The Poor Relation's Story
He was very reluctant to take precedence of so many respected members of the family, by
beginning the round of stories they were to relate as they sat in a goodly circle by the
Christmas fire; and he modestly suggested that it would be more correct if "John our
esteemed host" (whose health he begged to drink) would have the kindness to begin. For
as to himself, he said, he was so little used to lead the way that really-- But as they all
cried out here, that he must begin, and agreed with one voice that he might, could, would,
and should begin, he left off rubbing his hands, and took his legs out from under his
armchair, and did begin.
I have no doubt (said the poor relation) that I shall surprise the assembled members of our
family, and particularly John our esteemed host to whom we are so much indebted for the
great hospitality with which he has this day entertained us, by the confession I am going
to make. But, if you do me the honour to be surprised at anything that falls from a person
so unimportant in the family as I am, I can only say that I shall be scrupulously accurate
in all I relate.
I am not what I am supposed to be. I am quite another thing. Perhaps before I go further, I
had better glance at what I AM supposed to be.
It is supposed, unless I mistake--the assembled members of our family will correct me if I
do, which is very likely (here the poor relation looked mildly about him for
contradiction); that I am nobody's enemy but my own. That I never met with any
particular success in anything. That I failed in business because I was unbusiness-like and
credulous--in not being prepared for the interested designs of my partner. That I failed in
love, because I was ridiculously trustful--in thinking it impossible that Christiana could
deceive me. That I failed in my expectations from my uncle Chill, on account of not
being as sharp as he could have wished in worldly matters. That, through life, I have been
rather put upon and disappointed in a general way. That I am at present a bachelor of
between fifty-nine and sixty years of age, living on a limited income in the form of a
quarterly allowance, to which I see that John our esteemed host wishes me to make no
further allusion.
The supposition as to my present pursuits and habits is to the following effect.
I live in a lodging in the Clapham Road--a very clean back room, in a very respectable
house--where I am expected not to be at home in the day-time, unless poorly; and which I
usually leave in the morning at nine o'clock, on pretence of going to business. I take my
breakfast--my roll and butter, and my half-pint of coffee--at the old-established coffee-
shop near Westminster Bridge; and then I go into the City--I don't know why--and sit in
Garraway's Coffee House, and on 'Change, and walk about, and look into a few offices
and counting-houses where some of my relations or acquaintance are so good as to
tolerate me, and where I stand by the fire if the weather happens to be cold. I get through
the day in this way until five o'clock, and then I dine: at a cost, on the average, of one and
