Nov. 15.—­Lectured by the “governor”—­left the house savage—­met the Marquess—­got very drunk unconsciously—­fancied myself a merman, and that the gutter in the Haymarket was the Archipelago—­grew preposterous, and felt that I should like to be run over—­thought I was waltzing with Cerito, but found I was being carried on a stretcher to the station-house—­somebody sent somewhere for bail, and somebody bailed me.

State of Knocker.—­Very indistinct—­then became uncommonly like the “governor” in his nightcap—­could NOT reach it—­presume it was filial affection that prevented me—­knocked of its own accord, no doubt agitated by sympathy—­reverberated in my ears all night, and left me with a confounded head-ache in the morning.

The above examples are sufficient to show the variability of this singular article.

Formerly the knocker was devoted entirely to the menial occupation of announcing, by a single dab, or a variation of raps, the desire of persons on the door-step to communicate with the occupants of the interior of a mansion.  Modern genius has elevated it into a source of refined pleasure and practical humour, affording at the same time employment to the artisan, excitement to the gentleman, and broken heads and dislocations of every variety to the police!

We will now proceed to the details of an event which PUNCH alone is worthy to record:—­

Notice of a meet having been despatched to all the members of the “Knocker Hunt,” a splendid field—­no street—­met at the Cavendish—­the hotel of the hospitable Marquess.  The white damask which covered the mahogany was dotted here and there with rich and invigorating viands; whilst decanters of port and sherry—­jugs of Chateau Margaux—­bottles of exhilarating spirits, and boxes of cigars, agreeably diversified the scene.  After a plentiful but orderly discussion of the “creature comforts,” (for all ebullitions at home are strictly prohibited by the Marquess) it was proposed to draw St. James’s Square.  This suggestion was, however, abandoned, as it was reported by Captain Pepperwell, that a party of snobs had been hunting bell-handles in the same locality, on the preceding night.  Clarges Street was then named; and off we started in that direction, trying the west end of Jermyn Street and Piccadilly in our way; but, as was expected, both coverts proved blank.  We were almost afraid of the same result in the Clarges Street gorse; for it was not until we arrived at No. 33, that any one gave tongue.  Young Dashover was the first, and clearly and beautifully came his shrill tone upon the ear, as he exclaimed “Hereth a knocker—­thuch a one, too!” The rush was instantaneous; and in the space of a moment one feeling seemed to have taken possession of the whole pack.  A more splendid struggle was never witnessed by the oldest knocker-hunter!  A more pertinacious piece of cast-iron never contended against the prowess of the Corinthian!  After a gallant pull of an hour and a half, “the affair came off,” and now graces the club-room of the “Knocker Hunt.”