I looks towards you in red wine, and I takes my leave.”  Mr. Chops replied, “If you’ll just hitch me out of this over your right arm, Magsman, and carry me down-stairs, I’ll see you out.”  I said I couldn’t think of such a thing, but he would have it, so I lifted him off his throne.  He smelt strong of Maideary, and I couldn’t help thinking as I carried him down that it was like carrying a large bottle full of wine, with a rayther ugly stopper, a good deal out of proportion.

When I set him on the door-mat in the hall, he kep me close to him by holding on to my coat-collar, and he whispers: 

“I ain’t ’appy, Magsman.”

“What’s on your mind, Mr. Chops?”

“They don’t use me well.  They an’t grateful to me.  They puts me on the mantel-piece when I won’t have in more Champagne-wine, and they locks me in the sideboard when I won’t give up my property.”

“Get rid of ’em, Mr. Chops.”

“I can’t.  We’re in Society together, and what would Society say?”

“Come out of Society!” says I.

“I can’t.  You don’t know what you’re talking about.  When you have once gone into Society, you mustn’t come out of it.”

“Then if you’ll excuse the freedom, Mr. Chops,” were my remark, shaking my head grave, “I think it’s a pity you ever went in.”

Mr. Chops shook that deep Ed of his, to a surprisin extent, and slapped it half a dozen times with his hand, and with more Wice than I thought were in him.  Then, he says, “You’re a good fellow, but you don’t understand.  Good-night, go along.  Magsman, the little man will now walk three times round the Cairawan, and retire behind the curtain.”  The last I see of him on that occasion was his tryin, on the extremest werge of insensibility, to climb up the stairs, one by one, with his hands and knees.  They’d have been much too steep for him, if he had been sober; but he wouldn’t be helped.

It warn’t long after that, that I read in the newspaper of Mr. Chops’s being presented at court.  It was printed, “It will be recollected”—­and I’ve noticed in my life, that it is sure to be printed that it will be recollected, whenever it won’t—­“that Mr. Chops is the individual of small stature, whose brilliant success in the last State Lottery attracted so much attention.”  Well, I says to myself, Such is Life!  He has been and done it in earnest at last.  He has astonished George the Fourth!

(On account of which, I had that canvass new-painted, him with a bag of money in his hand, a presentin it to George the Fourth, and a lady in Ostrich Feathers fallin in love with him in a bag-wig, sword, and buckles correct.)