Well, one day as he and a friend was taking their turn among the aristoxy under the Quadrant—­they were struck all of a heap by seeing—­But, stop! who was Jools’s friend?  Here you have pictures of both—­but the Istory of Jools’s friend must be kep for another innings.

II.

Not fur from that knowble and cheerflie Squear which Munseer Jools de Chacabac had selacted for his eboad in London—­not fur, I say, from Lester Squarr, is a rainje of bildings called Pipping’s Buildings, leading to Blue Lion Court, leading to St. Martin’s Lane.  You know Pipping’s Buildings by its greatest ornament, an am and beefouce (where Jools has often stood admiring the degstaraty of the carver a-cuttin the varous jints), and by the little fishmungur’s, where you remark the mouldy lobsters, the fly-blown picklesammon, the playbills, and the gingybear bottles in the window—­above all, by the “Constantinople” Divan, kep by the Misses Mordeky, and well known to every lover of “a prime sigaw and an exlent cup of reel Moky Coffy for 6d.”

The Constantinople Divann is greatly used by the foring gents of Lester Squar.  I never ad the good fortn to pass down Pipping’s Buildings without seeing a haf a duzen of ’em on the threshole of the extablishment, giving the street an oppertunity of testing the odar of the Misses Mordeky’s prime Avannas.  Two or three mor may be visable inside, settn on the counter or the chestis, indulging in their fav’rit whead, the rich and spisy Pickwhick, the ripe Manilly, or the flagrant and arheumatic Qby.

“These Divanns are, as is very well known, the knightly resott of the young Henglish nobillaty.  It is ear a young Pier, after an arjus day at the House of Commons, solazes himself with a glas of gin-and-water (the national beveridge), with cheerful conversation on the ewents of the day, or with an armless gaym of baggytell in the back-parlor.”

So wrote at least our friend Jools to his newspaper, the Horriflam; and of this back-parlor and baggytell-bord, of this counter, of this “Constantinople” Divan, he became almost as reglar a frequenter as the plaster of Parish Turk who sits smoking a hookey between the two blue coffee-cups in the winder.

I have oftin, smokin my own shroot in silents in a corner of the Diwann, listened to Jools and his friends inwaying aginst Hingland, and boastin of their own immortial country.  How they did go on about Wellintun, and what an arty contamp they ad for him!—­how they used to prove that France was the Light, the Scenter-pint, the Igsample and hadmiration of the whole world!  And though I scarcely take a French paper now-a-days (I lived in early days as groom in a French famly three years, and therefore knows the languidg), though, I say, you can’t take up Jools’s paper, the Orriflam, without readin that a minister has committed bribery and perjury, or that a littery man has committed perjury and murder, or that a Duke has stabbed his wife in fifty places, or some story equally horrible; yet for all that it’s admiral to see how the French gents will swagger—­how they will be the scenters of civilization—­how they will be the Igsamples of Europ, and nothink shall prevent ’em—­knowing they will have it, I say I listen, smokin my pip in silence.  But to our tail.