“Will do, Robert,” interrupted the good old gentleman.  “I am thunderstruck at the extent of your information — I am positively —­ upon my soul.” [Here he closed his eyes and placed his hand upon his heart.] “Come here!” [Here he took me by the arm.] “Your education may now be considered as finished — it is high time you should scuffle for yourself — and you cannot do a better thing than merely follow your nose —­ so — so — so — " [Here he kicked me down stairs and out of the door] — “so get out of my house, and God bless you!”

As I felt within me the divine afflatus, I considered this accident rather fortunate than otherwise.  I resolved to be guided by the paternal advice.  I determined to follow my nose.  I gave it a pull or two upon the spot, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosology forthwith.

All Fum-Fudge was in an uproar.

“Wonderful genius!” said the Quarterly.

“Superb physiologist!” said the Westminster.

“Clever fellow!” said the Foreign.

“Fine writer!” said the Edinburgh.

“Profound thinker!” said the Dublin.

“Great man!” said Bentley.

“Divine soul!” said Fraser.

“One of us!” said Blackwood.

“Who can he be?” said Mrs. Bas-Bleu.

“What can he be?” said big Miss Bas-Bleu.

“Where can he be?” said little Miss Bas-Bleu. — But I paid these people no attention whatever — I just stepped into the shop of an artist.

The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was sitting for her portrait; the
Marquis of So-and-So was holding the Duchess’ poodle; the Earl of
This-and-That was flirting with her salts; and his Royal Highness of
Touch-me-Not was leaning upon the back of her chair.

I approached the artist and turned up my nose.

“Oh, beautiful!” sighed her Grace.

“Oh my!” lisped the Marquis.

“Oh, shocking!” groaned the Earl.

“Oh, abominable!” growled his Royal Highness.

“What will you take for it?” asked the artist.

“For his nose!” shouted her Grace.

“A thousand pounds,” said I, sitting down.

“A thousand pounds?” inquired the artist, musingly.

“A thousand pounds,” said I.

“Beautiful!” said he, entranced.

“A thousand pounds,” said I.

“Do you warrant it?” he asked, turning the nose to the light.

“I do,” said I, blowing it well.

“Is it quite original?” he inquired; touching it with reverence.

“Humph!” said I, twisting it to one side.

“Has no copy been taken?” he demanded, surveying it through a microscope.

“None,” said I, turning it up.

“Admirable!” he ejaculated, thrown quite off his guard by the beauty of the manoeuvre.

“A thousand pounds,” said I.

“A thousand pounds?” said he.

“Precisely,” said I.

“A thousand pounds?” said he.