by Mr. Scratchley, Actuary to the Western
Assurance Society.

THE FIRST TIME, AND THE LAST
WAY, OF ASKING.

THE readers of this publication may not be
aware of the existence among them of an
Association that very industriously circulates
its prospectus. Its existence is a fact. I,
the writer of this, don't choose to identify
myself with myself; but the existence of the
Association which I shall presently mention,
is A FACT.

Put a case. My name is Damon. Now I,
Damon, want to take you—put a case you
are a spinster—to have and to hold. I 'm
a man of nineteen, lightly built, considering
my years. Never mind that, at
present. I shall hand you my description
presently. If you are in the habit of carrying
halfpence about in your pocket, and will pull
them out and look among them, I dare say
you will find stamped upon one of them the
name of the weekly paper I take in. There
I saw that all the letters in the alphabet, and
all the names of females in the dictionary,
were corresponding with the editor, and
asking him to get them husbands, so I went in
with all the other letters in the alphabet, and
names of males, to join in begging of the
editor to find us wives. I saw there were
correspondences in every stage of love-sickness,
and notes of gratitude to the editor from
married couples, for having brought them
together; those notes being doubtless accompanied
with pieces of wedding-cake, which
were inserted only in the editor's Å“sophageal
column. (I beg to say that I spelt that
long word out of the dictionary, so I am sure
it's right.) Well, I went in one Sunday,
"Damon, a gentleman of nineteen, having a
small salary, with great hope that it will
increase, being five feet four, and light
complexioned, seeks a sympathising woman with
black hair and a shop not previously
married." That was what I put into the paper,
and the same day that it appeared I looked
among the applications from the lady
correspondents. Unfortunately most of them
wanted their husbands to be six feet long,
and stained mahogany, I being neither. But
there was one who said she preferred intellect
to bodily appearance, and having capital of
her own, sought nothing but worth in her
life's partner. She signed herself "Lily." I
replied to her, and, through the editor, obtained
her address, with leave to call and introduce
myself—at No.—, Berkeley Square. She
proved to be the cook, and a very large person.
She had saved wages. Our interview was short,
not unmingled with a proud disdain on her
part, which I attributed to the caprice of wealth,
and, perhaps, in her own opinion, beauty. I
left not without hope, but in a few days a
note was transmitted to me, by which I found
that I was declined, for a reason which I have
not yet been able to understand,—that I was a
trumpery wipersnaber. The solitary answer to
Damon was from a young lady, who proved to
be only eleven years old; I did not then know
what difficulties were before me; I therefore
respectfully declined her overtures.

I need not trouble you with the history
of my defeats during a struggle of some
months, carried on through the medium of
the public press. I underwent the degradation
of being dismissed by two ladies to whom
I went for inspection, as a "tallowy boy."
At length I yielded to despair, and gave up
taking in my paper. Cut off from temptation,
ignorant of the matrimonial markets, I
galloped my horse about London in a frantic
manner—I assist Mr. * * * , the eminent
butcher—and endeavoured to forget my grief.
I saw the hearts of sheep and bullocks daily
bought with money, while mine, a man's
heart, was refused even when offered as a gift!

Despair overcame me. I lost flesh. Wandering
with thoughts pre-occupied, joints
frequently were stolen from my tray. I should
have lost my situation, if an event had not
occurred which suddenly threw energy and
life again into my operations.

My dear friend, William Smith,—a name
so honourable why should I care to conceal?—
had retired with me, for a friendly game at
chuck-farthing, to the mews behind our shop.
Our evening had passed off very agreeably,
when my friend—who is out-door assistant to
a skilful surgeon—opened his basket, and
there, among the bottles of medicine which he
had kindly consented to postpone delivering
until the ensuing morning, lay two papers,
which he drew forth with a roguish look: a
look in which my friend excels. "Damon,"
he says, "I intend to commit matermony."
"That's rather a bold thing for a man to do
at thirteen, Bill," I answered; "is that your
license, and who's the happy one?" "No,"
says he, "it's a paper what I found in the
kitchen, and it tells one how to get a wife,
and have the pick of a whole file on 'em where
there's a first-rate stock to be disposed of."
That news fell upon me as a spark falls upon
tinder, and now, thought I, we shall not have
to wait long for the match.

We took our seat, therefore, upon the
nearest substance able to afford us that
accommodation, and were proceeding to inspect the
papers, when we were accosted by a mutual
friend, Mr. Thomas Brown. Mr. Brown is
a scholar upon a charity foundation, a most
estimable man and full of wit, although, at
the same time, a compelled eccentricity about
his leggings renders him to a disagreeable
extent the cause of wit in others. We
admitted our friend Brown to our councils, and
proceeded to inspect the paper.

I beg to assure you, sir, that the fond hopes
which dawned upon me out of the prospectus
which I am now about to lay before you, were
not based upon a phantom. I was not the
victim of a hoax, and I enclose you, herewith,