I choose to take John at the time when his little peccadillo is suspected, perhaps, but when there is no specific charge of robbery against him.  He is not yet convicted:  he is not even on his trial; how then can we venture to say he is guilty?  Now think what scores of men and women walk the world in a like predicament; and what false coin passes current!  Pinchbeck strives to pass off his history as sound coin.  He knows it is only base metal, washed over with a thin varnish of learning.  Poluphloisbos puts his sermons in circulation:  sounding brass, lacquered over with white metal, and marked with the stamp and image of piety.  What say you to Drawcansir’s reputation as a military commander? to Tibbs’s pretensions to be a fine gentleman? to Sapphira’s claims as a poetess, or Rodoessa’s as a beauty?  His bravery, his piety, high birth, genius, beauty—­each of these deceivers would palm his falsehood on us, and have us accept his forgeries as sterling coin.  And we talk here, please to observe, of weaknesses rather than crimes.  Some of us have more serious things to hide than a yellow cheek behind a raddle of rouge, or a white poll under a wig of jetty curls.  You know, neighbor, there are not only false teeth in this world, but false tongues:  and some make up a bust and an appearance of strength with padding, cotton, and what not? while another kind of artist tries to take you in by wearing under his waistcoat, and perpetually thumping, an immense sham heart.  Dear sir, may yours and mine be found, at the right time, of the proper size and in the right place.

And what has this to do with half-crowns, good or bad?  Ah, friend! may our coin, battered, and clipped, and defaced though it be, be proved to be Sterling Silver on the day of the Great Assay!

“Strange to say, on club paper.”

Before the Duke of York’s column, and between the “Athenaeum” and “United Service” Clubs, I have seen more than once, on the esplanade, a preacher holding forth to a little congregation of badauds and street-boys, whom he entertains with a discourse on the crimes of a rapacious aristocracy, or warns of the imminent peril of their own souls.  Sometimes this orator is made to “move on” by brutal policemen.  Sometimes, on a Sunday, he points to a white head or two visible in the windows of the Clubs to the right and left of him, and volunteers a statement that those quiet and elderly Sabbath-breakers will very soon be called from this world to another, where their lot will by no means be so comfortable as that which the reprobates enjoy here, in their arm-chairs by their snug fires.

At the end of last month, had I been a Pall Mall preacher, I would have liked to send a whip round to all the Clubs in St. James’s, and convoke the few members remaining in London to hear a discourse sub Dio on a text from the Observer newspaper.  I would have taken post under the statue of Fame, say, where she stands distributing wreaths to the three Crimean Guardsmen. (The crossing-sweeper does not obstruct the path, and I suppose is away at his villa on Sundays.) And, when the congregation was pretty quiet, I would have begun:—­