ch is only
learned at the knees of Alma Mater;--and handsome young guardsmen, and
florid bucks from the St. James's Street Clubs--nay, senators English
and Irish; and even members of the House of Peers.

The bass singer had made an immense hit with his song of 'The Body
Snatcher,' and the town rushed to listen to it. The curtain drew aside,
and Mr. Hodgen appeared in the character of the Snatcher, sitting on a
coffin, with a flask of gin before him, with a spade, and a candle stuck
in a skull. The song was sung with a really admirable terrific humour.
The singer's voice went down so low, that its grumbles rumbled into the
hearer's awe-stricken soul; and in the chorus he clamped with his spade,
and gave a demoniac "Ha! ha!" which caused the very glasses to quiver
on the table, as with terror. None of the other singers, not even
Cutts himself, as that high-minded man owned, could stand up before
the Snatcher, and he commonly used to retire to Mrs. Cutts's private
apartments, or into the bar, before that fatal song extinguished
him. Poor Cos's ditty, 'The Little Doodeen,' which Bows accompanied
charmingly on the piano, was sung but to a few admirers, who might
choose to remain after the tremendous resurrectionist chant. The room
was commonly emptied after that, or only left in possession of a very
few and persevering votaries of pleasure.

Whilst Pen and his friend were sitting here together one night, or
rather morning, two habitues of the house entered almost together. "Mr.
Hoolan and Mr. Doolan," whispered Warrington to Pen, saluting these
gentlemen, and in the latter Pen recognised his friend of the Alacrity
coach, who could not dine with Pen on the day on which the latter had
invited him, being compelled by his professional duties to decline
dinner-engagements on Fridays, he had stated, with his compliments to
Mr. Pendennis.

Doolan's paper, the Dawn, was lying on the table much bestained by
porter, and cheek-by-jowl with Hoolan's paper, which we shall call the
Day; the Dawn was Liberal--the Day was ultra-Conservative. Many of our
journals are officered by Irish gentlemen, and their gallant brigade
does the penning among us, as their ancestors used to transact the
fighting in Europe; and engage under many a flag, to be good friends
when the battle is over.

"Kidneys, John, and a glass of stout," says Hoolan. "How are you,
Morgan? how's Mrs. Doolan?"

"Doing pretty well, thank ye, Mick, my boy--faith she's accust