“Every bit of it, my love,” said I:—so I gave it a twist or two, and found myself at Almack’s. The rooms were crowded to suffocation. “He is coming!” said somebody on the staircase. “He is coming!” said somebody farther up. “He is coming!” said somebody farther still. “He is come!” exclaimed the Duchess. “He is come, the little love!”—and, seizing me firmly by both hands, she kissed me thrice upon the nose. A marked sensation immediately ensued. “_Diavolo!_” cried Count Capricornutti. “_Dios guarda!_” muttered Don Stiletto. “_Mille tonnerres!_” ejaculated the Prince de Grenouille. “_Tousand teufel!_” growled the Elector of Bluddennuff. It was not to be borne. I grew angry. I turned short upon Bluddennuff. “Sir!” said I to him, “you are a baboon.” “Sir,” he replied, after a pause, “_Donner und Blitzen!_” This was all that could be desired. We exchanged cards. At Chalk-Farm, the next morning, I shot off his nose—and then called upon my friends. “_Bête!_” said the first. “Fool!” said the second. “Dolt!” said the third. “Ass!” said the fourth. “Ninny!” said the fifth. “Noodle!” said the sixth. “Be off!” said the seventh. At all this I felt mortified, and so called upon my father. “Father,” I asked, “what is the chief end of my existence?” “My son,” he replied, “it is still the study of Nosology; but in hitting the Elector upon the nose you have overshot your mark. You have a fine nose, it is true; but then Bluddennuff has none. You are damned, and he has become the hero of the day. I grant you that in Fum-Fudge the greatness of a lion is in proportion to the size of his proboscis—but, good heavens! there is no competing with a lion who has no proboscis at all.” X-ING A PARAGRAB As it is well known that the ‘wise men’ came ‘from the East,’ and as Mr. Touch-and-go Bullet-head came from the East, it follows that Mr. Bullet-head was a wise man; and if collateral proof of the matter be needed, here we have it—Mr. B. was an editor. Irascibility was his sole foible, for in fact the obstinacy of which men accused him was anything but his foible, since he justly considered it his forte. It was his strong point—his virtue; and it would have required all the logic of a Brownson to convince him that it was ‘anything else.’ I have shown that Touch-and-go Bullet-head was a wise man; and the only occasion on which he did not prove infallible, was when, abandoning that legitimate home for all wise men, the East, he migrated to the city of Alexander-the-Great-o-nopolis, or some place of a similar title, out West.