|Methinks, Benjamin,” said Uncle Timothy to the lauréat of Little Britain, as they sat _tête-à-tête_ at breakfast on the morning after the adventure of the old harper,--“methinks I have conceded quite enough by consenting to play Esquire Bedel to the Fubsys, Muffs, and Flumgartens. A couple of lean barn-door fowls and a loin--or, as Mrs. Flumgarten classically spells it, a lion of fat country pork at Christmas, even were I a more farinaceous feeder than I am, are hardly equivalent to my approaching purgatory. You bargained, among other sights, for Westminster Abbey. Now what possible charm can the _Poet's Corner_ have for the Fubsy family, who detest poets and poetry quite as much as ever did the second George 'boedry and bainding!' Then came the British Museum. I will now take leave to have my own way. Your eloquence, persuasive though it be, shall never talk me into a new blue coat and brass buttons.” “Depend upon it, Uncle Timothy, Mrs Flurngarten will--” “I know it, Benjamin. That full-blown hollyhock of the aristocracy of Mammon, who has a happy knack of picking a hole in everybody's coat, will not spare mine. Let her then, for economy's sake, pick a hole in an old coat rather than a new one.” “The honour of our family is at stake,” urged the lauréat. “Respect, too, for Mrs. Flumgar-ten.” Uncle Timothy whistled “Sic a wife as Willie had, I would na gie a button for her. “But suppose, Benjamin, I should be so insane so stark, staring, ridiculously mad.” Here Uncle Timothy paused to see what effect his budget of suppositions had upon Mr Bosky's nerves. But Mr. Bosky kept his nerves well strung and his countenance steady, and let Uncle Timothy go on supposing. “Suppose I should all at once depart from the sober gravity that belongs to my years, and exhibit myself in a blue coat and brass buttons--” Uncle Timothy again paused; but he might as well have whistled jigs to a milestone. The lauréat continued immoveable and mute. “Benjamin--Benjamin _Bosky!_” cried Uncle Timothy, nettled at his provoking imperturbability, “if, out of a mistaken civility to your country cousins, and to rid myself of these annoying importunities, I should invite the caricaturist to pillory me in the print-shops--a blue coat and brass buttons are not the journey-work of twenty minutes--for by that time I must be equipped to start: And, to swaddle myself in a ready-made fit, too long at the top, and too short at the bottom--like the Irishman's blanket! No, Benjamin Bosky! For, though of figure I have nothing to boast--” here Uncle Timothy unconsciously (?) glanced at his comely person in a mirror--“I do not intend to qualify myself for a chair on the fifth of November.” Mr Bosky still maintained a respectful silence.