provoked beyond
endurance, declared at last with an oath, "that if she didn't go away,
he'd drive his bayonet through her." "Oh, then, the devil thank you for
that same," responded the hag, "sure, isn't it your trade?" Make the
application, dear reader, and forgive us for our authorship to order.

Besides, had we not before us the example of Alexandre Dumas, in
France, whose practice it is to amuse the world by certain Souvenirs de
"Voyage," which he has never made, not even in imagination but which are
only the dressed-up skeletons of other men's rambles, and which he buys,
exactly as the Jews do old uniforms and court suits, for exportation to
the colonies. And thus while thousands of his readers are sympathizing
with the suffering of the aforesaid Alexandre, in his perilous passage
of the great desert, or his fearful encounter with Norwegian wolves,
little know they that their hero is snugly established in his "entresol"
of the "Rue d'Alger," lying full length on a spring-cushioned sofa,
with a Manilla weed on his lip, and George Sand's last bulletin of
wickedness, half cut before him. These "Souvenirs de Voyage" being
nothing more than the adventures and incidents of Messrs. John Doe and
Richard Doe, paragraphed, witticized, and spiced for public taste,
by Alexandre Dumas, pretty much as cheap taverns give "gravy" and
"ox-tail"--the smallest modicum of meat, to the most high-seasoned and
hot-flavoured condiments.

If, then, we had scruples, here was a precedent to relieve our
minds--here a case perfectly in point, at least so far as the legitimacy
of the practice demanded. But, unhappily, it ended there: for although
it may be, and indeed is, very practicable for Monsieur Dumas, by the
perfection of _his "cuisine,"_ to make the meat itself a secondary
part of the matter; yet do we grievously fear that a tureen full of
"O'Leary," might not be an acceptable dish, because there was a bone of
"Harry Lorrequer" in the bottom.

With all these _pros_ and _cons_ our vain-glorious boast to write the
work in question stared us suddenly in the face; and, really, we felt
as much shame as can reasonably be supposed to visit a man, whose
countenance has been hawked about the streets, and sold in shilling
numbers. What was to be done? There was the public, too; but, like Tony
Lumpkin, we felt we might disappoint the company at the Three Jolly
Pigeons--but could we disappoint ourselves?

Alas! there were some excellent reasons