These are high and noble objects!  A wider field for social elevation cannot well be imagined.  Our plan embraces the enlightenment and refinement of every scion of a noble house, and all the junior clerks in the government offices—­from the happy recipient of an allowance of 50L per month from “the Governor,” to the dashing acceptor of a salary of thirty shillings a week from a highly-respectable house in the City—­from the gentleman who occupies a suite of apartments in the Clarendon, to the lodger in the three-pair back, in an excessively back street at Somers Town.

With these incentives, we will proceed at once to our great and glorious task, confident that our exertions will be appreciated, and obtain for us an introduction into the best circles.

PRELUDE.

We trust that our polite readers will commence the perusal of our pages with a pleasure equal to that which we feel in sitting down to write them; for they call up welcome recollections of those days (we are literary and seedy now!) when our coats emanated from the laboratory of Stultz, our pantaloons from Buckmaster, and our boots from Hoby, whilst our glossy beaver—­now, alas! supplanted by a rusty goss—­was fabricated by no less a thatcher than the illustrious Moore.  They will remind us of our Coryphean conquests at the Opera—­our triumphs in Rotten row—­our dinners at Long’s and the Clarendon—­our nights at Offley’s and the watch-house—­our glorious runs with the Beaufort hounds, and our exhilarating runs from the sheriffs’ officers—­our month’s sporting on the heathery moors, and our day rule when rusticating in the Bench!

We are in “the sear and yellow leaf”—­there is nothing green about us now!  We have put down our seasoned hunter, and have mounted the winged Pegasus.  The brilliant Burgundy and sparkling Hock no longer mantle in our glass; but Barclay’s beer—­nectar of gods and coalheavers—­mixed with hippocrene—­the Muses’ “cold without”—­is at present our only beverage.  The grouse are by us undisturbed in their bloomy mountain covert.  We are now content to climb Parnassus and our garret stairs.  The Albany, that sanctuary of erring bachelors, with its guardian beadle, are to us but memories, for we have become the denizens of a roomy attic (ring the top bell twice), and are only saluted by an Hebe of all-work and our printer’s devil!

ON DRESS IN GENERAL.—­L’habit fait le moine.—­It has been laid down by Brummel, Bulwer, and other great authorities, that “the tailor makes the man;” and he would be the most daring of sceptics who would endeavour to controvert this axiom.  Your first duty, therefore, is to place yourself in the hands of some distinguished schneider, and from him take out your patent of gentility—­for a man with an “elegant coat” to his back is like a bill at sight endorsed with a good name; whilst a seedy or ill-cut garment resembles a protested note of hand labelled “No effects.”  It will also be necessary for you to consult “The