MORE ABOUT _that_ MR. DICK FARDEN--HOW REALLY AND TRULY THERE WAS NO TRUSTING THE FELLOW TO DO A SINGLE THING, FOR POSITIVELY HE SPOILT EVERYTHING HE PUT HIS HAND TO, (IF, INDEED TO DO THE MAN JUSTICE, I EXCEPT THE BOOTS AND KNIVES)--AND HOW, WHEN AT LAST HE SO COMPLETELY RUINED MY LOVE OF A PIANO, THAT ACTUALLY MY “BROADWOOD” WAS ONLY FIT FOR FIREWOOD, (IF THAT,) I WISHED TO GOODNESS GRACIOUS I HAD BEEN A MAN FOR HIS SAKE--BUT AS IT WAS, I MERELY TOLD HIM THAT SUCH GOINGS ON WOULD NOT SUIT _me_, AND THAT HE HAD BETTER GO AND PLAY HIS PRANKS ELSEWHERE, FOR I WASN’T GOING TO PUT UP WITH THEM ANY LONGER, I COULD TELL HIM. “He seemed confounded--vexed--he stared-- Then vow’d he’d ne’er deceive me; Says I, ‘Your presence can be spared, Sir, if you please, do leave me.’” * * * * * * * * * * “Now pray,” says I, “don’t teaze, young man, You don’t exactly suit me.” “YOU DON’T EXACTLY SUIT ME.” _G. Herbert Rodwell._ The courteous reader will perhaps recollect that Mr. Savill, my bothering printer (as I couldn’t help calling him last month), came in, just at the most interesting part of my narrative about Mr. Dick Farden, and in a most unrelenting manner cut short the thread of my tale with the scissors: “of want of space.” Not that I should have minded so much about it, only the worst of it was, I had warmed so nicely into my story, and really had grown so hot upon it, just at the very moment when in walked Mr. Savill, to throw cold water upon me, with his precious “No more room, ma’m.” And it isn’t easy for a person of poetic mind to have to warm up her feelings a second time, as if the heart were so much cold mutton, or beef, or pork; although, for the matter of that, I think my fair readers will agree with me that pork makes but an indifferent hash, and that nothing on earth can be nicer than a cold boiled leg with a nice mixed pickle, especially in summer time, when hot joints are so disagreeable. Well, but I think I hear the reader exclaiming, “Goodness gracious, my dear Mrs. Sk--n--st--n, you are allowing your fertile imagination to run away with you, and you have so interested us with your sufferings, that our only happiness lies in listening to your miseries. So “_revenons à nos moutons_,” and Mr. Dick Farden’s capers.”