“The fourth animal is mounted on a fiery dragon, that, belching flames, kindles forests, fires towns, dries rivers, blasts harvests, and swallows men, women, and sucking babes. Look to the left, and the dragon is turned to a something no bigger than a mouse, and with its stinted rations of butter and cheese. “In the fifth and last view you see ten thousand of these animals ferociously killing, biting, tearing another ten thousand, whom they never saw till a few minutes ago, and with whom they have no quarrel. But they kill one another because they are tickled to do so. That is, certain animals go about with tickling wands called ‘glory,’ ‘deathless renown,’ ‘laurel,’ and other titillating syllables, poking in the ribs of the poor benighted creatures.” I took my eye from the glass: “My good man, what have you shown me?” “Fleas, sir.” “Fleas!—nonsense; the fleas are shown above.” “Yes, sir; but mine are the fleas with two legs; though, _if_ I must be honest, I can’t say I see any difference between the fleas in my show-box and the fleas above.” [Illustration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ [Illustration] THE MANAGER’S PIG “Some people are not to be persuaded to taste of any creatures they have daily seen and been acquainted with whilst they were alive.... In this behaviour, methinks there appears something like a consciousness of guilt; it looks as if they endeavoured to save themselves from the imputation of a crime (which they know sticks somewhere) by removing the cause of it as far as they can from themselves.”—MANDEVILLE. ARISTIDES TINFOIL, it is our fixed belief, was intended by nature either for lawn sleeves or ermined robes; he was, we doubt it not, sent into this world an embryo bishop, or a lord-chief-justice _in posse_. Such, we are convinced, was the benignant purpose of nature; but the cruel despotism of worldly circumstance relentlessly crossed the fair design; and Tinfoil, with a heart of honey and a head of iron, was only a player—or, we should rather say, a master among players. Tinfoil might have preached charity-sermons till tears should have overflowed the pews; no matter, he acted the benevolent old men to the sobs and spasms of a crowded audience: he might, with singular efficacy, have passed sentence of death on coiners and sheep-stealers; circumstances, however, confined his mild reproofs to scene-shifters, bill-stickers, Cupids at one shilling per night, and white muslin Graces. “Where is Mr Moriturus?” asked Tinfoil, chagrined at the untoward absence of his retainer. “Where is he?” “Ill, Sir,” was the melancholy answer, “very ill.” “Ill!” exclaimed Tinfoil, in a tone of anger, quickly subsiding into mild remonstrance. “Ill!—why—why doesn’t the good man _die at once_?”