"Mr. Scapgoat," said my wife, shaking her fist at him (for she is a woman of no small spirit), "if you don't leave this ground, I'll have you pushed out with pitchforks, I will, you and your beggarly blackamoor, yonder." And, suiting the action to the word, she clapped a stable-fork into the hands of one of the gardeners, and called another, armed with a rake, to his help, while young Tug set the dog at their heels, and I hurrahed for joy to see such villainy so properly treated. "That's sufficient, ain't it?" said Mr. Scapgoat, with the calmest air in the world. "Oh, completely," said the lawyer. "Mr. Tuggeridge, we've ten miles to dinner. Madam, your very humble servant." And the whole posse of them rode away. NOVEMBER. [1840. [Illustration] LONDON SMOKE. [Sidenote: _First Day of Term._ [Illustration] The field-sports' rule reversed by legal wags, [Illustration] _He clips._ Bags do not bear the fox, but foxes, bags. [Illustration] _Orange Lodge._] Smoke rules the roast! November, foggy, drear; Oh! when from darkness will its days desist? Month of suspicion, that leaves all to clear, For though nought's _stolen_, everything is _mist_! It is a bully month, whose _vapouring_ flies Wherever man is found, or woman walks; An equal favourer of dis-_guise_ and _Guys_, Assassin patron _both_ of knives and _Faukes_! Densely impervious is its dark-winged air, Driver of soot from roofs and chimney stacks, London its fort—it is accounted there _The Great Emancipator of the blacks!_ Smoke is its sister, and assister too; Protean creature, taking every form,— Now gently rising from an Irish stew, Now rushing from a steamer in a storm! Smoke; lo! it curleth from the Meersham fine, Say it dissolves—so is _mere sham_ to boot— Clearly _as_-cended from the female line, At all events, it comes from a _she root_! Now it runs up a pipe, with odorous charms, Bringing effluvia from the flue: who dips In heraldry, will see its coat of arms Should bear the _barber's_ motto of "_Eclipse_." Smoke will have sway; a very dingy yoke It keeps us under, and 'tis time we broke it; Alas! we can't, and e'en our very joke, Reader, we find is nothing till you smoke it. Smoke and November, then, go hand in hand, Till time dismiss them thro' his "chaos" gates; Time is a man of taste, he clears the land, And just like smoke itself—_he vapour hates_! 5. William the Third landed.