But, alas for Snippe, the last representative of the illustrious firm of “Tom & Jerry.” Who is there now—now that Snippe is withdrawn as a partner from the establishment—to maintain the credit of the house? Snippe is snubbed—snubbed is Snippe. Well, well, well—let the watchmen—sweet voices of the night—rejoice in their boxes, if they will, over their pine kindlings, and their hot sheet-iron stoves—rejoice in their cosy slumbers, that the original Snippe no longer molests their ancient, solitary reign, by uncouth noises, preliminary, symphonious, and symptomatic to a row. And let the cabmen—want a cab, sir?—be merry, too, with rein in hand, or reclining against the friendly wall, that they are no more to be victimized by the practical jocularities of the school of Singleton Snippe. What relish have they for the gracefulnesses of existence—its little playful embellishments, that bead and dimple the dull surface of the pond into the varieties of playful fantasy. Such as these would describe a boy of the superlative order of merit, as “one that goes straight home and never stops to play on the road;” and we all know that Singleton Snippe never went straight home in the whole course of his experience. Home! Home, it should be understood, so much vaunted by the poets, and so greatly delighted in by the antipodes to Snippe, is regarded in quite a different light—humdrummish—by the disciples of Snippeism. Home, according to them, is not so much a spot to retire to, as a place to escape from—a centre of rendezvous, no doubt, with the washerwoman, the bootblack, and other indispensable people of that sort. Snippe’s new clothes were always sent home; and long bills, provocative of long faces, were apt to follow them with the certainty of cause and effect. But to stay at home himself—what—Snippe?—He stay at home? He was called for occasionally at that point—his breakfast was taken there, when any degree of appetite remained from the preceding night; and a note would eventually reach its destination if left for him there. But it required a very unusual conjunction of circumstances to find Singleton Snippe at home more frequently than could be helped. Home, in Snippe’s estimation, was the embodiment of a yawn—he never heard of it without the most extended of gapes. He could not speak of it without opening his mouth to the extent of its volume; and Snippe’s mouth is not a diamond edition, but rather an octavo, if not rising to the dignity of a quarto, at least when he is drinking. “Home!” said he; “home’s a bore. What fun is there at home, except dozing over the fire, or snoring on a sofa?”