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B. I can't see why it is greater nonsense than any other pronoun.

A. (in despair). Well, it's of no use, I see.

B. Excuse me: it is of the very greatest use. I don't know a part of speech more useful. It performs all the greatest offices of nature, and contains, in fact, the whole agency and mystery of the world. It rains. It is fine weather. It freezes. It thaws. It (which is very odd) is one o'clock. "It has been a very frequent observation." It goes. Here it goes. How goes it? (which, by the way, is a translation from the Latin Eo, is it; Eo, I go; is thou goest; it, he or it goes." In short

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A. In short, if I wanted a dissertation on it, now's the time for it. But I don't; so good by. (Going.) last night.

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I saw Miss M

B. The devil you did! Where was it?

A. (to himself). Now I have him, and will revenge myself. Where was it, eh? O, you must know a great deal more about it than I do!

B. Nay, my dear fellow, do tell me. thorns.

I'm on

A. On thorns! very odd thorns. I never saw a thorn look so like a pavement.

B. Come, now, to be serious.

(A. comes close to B., and looks tragic.)

B. He, he very fair, egad. was she. How did she look?

But do tell me where

Who was with her?

A. O, ho! Hoo was with her, was he? Well, I wanted to know his name. I could not tell who the devil it was. But I say, Jack, who's Hoo?

B. Good. He, he! Devilish fair! But now,

my dear Will, for God's sake, you know how interested I am.

A. The deuce you are! I always took you for a disinterested fellow. I always said of Jack B., Jack's apt to overdo his credit for wit; but a more honest, disinterested fellow I never met with.

B. Well, then, as you think so, be merciful. Where is Miss M- -?

A. This is more astonishing news than any. Ware is Miss M. I know her passion for music; but this is wonderful. Good heavens! To think of a delicate young lady dressing herself in man's clothes, and going about as a musician under the name of Ware.

B. Now, my dear Will, consider. I acknowledge I have been tiresome; I confess it is a bad habit, this word-catching; but consider my love.

(A.falls into an attitude of musing.)

B.

Well.

A. Don't interrupt me. I am considering your

love.

B. I repent; I am truly sorry.

do?

What shall I

(Laying his hand on his heart.) I'll give up

this cursed habit.

A. You will? Upon honor?

B. Upon my honor.

A. On the spot?

B. Now, this instant. Now and forever!

A. Strip away, then.

B. Strip! For what?

A. You said you'd give up that cursed habit.

B. Now, my dear A., for the love of everything that is sacred, for the love of your own love.

A. Well, you promise me sincerely?

B. Heart and soul!

A. Step over the way, then, into the coffee-house, and I'll tell you.

Street Sweeper. Please, your honor, pray remember the poor swape.

B. My friend, I'll never forget you, if that will service. I'll think of you next year.

be of any
A. What, again?

B. The last time, as I hope to be saved. Here, my friend, there's a shilling for you. Charity covers a multitude of bad jokes.

Street Sweeper. God send your honor thousands

of them.

B. The jokes or the shillings, you rascal?

Street Sweeper. Och, the shillings. Divil a bit the bad jokes. I can make them myself, and a shilling's no joke, anyhow.

A. What? really silent? and in spite of the dog's equivocal Irish face? Come, B., I now see you can give up a jest, and art really in love; and your mistress, I will undertake to say, will not be sorry to be convinced of both. Women like to begin with merriment well enough; but they think ill of a man who cannot come to a grave conclusion.

1825.

THE FENCING-MASTER'S CHOICE.

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S we have a great aversion to the repetition of old jokes, and in our ignorance of what is going forward in the festive parts of the town, can never be certain that any story we take for a new one is not well known, we always feel inclined to preface a relation of this kind with something that should serve for an apology in case of necessity, or give it a new grace in default of newness of a better sort. And this reflection always reminds us of that pleasant Milanese, whom nature made a wag and a jolly fellow, and Francis the First made a bishop; to wit, Master Matthew Bandello, the best Italian novelist, after Boccaccio, and one who could tell a grave story as well as a merry one. Monsignore Matteo, before he proceeds to relate how "a jealous enamoured himself" of a young widow, or how a pleasant "beff" was put upon a priest who became "furious of it," and "remained stordited," makes a point of informing the reader where he first heard the story, who told it, and in whose company, and how much better it was told than he, with his Lombardisms, can have any pretence to repeat it; on all which accounts he wishes to God, that people could have heard it fresh from the lips of that very amiable and magnificent Signor, the before-mentioned Signor Antonio, whom he recollects as if it was but yesterday, because he was

standing at the time with a right joyous and genteel company by the balustrade of the gardens of the very illustrious and most adorned Signor, his singularly noble friend the Signor Gherardesco dei Gherardi, Conte di Cuviano, where there happened to be present the ladies equally eminent for their high birth and most excellent endowments, to wit, the right courteous, virtuous, and most beautiful ladies the Lady Vittoria, Princess of Colombano, and the Lady Hippolita d'Este, widow of the most valorous and magnificent Signor, the ever-memorable Alfonso, Prince of Ferrara; which ladies, being very affectionate towards all argute sayings and witty deeds, did nigh burst themselves for laughter, in the which the very illustrious Signor Gherardesco aforesaid did. heartily join, to the great contentment of that princely company, and all who overheard those urbane conceits and most graceful phrases, which he (the bishop) utterly despairs of rendering anything the like to the reader. But he will do his best; and as the story is exceedingly curious (to wit, a little free), he had addressed it to the right virtuous and most adorned with all feminine dowries, the Lady Lucretia di San Donnato, in return for one of a like nature which she was graciously pleased to relate to him one day; to wit, on the eve of the day of Corpus Domini, sitting in the windows of the Palazzo Rospoli, at that time inhabited by the very magnificent, most adorned, and most worthily given Signor, the Signor Prince Cesare Ottoboni, nephew of the most Holy Father.

By this process, the reader feels bound to like the story, if only out of a proper sense of the company he

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