Ought to have one directly," concluded Butcherly.

"My dear Sir," said Brown, with new gravity, " pardon me; sure you, as I never have, it is quite against my principles-to

I as

"Nonsense," cried Butcherly: "principles! pooh!-I hate the bigotry of patriotism. A man doesn't love his own country the less for eating the dishes of other people! In the matter of dining, Mr. Brown, a man should be a cosmopolite." And on this point no man carried his theory into more frequent practice than the speaker. "Mr. Brown, whilst you live, never let politics interfere with the liberty of knife and fork. Come along."

"But I tell you, Mr. Butcherly, it is against an established rule of my life"

"Won't have it, Mr. Brown: if you have a hatred of the French, dine with 'em three times a-week, and you'll wish to be naturalized. Cat and dog are natural enemies; but when puss and the terrier are made to eat out of the same dish, you can't think how soon they become friends. The cooks, Sir, have done more to destroy national antipathies than all the philosophers. For myself, I wouldn't declare war even against New Zealand until I had taken dinner with the chiefs."

"The New Zealanders, Mr. Butcherly! Dine with the New Zealanders!-wretches who- -" and Brown was really indignant.

Abuse 'em, if you like," said Butcherly: "very economical people; we only kill our enemies-they eat 'em. We hate our foes to the last; whilst there's no learning in the end how they are brought to relish

'em."

Brown, making wry faces as he walked, was led victoriously off by Butcherly, who, in his ignorance, believed Brown to have some social prejudice against the French, which, in his own words, Butcherly was resolved" to dine out of him. The reader, however, will hardly fail to attribute the disinclination of Brown to its right cause: he never had taken a French dinner, and, therefore, he never-but, in this instance, the resolves of Brown were as threads of flax against the strength of Butcherly. Brown, with his fingers still upon his note, was safely deposited in a house, where the steam from the kitchen, with its first cloud, transported the visitor direct to Paris.

Capital, isn't it?" said Butcherly, at about the fourth dish. "I dare say, Brown, you have heard of frogs?"

Brown sat suddenly upright, casting a suspicious eye at Butcherly. "All safe, now-not in season. Brown again stooped to his plate. "Ha! frogs have been a dear dish to me." Brown looked interrogatively. "I'll tell you: I hate national prejudices; so brought an uncle here to dine 'em out' of him. He enjoyed his dinner amazingly, ate, I may say it, like a chaplain. Well, he was rich-very rich, indeedor I hadn't brought him here." Brown cast his eyes up at Butcherly. "You know, he wasn't the capital fellow you are-little wine with you, Brown;-well, when he had dined, I asked him what he thought of the French? He could say nothing; he blushed to the edges of his ears with shame. I, however, pushed the question- What do you think of the French now, uncle?" 6 Not so bad,' said he, with a look of contrition; not so bad, if they wouldn't eat frogs.' There I had him. You recollect the third dish,-delicious, wasn't it?" The old fellow smacked his lips with recollections of delight. In that dish, there

were two-and-thirty frogs! Well, what do you think of prejudice, Brown? My uncle insisted upon falling ill immediately-was carried home-went to bed-scratched me out of his will-and died!"

"But not of frogs ?" exclaimed Brown.

"Would you believe the wickedness of woman?" said Butcherly: " a nurse was found to swear that, in his last moments, she heard 'em croak! See what comes of national prejudice. A little burgundy?"

A little, and a little burgundy, and the heart of Brown melted like a jelly in his bosom, and Butcherly, with an educated eye, remarked the amiable softness of his friend, and thus, in few but significant words, addressed him. Squaring his elbows on the table, and looking up in the face of the genial Brown, Miles Butcherly observed-" My dear Brown, you couldn't lend me twenty pounds ?"

In an instant, the face of Brown was as rigid as carved walnut, and his glistening eyes became like the eyes of fish. "Twenty pounds! Why, I should have no objection-none, whatever,-only, as I never did lend money, I-I- Brown could say no more, notwithstanding Butcherly felt that he had said enough.

"Not another word," said Butcherly; " 'tis no matter, none inHa! boys, glad to see you-sit down-my friend, I may say, my bosom friend-the kind creature I've so often spoken of-my dear friend, Brown." And Butcherly introduced our hero to two young gentlemen, who acknowledged the honour with a knowing stare at the innocent Brown; who, by degrees, felt his blood glow again, again felt his heart expanding with the wine.

"I don't know how it is-surely, the hours are longer than they used to be-only ten o'clock shall we have a cut at cards?" said one of the

new comers.

"Brown, I am afraid," said Butcherly, in a voice of unaffected regret," doesn't play."

"I never have played-never," said Brown, intending to imply that he never would.

However, the cards were brought, and one of the strangers, shuffling them with miraculous grace, lounged towards Brown, and, with a benevolence lost upon its object, observed-"Oh! light stakes, Mr. Brown -light stakes, for beginners. Must kill time in self-defence. What do you say, Brown ?"

For a minute Brown replied not; it was plain enough that he was absorbed, paralyzed by some sudden horror. He sat, his head sunk in his shoulders, his right leg raised tremblingly from the ground, as though he had trodden on a snake, and his hand-nay, half his armplunged into his pocket. His jaw fell, his eyes started, and his very nose curled with terror. Had he been struck with sudden paralysis? Worse: with sudden poverty.

"What's the matter, Brown?" asked the gentleman, the cards still flying from his hand like sparks from an anvil. "What's the matter?" "Thieves! my money-I'm robbed-robbed!" cried Brown, and he looked accusingly at Butcherly and his two friends, who rose together from their seats, and exclaimed "Sir!" Brown, however, heeded not their injured dignity; but, with a violent action of the hand, displayed that most affecting spectacle within this world of sorrows-that Gorgon to friends-that pestilence to best acquaintance-that type of worthless

ness, and badge of shame an empty pocket! Butcherly and his companions beheld the exhibition with proper disgust, repeating with additional emphasis, "Sir!" Brown seized a candle, looked under the table; in an instant replaced the taper, and fell back in his chair, breathing the softest sigh. As he lay, his face broke into smiles, and opening his eyes, shaking his head, and showing a paper pellet between his finger and thumb, he merely observed, " I thought I had lost it." The truth is, Brown, too careful of the thousand pound note, had kept his fingers upon it, and rolling and rolling it until it had become as round as a bolus, it had escaped from his pocket as he rose to bow to the new comers, who, now aided by Butcherly, sat with darkening brows, staring destruction at our hero; he merely repeating, with a new smile," I thought I had lost it."

"You called me a—but you know, Sir, what must follow," said the stranger with the cards to Brown; "satisfaction, Sir," and he tapped his fingers on the table.

"Satisfaction, Sir," said the second stranger, adjusting his shirt

collar.

"Honour demands it, Mr. Brown," said Butcherly, somewhat tremulously: "I am sorry for it, but-satisfaction."

Brown smoothed out the note upon the table, and folding it, and placing it in his waistcoat-pocket, observed, "I am perfectly satisfied." "You must fight, Sir," said the first stranger, speaking very confidentially to Brown.

"Fight, Sir," said the second.

Exactly," corroborated Butcherly.

"But I never did fight," exclaimed Brown; "and therefore, I-I never can-I never will."

"You are a poltroon," said the first stranger.

"And a scoundrel," added his friend.

"A poltroon and a scoundrel," confirmed Butcherly, adding the weight of his authority.

"Poltroon-scoundrel," repeated Brown; "why, Mr. Butcherly, you don't mean to call me

"A poltroon, and a scoundrel," said the imperturbable Butcherly Sir, if you have any doubt of the fact

"and,

Well, Sir?" asked Brown. "And what then, Sir ?"

"Then, Sir, myself and friends will have no hesitation in giving it you on a stamped receipt."

Brown was not so punctilious as to demand any such instrument. On the contrary, he seemed disposed to be perfectly satisfied with the verbal acknowledgment of the parties, who were about to quit the apartment, when one of the strangers stopped, as if he had suddenly recollected some serious duty: then, returning to Brown, he thus briefly addressed him :-" You have insulted me, and you deny me the satisfaction of a gentleman: I am very sorry, but I must- -" and, with incredible dexterity, the speaker caught the nose of Brown between his thumb and finger.

66

"Sir-what am I to think?" exclaimed Brown, jumping from his seat; I say, Sir, what am I to think?" Brown could, for the moment, say no more, for the second stranger had suddenly caught the nose as suddenly quitted by the first. "Very sorry-very sorry," and the stranger tweaked.

"Sir-Sir," cried Brown, when released, "what am I to understand —I ask, Sir, what am I to understand- "but the executioner had left the room, and Brown looked upon Butcherly alone.

"Take a seat-be quiet, Mr. Brown-take a seat, I have something to say to you," said Butcherly; and the calm dignity of his manner awed our hero into obedience. Brown sank upon a chair, gasping and rubbing his nose that burned and glowed like a red cinder. "We have known

one another some time, Mr. Brown," said Butcherly, and Brown bowed assent. "It was my wish that our intimacy should ripen into a lasting friendship." Brown rubbed his nose. "You have many admirable qualities, no doubt, Mr. Brown: it was my fond hope to endeavour to discover and appreciate them. I believe you have an excellent heart— that, altogether, you are, despite some human weaknesses, a most estimable person." Brown clasped his hands, and was overpowered by the eulogy. "But, Mr. Brown, whilst I appreciate the virtues of another, I cannot forget what is due to myself. Therefore, although I believe you to be a most humane, a most amiable, a most upright man, still, Sir, the stern duty I owe to myself and to society, compels me-believe me, much against my will-to pull your nose."

The unrelenting vigour with which Butcherly asserted the right due to society and himself was in terrible contrast to the meekness, the almost mellifluous softness of speech with which he passed sentence. Had the nose of Brown been jammed between an iron staple its owner could not have roared more lustily. The landlord, the waiters, the chambermaids-the whole household-rushed to the scene of punishment. Butcherly quitted his hold, and with astonishing equanimity, and a graceful inclination of the body, passing his hand around his beaver as he spoke, he thus addressed the sufferer

"Mr. Brown, it has cost me much to do this; I have had to struggle against the force of friendship: but, Sir, society has its claims; and believe me that, in pulling your nose, I have only considered what is due to the usages of the world and to my sense of self-respect. In having pulled your nose I disclaim anything personal. I have been grieved to do it, but self-sacrifice, Mr. Brown, makes a part of the social compact." And Butcherly, with a low bow, and pressing his hat to his breast, retired. Now, had Butcherly cut the throat of Brown in an "affair of honour," could he have given a more profound, a more philosophical reason for the necessity of the sacrifice?

Why, Sir," cried the landlord to Brown, "what's the matter ?" "Matter!" exclaimed Brown-" matter !-I-I was never so served in all my days!"

"What's the matter?" asked a gentleman who entered the room. "The gentleman has had his nose pulled, Sir," said the waiter, pointing to Brown.

"Yes, Sir," said Brown, "it's true-perfectly true; and what to do I don't know.”

"You don't ?" exclaimed the visitor. "No, Sir, I don't," cried Brown. "How should I? I should be happy to know, Sir; for the fact is, Sir, I-no-I-I never before in all my life-never had my nose pulled!"

The nose of Brown had been pulled-tweaked-pinched with impunity; and Brown was to all his friends a banished man. He was

touched-blown to all the world. In after days he could have cut off the tainted part-could, at one stroke, have excised the curse that still stood prominently forth between his cheeks, so that with the loss he might have gained his former friends. The nose, before its degradation, had an aquiline tendency; since its fall, it inclined somewhat upwards, at least to the morbid eyes of its wearer, as if shrinking from the approach of all things human. It was the nose of a modern saint raising itself to the sky, by scenting this world as it were a dunghill. However, in time, Brown grew forgetful of the ignominy his nose had suffered, and found for it a sweet oblivion of misfortune in rappee. Moreover, Brown, reading the works of a certain philosopher, discovered that man sloughs his whole mass of clay once in a certain number of years; and, therefore, that the nose he wore was not, in fact, the nose in years by-gone assaulted, but every particle of it a new nose-an untouched, untweaked organ: a virgin nose, a nose unpulled! Here is comfort for the family of the Browns; here is consolation for the kicked, to know that in a few years-we think seven the stated number-the shame is gone, exhaled, hour by hour and day by day, with the suffering region. Let us, however, not too far pursue this delicate disquisition; for if in seven years such changes come, what pleas may criminals put in! The pickpocket of 1837 may plead an alibi for the accused hand of 1844! "Thou canst not say 'twas I that did it!" exclaims the palm of later date. But we have done: there are some subtleties to be discussed only by philosophers over their spring-water and-brandy; and this question of physical identity might create confusion among even the most respectable families. In a word, in a few years Brown felt that the nose he wore had never been pulled; his moral man was comforted by his material. His late dear friends and best acquaintance "bore a brain," it is true; but Brown himself slumbered in a wise forgetfulness.

CHAP. III.

Brown continued to creep through life; every day serving him to accumulate justifying reasons for present and future inactivity. He had, fortunately, fallen into honest hands; for, shortly after the accident narrated in our last chapter, he was received into the family of a small tradesman, who, relieving our helpless hero of his new perplexity-that of laying out his own money on his own wants-gave him board and bed for the interest of his inheritance, he slumbering through twenty years of his existence, with no more thought of the world around himof its cares and its delights, than the counter of Jeremy Quick, his indefatigable landlord.

Brown, according to the theory of philosophers, was already wearing his third nose from the date of the assault by Butcherly and his friends, that is, upwards of twenty years had elapsed since that memorable catastrophe, when Jeremy Quick, with his shining, prosperous face, and his blithe, chirping voice, entered the room of our hero with a gay "Good morning!"

"Good morning, Mr. Quick!" said Brown, laying down a morning paper-a journal that had twenty times performed the noisome feat of devouring its own words, but which was still the oracle of Brown, for the best of reasons-he never had read any other paper.