Don’t you believe it! They would run from you as if you had the plague. “Write your brow” with anything else but your “troubles,” if you do not wish to be left solus. You have no idea how “good people” will pity you when you tell your doleful ditty! They will “pray for you,” give you advice by the bushel, “feel for you”—everywhere but in their pocket-books; and wind up by telling you to “trust in Providence;” all of which you feel very much like replying, as the old lady did when she found herself spinning down hill in a wagon,—“I trusted in Providence till the tackling broke!” Now, listen to me. Just go to work, and hew out a path for yourself; get your head above water, and then snap your fingers in their pharisaical faces! Never ask a favour until you are drawing your last breath; and never forget one. “Write your troubles on your brow?” That man was either a knave, or, what is worse, a fool. I suppose he calls himself a poet; if he does, all I have to say is, it’s high time the city authorities took away his “license.”
HOW THE WIRES ARE PULLED:
OR,
WHAT PRINTER’S INK WILL DO.
“Isn’t it extraordinary, Mr. Stubbs, how Mr. Simpkins can always be dressed in the last tip-top fashion? Don’t you and I, and all the world know, that old Allen has a mortgage on his house, and that he never has a dollar by him longer than five minutes at a time. Isn’t it extraordinary, Mr. Stubbs?”
“Not at all—not at all—my dear,” said Mr. Stubbs, knocking the ashes from his Havana; “to an editor all things are possible;” and he unfolded the damp sheets of the Family Gazette, of which Mr. Simpkins was editor, and commenced reading aloud the following paragraph:—
“‘We yesterday had the gratification of visiting the celebrated establishment of the far-famed Inman & Co., Hatters, No. 172 Wideway. We pronounce their new style of spring hat, for lightness beauty, and durability, to be unrivalled; it is aptly designated the ‘Count D’Orsay hat.’ The gentlemanly and enterprising proprietors of the establishment are unwearied in their endeavours to please the public. There is a je ne sais quoi about their hats which can be found nowhere else in the city.’”
“Well, I don’t see,” said Mrs. Stubbs, “I——”
“Sh—! sh—! Mrs. Stubbs; don’t interrupt the court—here’s another:
“‘Every one should visit the extensive ware-rooms of Willcut and Co., Tailors, 59 Prince Albert Street. There is science wagging in the very tails of Mr. Willcut’s coats; in fact, he may be said to be the only tailor in the city who is a thorough artist. His pantaloons are the knee-plus ultra of shear-dom. Mr. Willcut has evidently made the anatomy of masculinity a study—hence the admirable result. The most casual observer, on noticing Mr. Willcut’s fine phrenological developments, would at once negative the possibility of his making a faux pas on broadcloth.’
“Keep quiet, Mrs. Stubbs; listen:”
“‘The St. Lucifer Hotel is a palatial wonder; whether we consider the number of acres it covers, the splendour of its marble exterior, the sumptuousness of its drawing-rooms, or the more than Oriental luxuriousness of its sleeping apartments, the tapestry, mirrors and gilding of which remind one forcibly of the far-famed Tuileries. The host of the St. Lucifer is an Apollo in person, a Chesterfield in manners, and a Lucullus in taste; while those white-armed Houris, the female waiters, lap the soul in Elysium.’”