brilliant. Several appearances at chapel
with eyes artificially blacked, one with a
pair of top-boots appearing beneath his
surplice, and a great many more failures in
chapel attendance altogether; innumerable
quarrels with the proctor, systematic
violations of all the University by-laws, from
walking on the college grass-plats to driving
tandem, soon rendered his withdrawal
from St. Bumptious college a matter of
necessity, and not of choice. He left; and it
must be a proud reflection for him now to
think that, from the stable-keeper who let
him his hackneys to the pastry-cook who sent
him his dinners, his name will be long
remembered as a defaulter, and enrolled in the
imperishable records of the daybook and ledger.

Do not for a moment suppose that I mean
to include in the Bohemian category every
young spendthrift, be he peer or commoner,
who runs through his rent-roll faster than the
rents come in, outruns the constable at last,
and comes to grief and the Insolvent Court.
Tom Rakewell, in Mr. Hogarth's print is no such
Bohemian. He is simply a fool; and in the
vanity of youthful blood poisons good by
misuse, spends all he has, and comes to Bedlam
or the Queen's Bench in the natural
course of his folly. Every year there are
scores of old misers die, who have heaped up
riches in their sordid and laborious lifetimes,
leaving young Tom Rakewells to gather them.
Young Tom squanders the money, entertains
fiddlers, buffoons, horse jockeys, prize
fighters, bona-robas, &c.; and is, in time,
taken in execution, or under a commission de
lunatico, or marries a hideous old woman for
her money, but he never dreams of being of
Bohemia—a Bohemian. Every year the
Times newspaper will contain some score
leaders upon some stolen bill trial, in which
Tom Rakewell, a Jew, a horse, and a worthless
woman are all mixed up to their common
disgrace; every Sunday paper, almost, has its
extraordinary case of folly and extravagance,
with young Tom in the box of the Insolvent
Court. There is scarcely a ship sails for
Australia without a ruined spendthrift
aboard, shipped off to the Antipodes by his
friends to prevent his coming to worse; there
is scarcely a public house without some sodden
Tom Rakewell, far gone in delirium
tremens, who has had money once, and run
through it all. You will not walk ten paces
in the court yard of a debtors' prison without
seeing the shawl dressing gown fluttering in
the breeze, and the tasselled cap of
incarcerated Tom, who has been in the Guards, or
the Line, or in nothing particular, save the
general debauchery line, and has sown his
acceptances broadcast, and bought jewellery
and double-barrelled guns on credit, to pawn
—who is in for it just now, till the governor
comes round, and colours a short pipe, and is
so obliging in telling you when the tap will
open, and so anxious to know whether you
are going through the Court or not.

Thomas Lord Marlinspike was far different
to these shallow rakes. He became of
Bohemia almost immediately. He ran races,
but he painted them, and nobbled them, and
swapped them, and did such inconceivably
dirty tricks with them as your poor simple
spendthrift would never dream of. Before he
was twenty-three he was a bankrupt as a
horse dealer. Then he was insolvent, being
described as the Honourable Thomas Rufus
Mayntogallant, commonly called Lord
Marlinspike, formerly of Sandcrack Lodge, near
Richmond, omnibus and cab proprietor,
afterwards of Three, Muttleston Street, Pimlico,
job-master, afterwards of Cloudy Farm, Sussex,
farmer, dairyman, and pork-butcher,
afterwards of Kissingen Spa, Biberich and
Baden-Baden, out of any trade or occupation,
after of six hundred and six Goliath Square,
Belgravia (his father's residence), marker at a
billiard-table, afterwards of the Debtors'
Prison, Whitecross Street, commission agent,
and now of the Queen's Prison, Southwark,
a prisoner for debt. To appear at Twelve.
All creditors may oppose.

All creditors did oppose, as you may
imagine; for Thomas, Lord Marlinspike
had followed all the trades named in
his schedule, and, according to report, a good
many more; some averring, indeed, that the
heir of the peerage of Clewline had not been
too proud to have a fourth share in a gambling
house, and to keep two or three cigar shops
in different parts of London. Men even said
that the lordly Thomas was concerned in a
betting office, and a loan society which never
granted any loans, but subsisted upon the
sums paid as fees for inquiries. Opposed,
however, by all creditors, the Lord Thomas
was, by the Chief Commissioner, sufficiently
relieved from his debts to become twice insolvent
afterwards. He is rather quiet now,
having, as it is reported, married a charwoman,
but he is yet open to sell blank acceptances for
sums varying from five shillings to five pounds
each. Some of these days, Lord Clewline
(who now sternly refuses to give him a shilling)
will die; and Thomas will be Lord of
Clewline and Capstanhawser, a senator, a
justice of peace, Lord Lieutenant of his
county, perhaps. Ex quovis ligno fit—no;
all Lord Thomases are not all Lord
Marlinspikes. Bohemia is not open to all.

Now, poor Lord Kay Say is really to be
pitied for his Bohemianism: the unfortunate
young nobleman had really no other choice.
Fourth son to a noble marquis, expensively
educated, formerly in the Dragoons, not a
penny to bless himself with—what was Lord
Kay Say to do? Marriage with a rich young
lady was out of the question—his poverty
being too well known. Digging was beyond
his capacity, begging unworthy the fourth
son of the Marquis of Fifay. What did Lord
Kay Say do but turn Director! Yes; if you
look at the prospectus of the Costermongers'
Mutual Life and Fire Assurance Company;