ty with which, her public
business over, she retired into private life. She respected her life,
and her beard. That beard having done its day's work, she puts it away
in her handkerchief; and becomes, as far as in her lies, a private
ordinary person. All public men and women of good sense, I should think,
have this modesty. When, for instance, in my small way, poor Mrs. Brown
comes simpering up to me, with her album in one hand, a pen in the
other, and says, "Ho, ho, dear Mr. Roundabout, write us one of your
amusing," &c .&c., my beard drops behind my handkerchief instantly. Why
am I to wag my chin and grin for Mrs. Brown's good pleasure? My dear
madam, I have been making faces all day. It is my profession. I do my
comic business with the greatest pains, seriousness, and trouble: and
with it make, I hope, a not dishonest livelihood. If you ask Mons.
Blondin to tea, you don't have a rope stretched from your garret window
to the opposite side of the square, and request Monsieur to take his
tea out on the centre of the rope? I lay my hand on this waistcoat, and
declare that not once in the course of our voyage together did I allow
the Kentucky Giant to suppose I was speculating on his stature, or the
Bearded Lady to surmise that I wished to peep under the handkerchief
which muffled the lower part of her face. "And the more fool you," says
some cynic. (Faugh, those cynics, I hate 'em!) Don't you know, sir, that
a man of genius is pleased to have his genius recognized; that a beauty
likes to be admired; that an actor likes to be applauded; that stout old
Wellington himself was pleased, and smiled when the people cheered him
as he passed? Suppose you had paid some respectful compliment to that
lady? Suppose you had asked that giant, if, for once, he would take
anything at the liquor-bar? you might have learned a great deal of
curious knowledge regarding giants and bearded ladies, about whom you
evidently now know very little. There was that little boy of three years
old, with a fine beard already, and his little legs and arms, as seen
out of his little frock, covered with a dark down. What a queer little
capering satyr! He was quite good-natured, childish, rather solemn. He
had a little Norval dress, I remember: the drollest little Norval.

I have said the B. L. had another child. Now this was a little girl of
some six years old, as fair and as smooth of skin, dear madam, as
your own darling cherubs. She wandered about the gre