Midnight Mishaps
MIDNIGHT MISHAPS.
BY EDWARD MAYHEW.
WITH AN ILLUSTRATION BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
Oh the rural suburbs of London!—the filthy suburbs!—where nothing is green but the water, nothing natural but the dirt,—where the trees are clipt into poles, and the hedges grow behind palings,—where "no thoroughfare" forbids you to walk in one place, and the dust prevents you from walking in another,—the filthy suburbs!
It was these delightful precincts of peace and "caution," retirement and "handsome rewards," that Mr. Jacob Tweasle honoured with his decided preference. This gentleman had inhabited a small shop at the foot of Snow-hill for more than forty years, retailing tobacco to the tradesmen, and cigars to the apprentices; and, having by supplying other people's boxes gradually filled his own, he, how in his sixtieth year, declined the manufacture of weeds for the cultivation of exotics.