ning, laughter, as may be: but the loudest critic of all
is our friend the cheap buck, who sits yonder and makes his remarks, so
that all the audience may hear. "THIS a farce!" says Beau Tibbs: "demmy!
it's the work of a poor devil who writes for money,--confound his
vulgarity! This a farce! Why isn't it a tragedy, or a comedy, or an epic
poem, stap my vitals? This a farce indeed! It's a feller as sends round
his 'at, and appeals to charity. Let's 'ave our money back again,
I say." And he swaggers off;--and you find the fellow came with an
author's order.

But if, in spite of Tibbs, our "kyind friends," &c. &c. &c.--if the
little farce, which was meant to amuse Christmas (or what my classical
friend calls Exodus), is asked for, even up to Twelfth Night,--shall the
publisher stop because Tibbs is dissatisfied? Whenever that capitalist
calls to get his money back, he may see the letter from the respected
publisher, informing the author that all the copies are sold, and that
there are demands for a new edition. Up with the curtain, then! Vivat
Regina! and no money returned, except the Times "gratuity!"

M. A. TITMARSH.

January 5, 1851.

THE KICKLEBURYS ON THE RHINE.

The cabman, when he brought us to the wharf, and made his usual charge
of six times his legal fare, before the settlement of which he pretended
to refuse the privilege of an exeat regno to our luggage, glared like a
disappointed fiend when Lankin, calling up the faithful Hutchison, his
clerk, who was in attendance, said to him, "Hutchison, you will pay this
man. My name is Serjeant Lankin, my chambers are in Pump Court. My clerk
will settle with you, sir." The cabman trembled; we stepped on board;
our lightsome luggage was speedily whisked away by the crew; our berths
had been secured by the previous agency of Hutchison; and a couple of
tickets, on which were written, "Mr. Serjeant Lankin," "Mr. Titmarsh,"
(Lankin's, by the way, incomparably the best and comfortablest sleeping
place,) were pinned on to two of the curtains of the beds in a side
cabin when we descended.

Who was on board? There were Jews, with Sunday papers and fruit; there
were couriers and servants straggling about; there were those bearded
foreign visitors of England, who always seem to decline to shave or
wash themselves on the day of a voyage, and, on the eve of quitting our
country, appear inclined to carry away as much as possible of its soil
on their hands and linen: there