Let us write an essay upon noses. Each organ of the human body, but more especially an organ of sensation, has a sort of existence apart--a separate sphere of being from the great commonwealth of which it is a member, just as every individual has his own peculiar ties and relationships distinct from the body of society, though affecting it sympathetically and remotely. Each organ has its affections and its pleasures; its misfortunes and its pains; its peculiarities, generic and individual; its own appropriate history, and its unchangeable destiny and fate. As the eye is supposed (wrongly) to be the most expressive of organs, so is the nose of man the most impressible. Tender in its affections, enlarged in its sympathies, soft in its character, it is in this foul and corrupt world more frequently subject to unpleasant than to pleasant influences. During one season of the year alone does nature provide it with enjoyments; and during the long cold winter it is pinched and maltreated by meteoric vicissitudes. It is a summer-bird; a butterfly; a flower, blossoming on the waste of man's countenance, but inhaling (not exhaling) odours during the bright period when other flowers are in bloom. During the whole of the rest of the year its joys are factitious, and whether they proceed from Eau de Portugal, bouquet à la Reine, or Jean Marie Farina, it is but a sort of hot-house life the nose obtains, produced by stoves and pipes, till summer comes round again.
Like all the sensitive, the nose is perhaps the most unfortunate of human organs. Placed in an elevated situation, it is subject to all the rude buffets of the world; its tender organization is always subject to disgusts. Boreas assails it; Sol burns it; Bacchus inflames it. Put forward as a leader in the front of the battle, men follow it blindly on a course which it is very often unwilling to pursue, and then blame it for every mischance. Whatever hard blows are given, it comes in for more than its share; and, after weeping tears of blood, has to atone for the faults of other members over which it has no control. The fists are continually getting it into scrapes; its bad neighbour, the tongue, brings down indignation upon it undeserved; the eyes play it false on a thousand occasions; and the whole body corporate is continually poking it into situations most repugnant to its better feelings. The poor, unfortunate nose! verily, it is a sadly misused organ. It matters not whether it be hooked or straight, long or short, turned-up or depressed, a bottle, a bandbox, a sausage, or the ace of clubs; Roman, Grecian, English, French, German, or Calmuc, the nose is ever to be pitied for its fate below.
I can hardly forgive Chandos Winslow for fingering so rudely the nasal organ of Viscount Overton. It was of considerable extent, and very tangible qualities: an inviting nose, it must be said, which offered almost as many temptations to an insulted man as that of a certain gentleman in Strasburg to the trumpeter's wife. So much must be said in Chandos's favour; but yet it was cruel, harsh, almost cowardly. The poor nose could not defend itself; and yet he had the barbarity to pinch the helpless innocent between his iron finger and thumb for full three seconds and a half. Pain and amazement kept the owner of the nose from putting forth his own powers to avenge it for the same space; and indeed it would have been to little purpose had he attempted such a thing, for he was no more capable of defending his nose against Chandos Winslow, than the nose was of defending itself.
At length the grasp of his antagonist relaxed, and the peer exclaimed aloud, "Police! police! You scoundrel, I will give you in charge."
"That you can do if you please," answered Chandos, with a sneer; "but methinks your honour will somewhat suffer. There, Sir, is my card, if you wish to know who it is has punished your impertinence."
The police were very busy at a little distance; and the noble lord, left to his own resources, exclaimed, "Your card, fellow! Do you suppose I do not know you--a low vagabond dressed up as a gentleman!--Police! I say."
A crowd had gathered round, and two gentlemen in anticipation of the arrival of the police, were investigating the contents of the peer's pockets, when a tall, thin, gentlemanly man, one Sir Henry d'Estragon, a Lieutenant-Colonel in the service, well known about Wimbledon and Molesey, and who had even reminiscences of Primrose Hill when there was such a place unpolluted, pushed his way through, crying, "Why, Winslow, what is the matter? How do you do, my dear fellow? Here seems a row. What is going on?"
"Perhaps, d'Estragon, you can persuade this person, whose nose I have just had the pleasure of pulling," replied Chandos Winslow, "that I am not a low vagabond dressed up like a gentleman. He is not inclined to take my card, but calls for the police."
"Rather strange," said Sir Henry d'Estragon. "I thought it was Lord Overton: but I must be mistaken."
"No Sir, you are not," replied the peer; "but I have every reason to believe this person to be an impostor."