the Lancet may have sent forth its
commissioners to analyse samples of teas and
sugars; a miscreant may be detected once in
four years or so, filling up cases of preserved
meat with the vilest offal, and neatly packing
the interior of forage trusses of hay with
shavings, stones, and dead lambs; these hangdogs
—who have in their murderous frauds
endeavoured to send out death and disease with
the fleets and armies of England—may have
their names gibbeted (in a quiet, gentlemanly
manner) once or twice in a session
during a languid debate in the golden
House of Lords;—but where are they?
There is another public whose whereabout
I am exceedingly anxious to find out,—the
virtuously "indignant" public,—the public
that applauds so vehemently in the galleries
of criminal courts,—that "with difficulty are
restrained from tearing to pieces" notorious
criminals, on their emerging from Bow Street
after their examination and committal for
trial. Now, nothing would please me so
much as to introduce this public, the virtuous
and indignant public, to the villainous and
adulterating public; and 'gin a public meet a
public putting red lead into pepper, or sloe-
leaves into tea, or offal into hay—and 'gin a
public beat a public, and kick a public, and
pelt a public, it seems to me that the two
publics would be very appropriately brought
together.

Where are the people who "go about saying
things?" I never go about saying things
about other people; yet other people are
always going about saying things about
me. They say (I merely adduce myself as an
embodiment of anybody), that I have a wife
alive in Bermuda, and that I ill-treat the Mrs.
Present Writer, alive and resident with me in
England, dreadfully. They say I don't pay my
rent, and that I have invested fifty-five thousand
pounds in the French funds. They say
that my plate is all pawned, and that bailiffs
in livery wait at my table. They say that I
am about to invade England with ninety
thousand men next week; and that I was
here, disguised as a Lascar crossing-sweeper,
last Tuesday, reconnoitring. They say I
have taken to drinking; that I can't paint
any more pictures; that I have written
myself out; that I lost four thousand pounds on
the last Chester Cup; that I have exercised
a sinister influence over the foreign policy of
the country, opened despatch-boxes, and
tampered with despatches. They say I eat an |
ounce-and-a-half of opium every day, and that
Blims wrote my last pamphlet on Electoral
Reform. They say I am going to become lessee
of Her Majesty's Theatre; that I set my house
on fire ten years ago; that I am the "Septimus
Brown" who was taken into custody in the last
gambling house razzia; that I have a share
in the French loan; that I have presented a
gold snuff-box to the ex-beadle of St.
Clements Danes; that I murdered my aunt, my
cousin, and my brother-in-law years before
the commission of the crime for which I am
now condemned to death; that I am an
atheist; that I am a Jesuit; that my father
was hanged; that I am illicitly related to
royalty; that I am to be the new governor of
Fellow Jack Island; and that I cut Thistlewood's
head off. Now, where are the people
who say all these things about me, about you,
about kings, queens, princes, and chandlers'-
shop keepers? You don't "go about" saying
such things; I don't go about saying them;
yet somebody goes about saying them. Where
is your somebody and my somebody?
Where are they?

Where are the Parties in the City to
whom your money-lender is always obliged
to apply to obtain the money he lends you?
Where is the party who does not like the last
name on the bill, and would prefer an
additional name? Where is the Other Party,
the only implacable party, who won't hear of
any delay in your being sued, sold up, and
arrested? Where is the Third Party, who
is always obliged to be consulted, "squared,"
spoken to; who always holds the bill, and
won't give it up; who was so unfortunately
present when your friend wished to mention
that little matter privately to the other
party, and who consequently prevented its
satisfactory adjustment? Where is he? I
ask again, where is he?

Where is the "gentleman" who has called
for us during our absence from home; but
who returns no more than the hat, umbrella,
and thermometer which he is supposed to
have taken from the entrance hall? Where
is the gentleman for whom the silk-lined
overcoat, or the patent leather boots were made,
but whom they did not fit; which is the sole
reason of their being offered to us at so
reduced a rate? Where is that unflinching
friend of the auctioneer, a gentleman who has
such a number and such a variety of articles
of property—from ready-furnished freehold
shooting boxes, to copies of Luther's Bible—
and who is always going abroad, or is lately
deceased? Where is the lady who is always
relinquishing housekeeping, and is so strenuously
anxious to recommend her late cook or
housekeeper? Whereabouts, I wonder, are
the two pounds per week which can with
facility be realised by painting on papier
maché, or by ornamental leather work?
Where is the fortune that is so liberally
offered for five shillings? Where are the
smart young men that want a hat?
Where are all the bad writers whom the
professors of penmanship in six lessons are so
anxious to improve? Where are the fifty
thousand cures warranted to have been
effected by De Pompadour's Flour of
Haricoes? Where are all the wonderfully
afflicted people who suffered such excruciating
agonies for several years, and were at last
relieved and cured by two boxes of the pills,
or two bottles of the mixture; and who order, in
a postscript, four dozen of each, to be sent to