in, I
began to smel out somethink quear in my style. Within the last sex weaks
I have been learning to spell: and when all the world was rejoicing at
the festivvaties of our youthful Quean--*when all i's were fixed upon
her long sweet of ambasdors and princes, following the splendid carridge
of Marshle the Duke of Damlatiar, and blinking at the pearls and dimince
of Prince Oystereasy--Yellowplush was in his loanly pantry--HIS eyes
were fixt upon the spelling-book--his heart was bent upon mastring the
diffickleties of the littery professhn. I have been, in fact, CONVERTID.

* This was written in 1838.

You shall here how. Ours, you know, is a Wig house; and ever sins his
third son has got a place in the Treasury, his secknd a captingsy in the
Guards, his fust, the secretary of embasy at Pekin, with a prospick
of being appinted ambasdor at Loo Choo--ever sins master's sons have
reseaved these attentions, and master himself has had the promis of a
pearitch, he has been the most reglar, consistnt, honrabble Libbaral, in
or out of the House of Commins.

Well, being a Whig, it's the fashn, as you know, to reseave littery
pipple; and accordingly, at dinner, tother day, whose name do you think
I had to hollar out on the fust landing-place about a wick ago? After
several dukes and markises had been enounced, a very gentell fly drives
up to our doar, and out steps two gentlemen. One was pail, and wor
spektickles, a wig, and a white neckcloth. The other was slim with a
hook nose, a pail fase, a small waist, a pare of falling shoulders, a
tight coat, and a catarack of black satting tumbling out of his busm,
and falling into a gilt velvet weskit. The little genlmn settled his
wigg, and pulled out his ribbins; the younger one fluffed the dust of
his shoes, looked at his whiskers in a little pockit-glas, settled his
crevatt; and they both mounted upstairs.

"What name, sir?" says I, to the old genlmn.

"Name!--a! now, you thief o' the wurrld," says he, "do you pretind
nat to know ME? Say it's the Cabinet Cyclopa--no, I mane the Litherary
Chran--psha!--bluthanowns!--say it's DOCTHOR DIOCLESIAN LARNER--I think
he'll know me now--ay, Nid?" But the genlmn called Nid was at the botm
of the stare, and pretended to be very busy with his shoo-string. So the
little genlmn went upstares alone.

"DOCTOR DIOLESIUS LARNER!" says I.

"DOCTOR ATHANASIUS LARDNER!" says Greville Fitz-Roy, our secknd footman,
on the fust landing-place.

"