: sober, dingy, and hideous. In the
centre of Pocklington Gardens rises St. Waltheof's, the Rev. Cyril
Thuryfer and assistants--a splendid Anglo-Norman edifice, vast, rich,