“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.  I wish Rennie would turn his attention to the state of numerous noses in the metropolis.  I am sure a lucrative company might he established for the purpose of erecting bridges to noses that, like my own, have been unprovided by nature.  I should be happy to become a director. Revenons nous—­my mouth is decidedly large, and my teeth singularly irregular.  My father was violently opposed to Dr. Jenner’s “repeal of the small-pox,"[4] and would not have me vaccinated; the consequence of which has been that my chin is full of little dells, thickly studded with dark and stunted bristles.  I have bunions and legs that (as “the right line of beauty’s a curve”) are the perfection of symmetry.  My poor mother used to lament what she, in the plenitude of her ignorance, was pleased to denominate my disadvantages.  She knew not the power of genius.  To me these—­well, I’ll call them defects—­have been the source of great profit.  For years I have walked about the great metropolis without any known or even conjectural means of subsistence; my coat has always been without a patch—­my linen without spot!

    [4] Baylis.

Ugly brothers, I am about to impart to you the secret of my existence!  I have lived by the fine arts—­yes, by sitting as

  A model for door-knockers and cherubim for tomb-stones.

The latter may perhaps surprise you, but the contour of my countenance is decidedly infantile—­for when had a babby a bridge?—­and the addition of a penny trumpet completes the full-blown expression of the light-headed things known to stone-masons as cherubim.

But it is to the art of knocker-designing that I flatter myself I have been of most service.  By the elevation of my chin, and the assistance of a long wig, I can present an excellent resemblance of a lion, with this great advantage over the real animal—­I can vary the expression according to circumstances—­