Buzzard, I side with Sir Gilbert Goose. So that unriddles the mys tery.

Cro. And so it does, indeed; and all my suspicions are over.

Lofty. Your suspicions! What, then, you have been suspecting, you have been suspecting, have you? Mr. Croaker, you and I were friends; we are friends no longer. Never talk to me. It's over; I say, it's over.

me.

Cro. As I hope for your favor I did not mean to offend. It escaped Don't be discomposed.

Lofty. Zounds! sir, but I am discomposed, and will be discomposed. To be treated thus! Who am I? Was it for this I have been dreaded both by ins and outs? Have I been libelled in the Gazetteer, and praised in the St. James's? have I been chaired at Wildman's, and a speaker at Merchant Tailors' IIall? have I had my hand to addresses, and my head in the print-shops; and talk to me of suspects?

Cro. My dear sir, be pacified. What can you have but asking pardon?

Lofty. Sir, I will not be pacified-Suspects! Who am I? To be used thus! Have I paid court to men in favor to serve my friends; the Lords of the Treasury, Sir William Honeywood, and the rest of the gang, and talk to me of suspects? Whom am I, I say; who am I?

Sir Wm. Since, sir, you're so pressing for an answer, I'll tell you who you are:-A gentleman, as well acquainted with politics as with men in power; as well acquainted with persons of fashion as with modesty; with Lords of the Treasury as with truth; and with all, as you are with Sir William Honey wood. I am Sir William Honeywood. [Discovering his ensigns of the Bath.]

[Aside.]

Cro. Sir William Honeywood! Honey. Astonishment! my uncle! Lofty. So then, my confounded genius has been all this time only leading me up to the garret, in order to fling me out of the window. Cro. What, Mr. Importance, and are these your works? Suspect you! You, who have been dreaded by the ins and outs; you, who have had your hand to addresses, and your head stuck up in printshops. If you were served right, you should have your head stuck up in the pillory.

Lofty. Ay, stick it where you will; for, I feel sure it cuts but a very poor figure where it sticks at present.

Sir Wm. Well, Mr. Croaker, I hope you now see how incapable this gentleman is of serving you, and how little Miss Richland has to expect from his influence.

Cro. Ay, sir, too well I see it; and I can't but say I have had some boding of it these ten days. So, I'm resolved, since my son has placed his affections on a lady of moderate fortune, to be satisfied with his

choice, and not run the hazard of another Mr. Lofty in helping him to a better.

Sir Wm. I approve your resolution; and here they come to receive a confirmation of your pardon and consent.

From "The Good-Natured Man."

JONES AT THE BARBER'S SHOP.

PUNCH.

SCENE. A Barber's Shop. Barber's men engaged in cutting hair, making wigs, and other barberesque operations.

Enter JONES, meeting OILY the barber.

Jones. I wish my hair cut.

Oily. Pray, sir, take a seat.

[Oily puts a chair for Jones, who sits. During the following dialogue, Oily continues cutting Jones's hair.]

Oily. We've had much wet, sir.

Jones. Very much, indeed.

Oily. And yet November's early days were fine.

Jones. They were.

Oily. I hoped fair weather might have lasted us Until the end.

[A pause of some minutes.

Oily. I know not, sir, who cut your hair last time; But this I say, sir, it was badly cut:

No doubt 'twas in the country.

Jones. No! in town!

Oily. Indeed! I should have fancied otherwise.
Jones. "Twas cut in town-and in this very room.

Oily. Amazement!-But I now remember well.

We had an awkward, new provincial hand,

A fellow from the country. Sir, he did
More damage to my business in a week
Than all my skill can in a year repair.

He must have cut your hair.

Jones. [Looking at him.] No-'twas yourself.

Oily. Myself! Impossible! You must mistake.

Jones. I don't mistake-'twas you that cut my hair.

[A long pause, interrupted only by the clipping of the scissors.

Oily. Your hair is very dry, sir.

Jones. Oh! indeed.

Oily. Our Vegetable Extract moistens it.

Jones. I like it dry.

Oily. But, sir, the hair when dry

Turns quickly gray.

Jones. That color I prefer.

Oily. But hair, when gray, will rapidly fall off,

And baldness will ensue.

Jones. I would be bald.

Oily. Perhaps you mean to say you'd like a wig

We've wigs so natural they can't be told

From real hair.

Jones. Deception I detest.

[Another pause ensues, during which Oily blows down Jones's neck, and relieves him from the linen wrapper in which he has been enveloped during the process of hair-cutting.

Oily. We've brushes, soaps, and scent, of every kind.

Jones. I see you have. [Pays 6d.] I think you'll find that right. Oily. Is there nothing I can show you, sir?

Jones. No: nothing.

That you may show me.

Yet there may be something, too,

[Exit Jones.

Oily. Name it, sir.
Jones. The door.
Oily. [To his man.]
Had I cut him as short as he eut me,
How little hair upon his head would be!
But if kind friends will all our pains requite,
We'll hope for better luck another night.

That's a rum customer at any rate.

[Shop-bell rings and curtain falls.

SCENE FROM BOMBASTES FURIOSO.

ARTAXOMINOUS in his Chair of Slate.-A table, set out with bowls, glasses, pipes, &c.-Attendants on each side.

1st Att. What will your Majesty please to wear?

Or blue, green, red, black, white, or brown?

2d Att. D'ye choose to look at the bill of fare?

Art. Get out of my sight, or I'll knock you down.

2d Att. Here is soup, fish, or goose, or duck, or fowl, or pigeons,

pig, or hare;

1st Att. Blue, green, or red, or black, white, or brown, What will your Majesty, &c.

Art. Get out of my sight, &c.

[Exeunt Attendants.

Enter FUSBOS, and kneels to the King.

Fus. Hail, Artaxominous! ycleped the Great!

I come, an humble pillar of thy state,

Pregnant with news-but ere that news I tell,

First let me hope your Majesty is well.

Art. Rise, learnèd Fusbos! rise, my friend, and know,

We are but middling-that is, but so so.

Fus. Only so so! Oh, monstrous, doleful thing!

Is it the cholera affects the king?

Or, dropping poisons in the cup of joy,

Do the blue devils your repose annoy?

Art. Nor cholera, nor devils blue are here,

But yet we feel ourself a little queer.

Fus. Yes, I perceive it in that vacant eye,
The vest unbuttoned, and the wig awry:
So sickly cats neglect their fur-attire,

And sit and mope beside the kitchen fire.

Art. Last night, when undisturbed by state affairs, Moistening our clay, and puffing off our cares,

Oft the replenished goblet did we drain,

And drank and smoked, and smoked and drank again;

Such was the case, our very actions such,

Until at length we got a drop too much.

Fus. So, when some donkey on the Blackheath road

Falls, overpowered, beneath his sandy load,

The driver's curse unheeded swells the air,

Since none can carry more than they can bear.

Art. The sapient Doctor Muggins came in haste,

Who suits his physic to his patients' taste;
He, knowing well on what our heart is set,

Hath just prescribed "to take a morning whet;"
The very sight each sickening pain subdues,

Then sit, my Fusbos, sit, and tell thy news.

Fus. [Sits.] General Bombastes, whose resistless force Alone exceeds by far a brewer's horse,

Returns victorious, bringing mines of wealth!

Art. Does he? by jingo! then we'll drink his health.

[Drum and fife.

Fus. But hark! with loud acclaim, the fife and drum Announce your army near; behold, they come!

[Drum and fife again.

Enter BOMBASTES, attended by one Drummer, one Fifer, and two Soldiers, all very materially differing in size.

Bom. [To Army.] Meet me this evening at the Barley-Mow; I'll bring your pay, you see I'm busy now:

Begone, brave army, and don't kick up a row.

[Exeunt Soldiers.

[To the King.] Thrashed are your foes-this watch and silken string,

Worn by their chief, I as a trophy bring;

I knocked him down, then snatched it from his fob;

"Watch, watch!" he cried, when I had done the job; "My watch is gone," says he says I, “Just so;

Stop where you are-watches were made to go."

Art. For which we make you Duke of Strombelo.

[Bombastes kneels—the King dubs him with a pipe, and then presents

the bowl.

From our own bowl here drink, my soldier true;

And if you'd like to take a whiff or two,

He whose brave arm hath made our foes to crouch,

Shall have a pipe from this, our royal pouch.

Bom. [Rises.] Honors so great have all my toils repaid.

My liege, and Fusbos, here's Success to trade."

Fus. Well said, Bombastes! since thy mighty blows

Have given a quietus to our foes,

Now shall our farmers gather in their crops,

And busy tradesmen mind their crowded shops;

The deadly havoc of war's hatchet cease;

Now shall we smoke the calumet of peace.

Art. I shall smoke short-cut, you smoke what you please.
Bom. Whate'er your majesty shall deign to name,

Short cut or long to me is all the same.

Bom. & Fus. In short, so long as we your favors claim, Short cut or long to us is all the same.

Art. Thanks, generous friends! now list whilst I impart How firm you're locked and bolted in my heart:

So long as this here pouch a pipe contains,

Or a full glass in that there bowl remains,

To you an equal portion shall belong;
This I do swear, and now-let's have a song.