e out for the evening. He
accepts the statement that Miss Brass thinks him a 'funny
chap' by affirming that 'Old King Cole was a merry old soul';
and on taking his leave of the little slavey he says,

'Good night, Marchioness. Fare thee well, and if for
ever then for ever fare thee well--and put up the chain,
Marchioness, in case of accidents.

Since life like a river is flowing,
I care not how fast it rolls on, ma'am,
While such purl on the bank still is growing,
And such eyes light the waves as they run.'

On a later occasion, after enjoying some games of cards he
retires to rest in a deeply contemplative mood.

'These rubbers,' said Mr. Swiveller, putting on his
nightcap in exactly the same style as he wore his hat,
'remind me of the matrimonial fireside. Cheggs's wife
plays cribbage; all-fours likewise. She rings the
changes on 'em now. From sport to sport they hurry her,
to banish her regrets; and when they win a smile from
her they think that she forgets--but she don't.'

Many of Mr. Swiveller's quotations are from Moore's _Irish
Melodies_, though he has certainly omitted one which, coming
from him, would not have been out of place, viz. 'The time
I've lost in wooing'!

On another occasion Swiveller recalls some well-known lines
when talking to Kit. 'An excellent woman, that mother of yours,
Christopher,' said Mr. Swiveller; '"Who ran to catch me when
I fell, and kissed the place to make it well? My mother."'

This is from Ann Taylor's nursery song, which has probably
been more parodied than any other poem in existence. There is
a French version by Madame a Taslie, and it has most likely
been translated into other languages.

Dick gives us another touching reference to his mother. He
is overcome with curiosity to know in what part of the Brass
establishment the Marchioness has her abode.

My mother must have been a very inquisitive woman; I
have no doubt I'm marked with a note of interrogation
somewhere. My feelings I smother, but thou hast been
the cause of this anguish, my--

This last remark is a memory of T.H. Bayly's celebrated song
'We met,' which tells in somewhat incoherent language the story
of a maiden who left her true love at the command of her mother,
and married for money.

The world may think me gay,
For my feelings I smother;
Oh _thou_ hast been the cause
Of this anguish--my m