I scorn to be as abusive as Horace upon the occasion——but if there is no catachresis in the wish, and no sin in it, I wish from my soul, that every imitator in _Great Britain, France_, and _Ireland_, had the farcy for his pains; and that there was a good farcical house, large enough to hold—aye—and sublimate them, _shag rag and bob-tail_, male and female, all together: and this leads me to the affair of _Whiskers_——but, by what chain of ideas—I leave as a legacy in _mort-main_ to Prudes and Tartufs, to enjoy and make the most of. UPON WHISKERS. I’m sorry I made it——’twas as inconsiderate a promise as ever entered a man’s head——A chapter upon whiskers! alas! the world will not bear it—’tis a delicate world——but I knew not of what mettle it was made—nor had I ever seen the under-written fragment; otherwise, as surely as noses are noses, and whiskers are whiskers still (let the world say what it will to the contrary); so surely would I have steered clear of this dangerous chapter. THE FRAGMENT. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ——You are half asleep, my good lady, said the old gentleman, taking hold of the old lady’s hand, and giving it a gentle squeeze, as he pronounced the word _Whiskers_——shall we change the subject? By no means, replied the old lady—I like your account of those matters; so throwing a thin gauze handkerchief over her head, and leaning it back upon the chair with her face turned towards him, and advancing her two feet as she reclined herself——I desire, continued she, you will go on. The old gentleman went on as follows:——Whiskers! cried the queen of _Navarre_, dropping her knotting ball, as _La Fosseuse_ uttered the word——Whiskers, madam, said _La Fosseuse_, pinning the ball to the queen’s apron, and making a courtesy as she repeated it. _La Fosseuse_’s voice was naturally soft and low, yet ’twas an articulate voice: and every letter of the word _Whiskers_ fell distinctly upon the queen of _Navarre_’s ear—Whiskers! cried the queen, laying a greater stress upon the word, and as if she had still distrusted her ears——Whiskers! replied _La Fosseuse_, repeating the word a third time——There is not a cavalier, madam, of his age in _Navarre_, continued the maid of honour, pressing the page’s interest upon the queen, that has so gallant a pair——Of what? cried _Margaret_, smiling—Of whiskers, said _La Fosseuse_, with infinite modesty.