the consequence of which has been that my chin is full of little dells, thickly studded with dark and stunted bristles.  I have bunions and legs that (as “the right line of beauty’s a curve”) are the perfection of symmetry.  My poor mother used to lament what she, in the plenitude of her ignorance, was pleased to denominate my disadvantages.  She knew not the power of genius.  To me these—­well, I’ll call them defects—­have been the source of great profit.  For years I have walked about the great metropolis without any known or even conjectural means of subsistence; my coat has always been without a patch—­my linen without spot!

    [4] Baylis.

Ugly brothers, I am about to impart to you the secret of my existence!  I have lived by the fine arts—­yes, by sitting as

  A model for door-knockers and cherubim for tomb-stones.

The latter may perhaps surprise you, but the contour of my countenance is decidedly infantile—­for when had a babby a bridge?—­and the addition of a penny trumpet completes the full-blown expression of the light-headed things known to stone-masons as cherubim.

But it is to the art of knocker-designing that I flatter myself I have been of most service.  By the elevation of my chin, and the assistance of a long wig, I can present an excellent resemblance of a lion, with this great advantage over the real animal—­I can vary the expression according to circumstances—­

  “As mild as milk, or raging as the storm.”

So that nervous single ladies need not be terrified out of their senses every time they knock at their door, by the grim personification of a Nero at feeding time; or a tender-hearted poor-law guardian be pestered during dinner by invitations afforded to the starving poor by the benevolent expression of his knocker.

Ugly ones!  I have now imparted to you my secret.

* * * * *

ON THE POPULARITY OF MR. CH—­S K—­N.

  Oh, Mr. Punch! what glorious times
  Are these, for humbly gifted mimes;
    When, spite of each detracter,
  Paternal name and filial love,
  Assisted by “the powers above,”
    Have made C——­s K——­n an actor!

  “’Tis true,” his generous patrons say,
  “Of genius he ne’er had a ray;
    Yet, all his faults to smother,
  The youth inherits, from his sire,
  A name which all the world admire,
    And dearly loves his mother!”

  Stripp’d of his adventitious aid,
  He ne’er ten pounds a week had made;
    Yet every Thespian brother
  Is now kept down, or put to flight,
  While he gets fifty pounds a night,
    Because—­he loves his mother!

  Though I’m, in heart and soul, a friend
  To genuine talent, Heaven forefend
    That I should raise a pother,
  Because the philanthropic folks
  Wink and applaud a pious hoax,
    For one who—­loves his mother!