door, dropped at it every day a fresh salmon
and a lobster from the fishmonger's in
Adelphi.

Mr. Shoffield having enjoyed a fortnight's
happiness, became melancholic and sighed at
dinner when he took his knife to cut his
salmon. The domestic thought that the
knife displeased him, and offered him twelve
others on a salver. Mr. Shoffield struck the
salver with his fist, and scattered all the
knives. The English domestic, because he is
born free, and wears gloves, is proud. John
instantly discharged himself.

It appearing to Mr. Shoffield that he was
afflicted by that universal English malady
the spleen, he went for advice to his neighbour,
Mr. Kemble. Mr. Kemble, son of the
celebrated actor of that name, was the editor
of the Quarterly Review. Shoffield had
manufactured for Kemble, the father,
poinards to be used in the parts of Hamlet
or Macbeth. So he became acquainted with
the son.

Mr. Kemble, junior, was in a hot-house,
writing an article against the Burmese. His
conversation with Mr. Shoffield began "in
the usual English way." Shoffield sat down
and looked at Kemble, Kemble looked at
Shoffield, and the exchange of looks lasted
for half an hour, neither gentleman speaking.
Mr. K., being pressed for time, then said
"Oh!" upon which Mr. S. said "Ah!" and
the case was opened. Mr. Shoffield
explained that he was dying of ennui, and
asked what Mr. Kemble, as a clever man,
would advise him to do. Mr. Kemble's
advice was that he should take in the
Quarterly Review; but as he could not
entertain himself for a whole year with only
the year's issue, he advised him also to
purchase the back numbers. In the evening,
Mr. Kemble, accordingly, sent across to
Mr. Shoffield's house, in a hand carriage,
three sets of the numbers of the "Quarterly,"
from its commencement in the year eighteen
hundred and twenty-seven. This date being
seven years prior to the date of the interview,
and the number of volumes in a set
being then, as we are told, forty, about six
Quarterly volumes must have been
published annually under the editorship of Mr.
Kemble, junior.

Mr. Shoffield spent the evening over a
volume of the Quarterly, in which he
read the report of a sermon three hours
long, that had been preached in dumb show
by a Protestant missionary to the savages of
Owhyhee. Next morning he received a
letter from his discharged servant John,
briefly stating that if he had been a gentleman
his insolence would have been put up
with, but that since he was but a wretched
cutler they were equals, and he (John) was
awaiting him (Shoffield) with closed fists
under the Highgate archway, attended by
an umpire and three backers; let him choose
his own men and come forward.

Mr. Shoffield, unwilling to be knocked
down because he was not a gentleman,
determined to apply to the authorities, and called
for his horses and his coachman.

Thus, it appeared, that his whole establishment
had followed John, and had, moreover,
placarded a proclamation about Highgate,
Hampstead, and Cricklewood, denouncing
the wrath of John against any inhabitant of
Kent or Middlesex who should go into the
cutler's service. Mr. Shoffield, much alarmed,
resolved on flight. He therefore put on the
gardener's jacket, and set off on foot, armed
with a knife, on the road te London.

As he passed over the Highgate archway,
he heard loud voices in the ravine below,
and looking over, saw John and his friends
upon a bed of blooming thistles, practising
their boxing match. Seized with new terror
Mr. Shoffield took to his heels, and
did not pause for breath until he readied
a public house at Hampstead, where he
called for a pint of porter. As he was
drinking it, he saw John and his friends
coming towards the house with fists
clenched, and instantly leaped out shouting
"God save the King!"

Upon Hampstead Heath it is well known
that there are stationed hundreds of
English donkeys, saddled and bridled for the
journey to the cottage of Cricklewood.
Shoffield leaped upon the first that he could
seize, and using his knife for spur dashed
down the interminable street which leads
into the heart of London, and is called
Tottenham Rood. The boy from the
Hampstead-inn vaulted upon another donkey to
pursue the customer who owed him for his
porter. John and his men swelled the
chase. Opposite Wellington Seminary a
policeman seeing a pale man clashing
forward on a donkey and holding up a bloody
knife, leaped forward to arrest him. The
officer of law was overthrown, and Mr.
Shoffield galloped on till he arrived at the
slippery stairs of Humgherford Market. There
I will part company from this person whose
fifteen thousand a year profited him so little,
but whose acquaintance ought to profit
much all philosophic Britons, wishing to
see themselves as others see them.

Let us be instructed next by a French study
of an Irishman—Sir Lively.

On the fourteenth of June, eighteen
hundred and thirty-six, the coach from Golden
Cross had passed the village of Bucks on the
road to Oxford, and drew up at the door of
a solitary cottage. The coachman before
alighting gave his whip and reins to a young
man who occupied the box-seat, though he
was not a gentleman, and though he wore
coloured gloves. I must explain here that
both in France and Germany much study has
been spent upon that curious phenomenon, an
English gentleman. In a German account of
English manners I have read lately a complete
analysis of the subject, under the heads,