The barber's chair; and, The hedgehog lettersJerrold, Douglas William
General
The barber's chair; and, The hedgehog letters
Jerrold, Douglas William
English literature -- 19th century; English wit and humor
There’s commonly an Old Bailey fashion, the same as a St James’s
fashion. Just now--as you want to know all the domestic news--poison’s
carrying everything before it. ’Twould seem as if people suddenly
thought their relations rats, and treated ’em accordingly. I never
yet tried my hand upon a book, but I do think that I could throw off
a nice little story with lots of arsenic in it--a sort of genteel
guide to Newgate. I’ve been reading about a lady, one Tofana, who
made a great stir some years ago. She could give arsenic in such a
manner that she set people for death as you’d set an alarum. She got
a good many pupils, young married ladies, about her, who all of ’em
put their husbands aside like an old-fashioned gown. Now, I do think
that a novel called “The Ladies’ Poisoning Club,” or “Widowhood at
Will,” would just now make a bit of a stir. I don’t mean to say that
I could write a book, that is, what folks call _write_; but I’ve a
knack: I know I could imitate writing, just as an ape imitates a man.
The subject grows upon me. I certainly think I shall make a beginning.
However, of this you shall hear more by the next packet. I do think
I could make a hit in what I call arsenicated literature. There’s
arsenicated candles, why shouldn’t there be arsenicated books?--In
haste, your affectionate brother,
JUNIPER HEDGEHOG.
_P.S._--If I do the book, I shall follow it up with a sort of moral
continuation, to be called “The Stomach-Pump.”
LETTER VI.--_To Mr Jonas Wilcox, Philadelphia._
DEAR BROTHER-IN-LAW,--As my last letter was to sister, it is but
fair that you should have the next dose of ink. Well, Parliament’s
opened; and Sir Robert’s made a clean breast of it--that is, if a
Prime Minister can do such a thing. There never was such harmony in
the House of Commons! After Sir Robert had spoken out, you might have
thought all the House was holding nothing but a love-feast. I was in
the gallery--I won’t tell you how I got in--and never saw such a sight
in all my life. All the papers, I can’t tell why, have oddly suppressed
an account of the matter; therefore, what you get from me will be
exclusive--from your “own” correspondent. Treasure it accordingly.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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