" This is, to carry out the
physical figure, only another version of "_the mixture as before_." We are
afraid there are no hopes of the patient.
"Why are the Whigs like the toes of a dancing-master?"--"Because they
_must_ be turned out."
"Why are Colonel Sibthorp and Mr. Peter Borthwick like the covering of the
dancing-master's toes?"--"Because they are a _pair of pumps_."
"Why are the Whigs and Tories like the scarlet fever and the
measles?"--"Because there's no telling which is the worst."
* * * * *
A HINT TO THE UGLY.
My uncle Septimus Snagglegrable is no more! Excellent old man! no one knew
his worthiness whilst he was of the living, for every one called him a
scoundrel.
It is reserved for me to do justice to his memory, and one short sentence
will be sufficient for the purpose--he has left me five thousand pounds! I
have determined that his benevolence shall not want an imitator, and I have
resolved, at a great personal sacrifice, to benefit that portion of my
fellow creatures who are denominated ugly. I am particularly so. My
complexion is a bright snuff-colour; my eyes are grey, and unprotected by
the usual verandahs of eye-lashes; my nose is _retrousse_, and if it has a
bridge, it must be of the suspension order, for it is decidedly concave.
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