singers and actors at the various theatres were
wont, on the Sundays, to lend their voices to the
Catholic chapels, and to assist in rendering the
music of the mass an imposing feature in the
service. Acting on his reverend authority, he
issued a circular forbidding his flock so to
employ their voices; and his flock obeyed, doubtless,
under pain of instant excommunication.

M. Larcher supplies this anecdote for the
information of the lovers of truth: "Some years
since, a rich citizen of London died, and
left Miss B., who did not at all know him,
a fortune mounting up to several millions.
No one would be able to imagine the motive
of this unexpected munificence. 'I beg,' he
wrote, 'Miss B. to accept the gift of my
entire fortune, too small to express the
inexpressible sensations which, for three years, the
contemplation of her adorable nose has give
me.' Fearing some error or mystification, Miss
B. inquired of the lawyers, who came to get her
signature for the acceptance of the legacy, if the
testator was interred? 'No,' replied they. 'Then
conduct me to him!' Here the astonishment
became general. 'It is he!' cries Miss B., on
uncovering the face of the deceased. 'It is the
man who for three years pursued me with his
compliments and his verses in honour of my
nose! At Hyde Park, at Covent Garden, he
was always before me, and incessantly staring!'
Miss B. deigned to accept the millions."

Cutting the leaves of this veracious volume in
a sleepy, indolent kind of manner, I am suddenly
aroused by finding that I never take off my hat
to a lady, but only to a horse—the reason being,
that a woman causes me to spend money, and
a horse causes me to gain it: wherefore I love,
pat, caress my horse, but in no wise love, pat, or
caress my wife; nor do I salute any lady
whatsoever, but only my favourite racer. I also find
that my wife and sisters put trousers on the
legs of their pianos, chairs, and tables; that
they never talk of the leg of a fowl, or ask for
a slice of leg of mutton, but prefer a modest
request for the limb of a chicken, and desire a
little slice of that limb of mutton. Anything
else would be "very shocking," and would put
English prudery quite out of countenance. Again,
I find that I have no fruit worth eating, either
in my garden or my greenhouse: that, with the
exception of apples, gooseberries, and coarse black
cherries, nothing ripens or comes to maturity;
that my hot-house produces nothing but inodorous
and tasteless monstrosities; and that the
only thoroughly ripened fruit which I can offer
to my friends is a baked apple. I grow nothing
in perfection but grass; and cattle are the only
really well fed and contented animals in my
island. The people are notoriously ill fed; and
I owe my existence to French ideas in stews
and sauces.

When I give a rout, I send out from five to
six thousand letters of invitation; I illuminate
the façade of my hotel, and turn every bedroom
into a reception-room. My five or six thousand
guests arrive with a remarkable punctuality;
but, notwithstanding the care which I take in
sending out my invitations, I never fail to receive
among those guests, a certain number of thieves
and pickpockets, who steal the ladies' cloaks
and ornaments, and whose exploits are vaunted
in the next day's journal with infinite complaisance.
In these routs I find my greatest pleasure
in intoxicating my guests—M. Larcher
has seen me do it—and I close the debauch
with tea, and grogs of brandy, gin, and rum;
also with tea "laced" with rum—which, I am
told, has been always a favourite beverage of
mine. If I give a dinner, the ladies retire so
soon as the bottles appear; one of my guests
cries "ob-or-nob," which is a kind of table
tocsin to warn the rest to prepare for toasts;
and then we fall to drinking in earnest. M.
Larcher magnanimously confesses that we do
not drink so much as formerly, though we still
only drink alcohol slightly flavoured with grape
juice, as our nearest approach to wine, and still
reject the purest and best growths as tasteless
and insipid.

Of all people in the world we English are
the most thievish. "To steal is not to sin,"
say our thieves, and every one is a thief.
The only sin in cheating is in being found
out; excepting for this, no English
conscience is ever troubled by a theft. Government
officials, merchants, tradespeople, gentry,
lower orders, all steal, thieve, rob, according
to our respective opportunities, and we
all enjoy a certain reputation and respect when
we do it well. Thus, the professional thief is
by no means disregarded among us; indeed, as
he and the policeman are the sole polished
members of English society, I suppose he is one of
our most cherished institutions.

Drunken, selfish, immoral, cruel, greedy,
avaricious, jaded, dishonest. O M. Larcher! M.
Larcher! Wonderfully informed man! A Daniel
come (into the Lion's Den) to judgment!

   NEW WORK BY MR. CHARLES DICKENS.

        In No. 84 of ALL THE YEAR ROUND, TO BE
PUBLISHED ON SATURDAY, DECEMBER THE FIRST,
                   Will be commenced
               GREAT EXPECTATIONS,
                BY CHARLES DICKENS,
                A NEW SERIAL STORY,
To be continued from week to week until completed
              in about EIGHT MONTHS.

      THE EXTRA CHRISTMAS NUMBER
WILL BE PUBLISHED EARLY IN DECEMBER.