JOHN BRITISH, in the bigness of his heart, sat with his doors open to all comers: though we will not deny, that the welcome bestowed upon his guests, depended not always so much upon their deserving merits, as upon their readiness to flatter their host in any of the thousand whims, to which, since truth should be said, JOHN was given. Hence, a bold, emptyheaded talker would sometimes be placed on the right hand of JOHN-would be helped to the choicest morsels, and would drink from out the golden goblet of the host,-whilst the meek, wise man might be suffered to stare hungrily from a corner, or at best, pick bits and scraps off a wooden trencher. With all this, JOHN was a generous fellow: for no sooner was he convinced of the true value of his guest, than he would hasten to make profuse amends for past neglect, setting the worthy in the seat of honour, and doing him all graceful reverence. In his time, JOHN had assuredly made grievous blunders : now, twitting him as a zany or a lunatic, who, in after years was JOHN's best councillor-his blithe companion : now, stopping his ears at what in his rash ignorance he called a silly goose, that in later days, became to JOHN the sweetest nightingale.

iv

JOHN has blundered, it is true. It is as true that he has rewarded those he has wronged: and if-for it has happened -the injured have been far removed from the want of cakes and ale, has not JOHN put his hand into his pocket, and with a conciliatory, penitent air, promised a tomb-stone? To our

matter:

Once upon a time, two or three fellows-" Men of Character," as they afterwards dubbed themselves-ventured into the presence of JOHN BRITISH. Of the merits of these worthies it is not for us to speak, being, unhappily, related to them. That their reception was very far beyond their deserts, or that their effrontery is of the choicest order, may be gathered from this circumstance: they now bring new comers-other Men," never before presented, to the house of JOHN, and pray of him to listen to the histories of the strangers, and at his own 66 sweet will," to bid them pack, or to entertain them.

Masters PIPPINS, CHEEK, CLEAR, and PALMS, most humbly beg places for their anxious worships,-BUFF, RUNNYMEDE, QUATTRINO, APPLEJOHN, and TRUMPS.

Haverstock Hill,

January, 1838.

D. J.

ADAM BUFF:

THE MAN "WITHOUT A SHIRT."

CHAPTER I.

ADAM lay in bed, and with his heart in his ears, listened listened, but heard nothing. A shadow fell upon his face; and, uttering an impatient groan or grunt, and hugging the blanket close around his neck, he swung himself, like a resolute pig, upon his side, and then sent forth a long-drawn sigh. Hapless Adam Buff!

Inexorable time, that cruel sandman, goes onward, and Adam sleeps. Oh, ye gentle ministers, who tune our dreaming brains with happy musicwho feed the snoring hungry with apples fresh from Paradise-who take the fetters from the slave, and send him free as the wild antelope, bounding to his hut-who make the henpecked spouse, though sleeping near his gentle tyrant, a lordly Turk-who write on the prison walls of the poor debtor, ceived in full of all demands"-whatever ye may

VOL. I.

B

re

be, wherever ye reside, we pray ye, for one hour at least, cheat poor Adam Buff! Bear him on your rainbow wings from an attic, once white-washed, in Seven Dials, to the verdant slope of the Cerra Duida; for there, saith the veracious Baron Humboldt, “shirt trees grow fifty feet high!" There, lay him down, under that most household blossom, that "hangs on the bough," and there, let him cast his gladdened eyes upwards, and see shirts, ready made, advertised on every spray. And there, to the sound of the Indian drum, let him see disporting on the grass, men and maidens clothed—for in the Cerra Duida the shirt hath no sex-in newly gathered garments, "the upper opening of which admits the head, and two lateral holes cut admit the arms!"*

(The site of the garden of Eden hath been a favourite dispute with very many theologians, all equally well informed on the subject. Dutchmen have protested that it was somewhere near Amsterdam-and Russians have been found to give their votes for the neighbourhood of Moscow: Humboldt, in his shirt tree, hath satisfactorily proved it not to be the Cerra Duida. Eden, however, brings us back to Buff.)

"Are you up, Mr. Buff?" said a voice on the outside of the door.

* See Humboldt's "Personal Narrative."

"Come in," said Adam, awakened by the querist. The door opened, and a dry, yellowish matron of some threescore, entered the room. From her perfect self-possession, it was evident that she was landlady of the domain. "Did you see the fire, last night, Mr. Buff?" asked Mrs. Nox, the widow of a respectable baker.

“I heard the engines,” replied the philosopher. "The sky was like the last day," said the landlady.

"It was red," remarked Adam.

"Poor souls!" and Mrs. Nox stood at the foot of the bed, rubbing her hands, and looking piteously at the nose and cheeks of Buff, as they came out in ruby relief from a halo of blanket.

"Many burned?" asked Adam, with a slight cough.

"It is n't known yet-but such a loss of property! Two sugar bake-houses, a distiller's, besides the house of a pawnbroker. Lost every thing-for I do hear there was nothing insured," said Mrs. Nox. Very sad, indeed; but this is human life, Mrs. Nox," observed Adam, with commendable composure.

66

"It is indeed, Mr. Buff," and the landlady sighed.

"Yes, this is life! We rise early, and go to bed late-we toil and we sweat-we scrape up and