BY JOHN COPUS.

In this age of "why and because," wherein even Master Thomas is considered to be devoid of his proper share of intellects unless he demand a full and clear statement of the grounds on which papa considers it expedient that he should learn his letters—in this age of essays, treatises, and commissions, wherein a plethoric pig cannot quietly stuff itself to death without some Diabolus Gander investigating the probable causes which eventually led to that result—it has come into the head of one deeply and many times pondering, to call the attention of a discerning and inquiring public to various little customs and practices prevalent in the world; and this with a view of eliciting at some future time satisfactory explanations of their probable origin and rationale from abler pens and keener intellects than my own, rather than with the intention of supplying them myself.

Mr. Brown has seated himself in his cosey arm-chair by the fire, in his little parlour at Camberwell, having just bid adieu to the "bus" which daily conveys him to and from the City, and, with handkerchief spread over his broad countenance, is settling himself to sleep, surrounded by a wife and various olive branches; when—"Oh, my gracious evins!" exclaims his amiable spouse, a comely dame, of warm feelings, and peculiarity in expressing them, "here's Johnny been and cut hisself in such a manner you never see! Lawky-daisey me! Mr. Brown! Mr. Brown!! Johnny's a'most cut his finger orf!"

"Tsut, tsut, tsut, tsut!—deary me!—poor fellow!—tsut, tsut, tsut!" responds that individual, starting up.

Now, what on earth do you do that for, Brown? Come, roundly, your reason, sir? Do pray tell me why you produced the series of peculiar sounds represented by "tsut, tsut," &c. You are a stout man, and a sober man,—why, in the name of all that's unaccountable, did you utter them? But the fact is, you are not alone, Brown, in your inability to solve this difficult question. For I never yet encountered the man who could satisfactorily explain to me how or why those sounds have come to be admitted into general society, as heralds or harbingers of a condoling and sympathising speech, or indicative, without further remark, of inward and heartfelt commiseration for suffering humanity in the breast of him who utters them. Philosophers, just explain this!

"Let us go and hear Miffler preach this morning," said a friend to me the other morning, in the country: "his congregation is composed entirely of the poorest, and, I should think, the most ignorant portion of our agricultural population. But they say that he manages to preach so plainly, that every one can understand and follow him."

So off we set, and a pleasant walk across the fields brought us to Elmsleigh church—one of those exceedingly picturesque old places, with a funny wooden steeple, or spire, if it can be called so, rising from the still more ancient square tower. We found Mr. Miffler in the reading-desk already, and, by his scarlet hood, knew him an Oxonian (we subsequently found he had been a first-class man). After reading the prayers exceedingly well, he ascended to the pulpit, and commenced his sermon. Now, supposing his congregation to have consisted of men of my friend's mental calibre, it was an exceedingly good and intelligible sermon; but to the majority of those present it was about as intelligible as High Dutch would have been, or Hebrew without the points. I could not help glancing at a countryman in his smockfrock and leggins, whose countenance forcibly recalled to my mind one of those grotesque satyrs occasionally seen carved on old chimney-pieces; and wondering as I gazed at him what train of thought the words which Miffler had just uttered—"the noxious dogmas exhibited in certain patiestic commentators, subsequent to the Nicene council"—had conjured up in his mind! Then again Miffler gravely informed his hearers that ambition was a deadly sin, warning them against it. Ambition!—to a clodhopper whose only aspiration after greatness is to get Farmer Jeffreys to keep him on at work through the winter!

Miffler, what do you do that for? But you, again, do not stand alone. Are there not many, many Mifflers guilty of the same absurdity, and equally unable with your reverend self to give any satisfactory reason for so doing, except that their predecessors have done it before them? Oh, ye hebdomadal boards, caputs, and convocations, explain all this!

"Yes, I assure you, Johnson, you never saw or heard of such a perfect fool in all your life. He literally thinks I am going to support him in idleness, and he doing nothing."

"No!"

"Yes! And, would you believe it, he called on poor Thompson, and tried to persuade him that I had behaved so shabbily to him that he really shall be obliged to cut me!"

"No!"

"Yes! and he told Brown, I owed him ever so much money."

"No!"

Johnson! what do you do that for? Why in the name of common sense do you say No! no! no! when you thoroughly believe all that poor Dickson has been telling you? This is a peculiar custom. Philosophers, all of you, attend to it. It needs explanation.

"Here's an invitation again from that odious Mrs. Peewitt!" says the fair but excitable Mrs. Framp, as she opens a scented envelope, and extracts therefrom an elegant note. "Yes! here it is:—

"'Mrs. John George Peewitt requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Framp's company to an evening party on Wednesday the —, at half-past eight.—Plover Lodge, Tuesday morning. An early answer will oblige.'"

"Now, my dear Framp," continues his lady wife, "I literally hate and detest that abominable Mrs. Peewitt!"

"Well, Laura, she is no favourite of mine, I promise you," retorts the male Framp: "and as to that Peewitt, he's a vulgar little brute. So you'd better answer it at once, Laura, declining it, you know—eh?"

In the course of the same afternoon Mrs. J. G. Peewitt is gratified by the reception of this—

"Mrs. Framp feels exceedingly grieved that she and Mr. Framp are unable to accept Mrs. J. G. Peewitt's kind invitation for Wednesday,——inst.—Grumpion Parade, Tuesday afternoon."

Now Mrs. Framp, what did you do that for? Between you and me, and to speak in plain English—you are a story-teller, Mrs. Framp. A story-teller! And you, old gentleman—the man Framp I address—are equally guilty of the fib, as an accessory before the fact. Again, this is a prevalent custom. Philosophers, summon moralists to your aid, and descant on this subject.

"I am sure you sing, Mr. Frederick," says a pasty-faced individual of the 'female sect,' to a young gentleman in white satin waistcoat and red whiskers, who has been pottering about the piano for some time.

"No, indeed, Miss Gromm!" he replies. "I assure you that I scarcely sing at all."

"Oh! I am quite sure, now, you do sing. Pray do sing. Will you look over this music-book? there are a great many songs in it. I am sure you will find something that will suit you."

"Oh! upon my word, Miss Gromm, I scarcely ever sing."

Fred! you know you've brought all your music with you to-night, and have practised it carefully over with your pretty sister Bessy, purposely to sing at the Gromms'.

Thus adjured, Mr. Frederick begins to turn over the leaves of the music-book, his eyes resting occasionally on such songs as 'The Rover's Bride,' 'The British Oak,' 'Wanted a Governess,' and other songs which Fred abominates. At last he turns to a very pretty girl sitting near him, and says faintly, "Bessy! did you bring any of your music?" His sister, who has been watching his proceedings, in mute surprise answers innocently enough, "Oh! yes, Fred, I brought all your songs, you know!" Fred looks blue; but by the time the neat case containing them has been presented to him by a servant, he has recovered himself. Now, reader, what song do you suppose this young gentleman, who scarce sings at all, will select? You are a judge of music, and you pronounce his selection admirable—for it falls on 'Adelaide,' a song of which I (but this quite entre nous) would sooner be the composer than of any song that ever was sung: but you fear lest Fred would not do justice to it, as he sings so seldom. You are wrong. A finer tenor, better taste, and more correct ear, one rarely meets with in private than are possessed by Fred. Every one exclaims that it is a treat to hear him sing. And so it is.

Now, my excellent good Fred, what the deuce did you do that for? I mean, why did you lessen the pleasure which otherwise we should have all experienced, by giving us so unfavourable a view of your character at the outset—by fibbing, my friend—downright fibbing?—There are not a few Freddys, though of various degrees of excellence. This therefore is a practice which, as in the last case, calls for the investigation of moralists—aided by the Royal Academy of Music, perhaps.

This is an endless subject. I have, as it were, but just touched upon it. Let others, their bosoms expanding at the thought of conferring endless benefits on the human race by so doing, rush eagerly and at once on the grand task of following it up. Let them explore all societies. Let an emissary be despatched into the crowded saloons of my Lady Hippington. Let an accredited and competent reporter be sent to the dinner-table of Mr. Titmouse, as well as into the doubtful regions of lower life. And let their desire be, to afford as strong, as cogent, and as rational explanations of the varied customs and practices with which they may become acquainted, as my friend Tam Ridley gave when asked for his reasons for using a peculiar form of speech.

"Hoy, Jem!" said that individual, a jolly Yorkshire lad, as he pulled up his waggon opposite to a hostelrie in the North Riding,—"Hoy, Jem! what has't getten to sup te' 'morn?" "What has I getten to sup t' 'morn, Tam?" responded mine host, making his appearance in the doorway. "Ay, lad! what hast getten to sup, I say?" "Why a, I'se getten yal—dos't like yal, Tam?" "Ay! I does." "Why a then, wil't have a sup?" "Ay! I will." "Wil't have it otted, Tam?" "Ay! I will." "Why a, now, what maks thee say Ay sae aften?" "Why a, then, I'll mebbe say yes, when t' days is langer and t' weather's warmer!"