him down, would look severely out of his
study-window and ask him how he enjoyed
the fun. I thought how Mr. Barlow would
heat all the pokers in the house and singe
him with the whole collection, to bring
him better acquainted with the properties
of incandescent iron, on which he (Barlow)
would fully expatiate. I pictured
Mr. Barlow's instituting a comparison
between the clown's conduct at his studies
—drinking up the ink, licking his copy-
book, and using his head for blotting-paper
—and that of the already mentioned young
Prig of Prigs, Harry, sitting at the Barlovian
feet, sneakingly pretending to be in a
rapture of useful knowledge. I thought how
soon Mr. Barlow would smooth the clown's
hair down, instead of letting it stand erect
in three tall tufts; and how, after a couple
of years or so with Mr. Barlow, he would
keep his legs close together when he
walked, and would take his hands out of
his big loose pockets, and wouldn't have a
jump left in him.

That I am particularly ignorant what
most things in the universe are made of,
and how they are made, is another of my
charges against Mr. Barlow. With the
dread upon me of developing into a Harry,
and with the further dread upon me of
being Barlowed if Imade inquiries, by bringing
down upon myself a cold shower-bath
of explanations and experiments, I forbore
enlightenment in my youth, and became,
as they say in melodramas, " the wreck you
now behold." That I consorted with idlers
and dunces, is another of the melancholy
facts for which I hold Mr. Barlow responsible.
That Pragmatical Prig, Harry,
became so detestable, in my sight, that, he
being reported studious in the South, I
would have fled idle to the extremest North.
Better to learn misconduct from a Master
Mash than science and statistics from a
Sandford! So I took the path which, but
for Mr. Barlow, I might never have trodden.
Thought I with a shudder, " Mr. Barlow is
a bore, with an immense constructive power
of making bores. His prize specimen is a
bore. He seeks to make a bore of me.
That Knowledge is Power I am not
prepared to gainsay; but, with Mr. Barlow,
Knowledge is Power to bore." Therefore
I took refuge in the Caves of Ignorance,
wherein I have resided ever since, and
which are still my private address.

But the weightiest charge of all my
charges against Mr. Barlow is, that he still
walks the earth in various disguises, seeking
to make a Tommy of me, even in my
maturity. Irrepressible instructive
monomaniac, Mr. Barlow fills my life with
pitfalls, and lies hiding at the bottom to
burst out upon me when I least expect
him.

A few of these dismal experiences of
mine shall suffice.

Knowing Mr. Barlow to have invested
largely in the Moving Panorama trade,
and having on various occasions identified
him in the dark, with a long wand in his
hand, holding forth in his old way (made
more appalling in this connexion, by his
sometimes cracking a piece of Mr. Carlyle's
own Dead- Sea Fruit in mistake for a joke),
I systematically shun pictorial entertainment
on rollers. Similarly I should
demand responsible bail and guarantee against
the appearance of Mr. Barlow, before
committing myself to attendance at any
assemblage of my fellow- creatures where a
bottle of water and a note- book were
conspicuous objects. For, in either of those
associations, I should expressly expect him.
But such is the designing nature of the
man, that he steals in where no reasonable
precaution or prevision could expect him.
As in the following case:

Adjoining the Caves of Ignorance is a
country town. In this country town, the
Mississippi Momuses, nine in number, were
announced to appear in the Town Hall, for
the general delectation, this last Christmas
week. Knowing Mr. Barlow to be
unconnected with the Mississippi, though holding
republican opinions, and deeming myself
secure, I took a stall. My object was to
hear and see the Mississippi Momuses in
what the bills described as their " National
Ballads, Plantation Break- Downs, Nigger
Part- Songs, Choice Conundrums, Sparkling
Repartees, &c." I found the nine dressed
alike, in the black coat and trousers, white
waistcoat, very large shirt-front, very large
shirt- collar, and very large white tie and
wristbands, which constitute the dress of
the mass of the African race, and which has
been observed by travellers to prevail over
a vast number of degrees of latitude. All
the nine rolled their eyes exceedingly, and
had very red lips. At the extremities of
the curve they formed seated in their
chairs, were the performers on the
Tambourine and Bones. The centre Momus, a
black of melancholy aspect (who inspired
me with a vague uneasiness for which I
could not then account), performed on a
Mississippi instrument closely resembling
what was once called in this Island a hurdy-
gurdy. The Momuses on either side of him