The candidate for the county cringes, and flatters the greasy unwashed ten-pounders, in order to get at the head of the poll—­so likewise the bumpkin (in imitation of his superior) rubs his hand in the dirt to enable him to cling fast, and reach the top of the soap’d poll, whereon the tempting prize is displayed.  And, what prompts them both to the contest?—­Ambition!

What is the ‘primum mobile,’ of the adventurous Aeronaut, Mr. Green, one of the most rising men of the day, who aspires even unto the very clouds, and in his elevation looks upon all men of woman born as far beneath him?—­Ambition!

What prompts the soldier who spends half-a-crown out of sixpence a-day to thrust his head into the cannon’s mouth, to convince the world that he is desirous of obtaining a good report and that he is fearless of the charge?—­Ambition!

What makes the beardless school-boy leap ditches and over posts at the risk of his neck, and boast that he’ll do another’s dags’—­or the sporting man turn good horses into filthy dog’s meat, in riding so many miles in so many minutes?—­Ambition!

What magic influence operates upon the senses of the barrister (a scholar and a gentleman) to exert his winning eloquence and ingenuity in the cause of a client, who, in his conscience, he knows to be both morally and legally unworthy of the luminous defence put forth to prove the trembling culprit more sinned against than sinning?—­Ambition!

What urges the vulgar costermonger to bestride his long-ear’d Arabian, and belabor his panting sides with merciless stick and iron-shod heels to impel him to the goal in the mimic race—­or the sleek and polish’d courtier to lick the dust of his superiors’ feet to obtain a paltry riband or a star?—­Ambition!

SCENE XIII.

Better luck next time.

The lamentation of Joe Grishin.

“O!  Molly!  Molly! ven I popp’d my chops through the arey railings, and seed you smile, I thought you vos mine for ever!  I wentur’d all for you —­all—.  It war’n’t no great stake p’r’aps, but it was a tender vun!  I offer’d you a heart verbally, and you said ‘No!’ I writ this ere wollentine, and you returns it vith a big ‘No!’

“O!  Molly your ‘No’s,’ is more piercinger and crueller than your heyes.  Me! to be used so:—­Me! as refused the vidder at the Coal Shed! (to be sure she wore a vig and I didn’t vant a bald rib!) Me!—­but it’s o’ no use talking; von may as vell make love to a lamp-post, and expect to feed von’s flame vith lights!  But adoo to life; this ’ere rope, fix’d round the ‘best end o’ the neck’ will soon scrap me, and ven I’m as dead as mutton, p’r’aps you may be werry sorry.

“It’ll be too late then, Molly, ven you’ve led me to the halter, to vish as you’d married me.”