Shall we then sing Packwood, whom our
fathers delighted to honour, as a doer of
miracles in his own line, the work of
whose hands came gratefully to their
cuticles? And shall we not glorify him,
too? Who then was Packwood? What his
speciality?

The Mechi-Moses, or Moses-Mechi, of his
day, supposing there could be a duality of
those distinguished artistes. Mechi for his
ware, Moses for his verse. Sweeter than
honey flowed the verse of Packwood. His
speciality was strops. He sang strops!

Mr. Carlyle has written it down that the
end of the last century was a great season
for influx of charlatans. Too harsh a term,
perhaps, for men who simply commended
their own worth, and were their own showmen,
as it were. Few care to be their
brethren's showman. Packwood was but
one of the throng,—fellow to Solomon and
others. The world knows of Solomon by
this time,—Solomon who introduced to it
the famous healing Balm of Gilead. Doctor
Solomon had that Israelitish vein of poesy in
him, too—for the better wooing of consumers
of his balm; whose every word and action
was to the same tune and purpose, the showman's
tune and purpose. Gilead Hall,—
imposing country seat hard by to Liverpool,
and all raised, laid out, and planted, on Balm
of Gilead,—Gilead Hall was to the same
tune. Those famous dinners at Gilead Hall,
when sudden wrangle and contention would
be heard outside, with sounds of servants
struggling to keep out intruder, and with
final irruption of intruder, mother of family
that is, with armfuls of children, falling
prone at his feet and pouring out torrent of
blessings on his Gilead's head, for sudden
recovery,—all was to that same tune of
charlatanry or puffery. Not less curious is that
history—inédite, or unpublished hitherto—of
how he treated certain persons of quality,
overturned at his gate. The persons of
quality were invited, intreated with all
handsomeness, as persons of quality should
be, and bidden to sit down and refresh
themselves. But they, with questionable taste,
declined all hospitality and swore they would
have nought but Gilead—Balm of Gilead only.
"Which, by the way, was a noble compound;
formed of fine brandies and costly stimulants.
Two flasks of the noble compound are
brought in and consumed with infinite relish.
Brought in, too, at departure time, is a bill
for five guineas, price of two flasks of Gilead;
to astonishment, no doubt, and utter disgust
of the persons of quality. " But," says Doctor
Solomon, by way of moral to his apologue,
"had you been satisfied to treat me as a
gentleman, you should have had the choicest
wines in my cellar, free of charge. But
since you have elected to treat me
professionally, I shall treat you professionally
also. And so the five guineas, if you
please."

Of this school came Packwood. But
Packwood is perhaps the first who thought
of recommending himself by ingenious quips
and conceits; and so must be taken to have
lighted the way for Messrs. Day and Martin,
the Pill and Ointment Panaceist, the Israelitish
Tailor, and other modern professors.
From him must have come the hint of that
famous inferior leg, standing so many years.
From him came the suggestion of the metrical
traps and pitfalls taking in the unwary
reader by promise of intellectual entertainment,
and landing him in panegyrics of a
Hebrew-cut garment. From him came the
acrostics, the riddles, the rebuses,—it is all to
be found in Packwood. There is nothing
new under the sun! It is all to be found
in "Packwood's Whim: The Goldfinch's
Nest, or the Way to get Money and to be
Happy. Giving a general account of his
diverting advertisements, with other useful
observations. Reader, when you have perused
this book, and assert you were neither
excited to cry, laugh, or grin, you must not
expect to be ranked among the most favourite
customers. By George Packwood. Fungor
vice cotis. Horace."—in this Whim, then, of
Mr. George Packwood, the curious will find
the whole rationale of the thing, set out
diligently; it being as though the pill and ointment
professor and Hebrew garment-maker
should gather together all their quips and
versicles in a small tract and send them out
on the world.

But hearken yet awhile to what is to be
found in the Goldfinch's Nest.

First room for an apologue. Once on a
time it happened two slaves met together,
the one named Common Strop, the other
Superior Strop. Common Strop claimed
preference of the other, and thus addressed
him:—

"Remember Superior, you are but young
in the world. I have been useful to sharpen
razors as a Common Strop for ages past, and
lived in some credit before you came."

"All this is self-praise without foundation,"
answered Superior; "but I understand the
most you could ever do, after all your long
experience was to smooth the edge of an
instrument after the stone or barber's hone.
Many a good razor has been cast aside for
want of that merit you now so much boast
of; my superiority has already convinced
the most credulous into surprise, that my
power will remove notches from a razor or
common knife, and give a delectable smooth
edge to shave the hardest beard, and that to
admiration."

The Moral:—Merit meets its own reward
on a fair trial.

Further on Mr. George Packwood comes
out dramatically, and presents what might
have fitted very respectably into a nautical
drama of his own day. The tide was just
then setting in towards quarter-deck virtues;
the British sailor was then taking to the