An interesting communication, from which the reader may learn that the most important events are not those which absorb the greatest portion of time in their recital.--Major Snapwell communicates to Mr. Seymour and the Vicar, his determination to celebrate the marriage of his nephew by a fÊte at Osterly Park.--An antiquarian discussion of grave importance.--An interview with Ned Hopkins, during which the wit displayed both cunning and humour.--The Thaumatrope.--Its improved construction.--Philosophy of its action.--Another optical toy.--The nature of Optical Spectra illustrated and explained.--The Spectral Cross of Constantine.

For some time had Major Snapwell been occupied in making arrangements for an event, which he hailed not only as the accomplishment of his most ardent wishes, but as the guarantee of his future happiness. We did not think it right to impart this secret to our readers, until the period should arrive when, in conformity with the usage of the world, the subject might be referred to without reserve or impropriety. To such a period has our history arrived, and we shall therefore at once communicate the whole story, by relating the substance of a conversation which took place between Major Snapwell and the Vicar, in the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Seymour, in the library of Overton Lodge.

“Your hand, my dearest friend! your hand, and with it the congratulations of your heart,” exclaimed the Major, as he approached Mr. Twaddleton; “our friends here,” added he, as he bowed to Mr. and Mrs. Seymour, “are already acquainted with the proposed union between my worthy nephew, Henry Beecham, and the charming Isabella Villers; and may Heaven shed the dew of its blessing upon them!”

“Amen!” ejaculated the vicar.

“Well, sir, I am most anxious that the ceremony should take place at Overton, and that you should officiate upon the occasion.”

“Most cheerfully shall I comply with your request; ‘connubio jungam stabili,’ as the immortal poet has it,” was the vicar’s reply.

“I have also to inform you,” continued the major, “that it is my wish to diffuse a portion of that delight, which this event will impart to me, over the neighbourhood in which I shall probably pass the days that may be yet spared to me; listen, therefore, to the plan which I have devised for carrying this into effect. I design to give a public entertainment, upon a plan as novel as its scale shall be extensive; it shall not be a mere blaze of the spirits, but the recreation of the mind, and the jubilee of reason.”

“An entertainment!” muttered the vicar, whose countenance afforded any thing but encouragement to such a scheme.

“Ay, vicar; an entertainment which shall be conducted with every regard to ancient usage, and classical correctness,” said the major, as he cast a sly glance at Mr. Seymour.

The countenance of the vicar brightened; and he begged his worthy friend to be more explicit, and to state the nature of his intended fÊte.

“You already know that this boy of mine is shortly to conduct Miss Villers to the temple of Hymen; I would seize that happy occasion for giving a rural fÊte, in my park, to the inhabitants of Overton and its neighbourhood; and, as there are no less than three events which I am anxious to celebrate, I propose that this same fÊte shall be continued through three successive days. On the first shall be commemorated the providential escape of my nephew from shipwreck; on the second, his marriage; and on the third, my purchase and occupation of Osterley Park--What think you of my plan?”

“Why, truly, it would admit of much appropriate pageantry, and the arrangement is, doubtless, countenanced by classical authority. Augustus triumphed three days, for the purpose of commemorating three great events; the first of which was the defeat of the Pannonians and Dalmatii; the second, the battle of Actium; and the third, the reduction of Egypt. Then, again, we have the Ludi Magni of the Romans, and the solemn Athenian feast, Apaturia, which lasted during three days; and above all, the Secular Games, which were continued through the same period. In the face of such authorities, it would certainly ill become me to offer any objection; although, as vicar of the parish, I cannot conscientiously close my eyes against the evils which might possibly arise from such protracted revelry. I would, therefore, with submission, propose that the three events to which you allude, should be celebrated by three distinct festivals on one and the same day.”

The major saw plainly that the vicar might be made to approve of, or dissent from, any plan, by the dexterous use of classical authority; he therefore determined to use it as a talisman for the accomplishment of his purpose.

“I like your proposition,” replied the major, “but I greatly fear that you will not be able to support it by any classical authority; and remember, that every thing must be conducted in the strictest accordance with ancient usage.”

“I respect your intention,” answered the vicar, “and will immediately search the writings of Lipsius for a precedent; an author who has collected fifteen laws of the Roman entertainments; or, perhaps, the Pandects of Franciscus Modius, who has so ably treated of nuptial ceremonies, will furnish the desired information.”

Mr. Seymour here interrupted the conversation, by enquiring of the major the plan of those amusements which he proposed to provide.

“I will convert the elm meadow at Osterley Park into a fair,” replied the major, “wherein every species of amusement shall be exhibited: I will engage that vagabond Punch, who, like a snail, travels about the country with his house at his back, to display his hereditary wit, and mimic drolleries; tumblers, rope-dancers, conjurors, fire-eaters, and, in short, the whole merry train of Comus, shall be pressed into our service. After these exhibitions, the company may weave the mazy dance, for platforms shall be erected for their accommodation; I will arrange orchestras for music, and ornamented tents for refreshments. The vicar,” observed the major, with an arch smile, “shall open the ball with the bride.”

“Had I numbered a few olympiads less, major, I might not have declined so flattering a distinction,” replied Mr. Twaddleton, evidently not displeased with the compliment.

“Find some classical authority for the measure, and let your age sanction the propriety of my proposal,” said the major.

“Your suggestion merits attention,--let me see--I have it, major. Socrates learned to dance very late in life, and Cato, with all his severity of manners, disdained not, at the age of sixty, to practise it. I will, therefore, comply with your desire, and certainly lead the bride down the first dance.”

“The canal,” continued the major, “shall, for the first time, float the proud emblems of British glory on its glassy bosom; and when the shades of evening fall, my Lilliputian ships shall engage--such cannonading! such nautical evolutions!! Mr. Seymour.”

“How charming! how very delightful!” exclaimed Louisa and Fanny: “but pray, papa, do allow Tom to return from school to witness all these amusements.”

“Fear not,” said the major; “I shall make that a condition; and I trust your papa will not refuse the request.”

“Certainly not,” replied the father; “I shall be anxious to seize so favourable an opportunity for explaining to my children the various tricks they will witness, and the machinery by which the numerous deceptions will be accomplished; thus shall I convert that which, to the common eye, will appear as a scene of idle revelry, into a school of philosophy, and in accordance with my favourite plan, ‘turn sport into science.’”

“Upon my word, Mr. Seymour, you are a perfect alchymist, and extract gold from every thing you touch; you have already derived scientific information from the most miscellaneous and trifling amusements, and will, no doubt, upon this occasion, convert our very pies and puddings into instruments of instruction; thus verifying the old adage, ‘that there is reason in roasting of eggs,’” said the major.

“I perceive that the major is not aware of the philosophy which suggested that adage,” observed the vicar.

“Nor am I,” said Mr. Seymour, “and therefore pray enlighten us upon that point.”

“You doubtless know that there is a little air bag at the large end of every egg, called the folliculus aeris, and which, as we are told, is designed to furnish a supply of air to the growing chick; if, therefore, an egg be exposed to the temperature of hot embers, this air will be suddenly expanded, the shell burst, and its contents scattered into the ashes. To prevent such an occurrence, the careful house-wife pricks the blunt end of the shell with a needle, so as to allow the expanded air to escape, and thus to prevent the accident I have just explained; from which it appears that there is reason, or philosophy, in roasting an egg.”

“Capital, upon my word!” exclaimed Mr. Seymour.

“Well, but, papa, we have interrupted the major in his delightful description; he had not concluded the account of his proposed fÊte,” said Louisa.

“Pray go on,” cried Fanny: “let me see, where did you leave off? Oh, I remember, you were interrupted in a temporary tent, which I hope you intend to decorate with garlands.”

“Leave all that to the vicar, young lady; he will, no doubt, display his classical taste in the emblematical appointments.”

“I shall terminate the festivities of the day by a grand display of fire-works; the arrangements of which will necessarily fall under my own more immediate direction. The vicar,” added the major, “will perhaps allow me to proclaim him as master of the revels; for he is, as we all well know, deeply versed in ancient customs, and I am especially anxious that every department should be conducted with classical taste.”

“I willingly accept the office,” said Mr. Twaddleton, with a gracious smile, “since there is authority for my acquiescence. The Romans, in their entertainments, usually appointed a person whom they styled king, and held responsible upon such occasions. I accept it also, on a different ground; that my presence may check the enthusiasm of the people, and restrain the hilarity of the evening within the boundary of rational decorum.”

“If in the arrangement of your banquet, my assistance can prove of any service, command me,” said Mrs. Seymour.

“Believe me sincere, my dear madam, when I say, that the kind manner in which you receive my plan, and offer to promote its execution, affords me the highest gratification; if I decline your services, it is only from a fear of usurping the sovereignty of our master of the ceremonies,” replied the major.

“What! am I to descend into the lower regions, and hold converse with your ancient Sibyl, the cook? Would you call upon me to marshal the dishes? Am I, at once, to perform the offices of ‘Dapifer,’ ‘Lardrenius,’ ‘Magister Coquorum,’ and ‘PrÆgustator?’” cried the horrified vicar.

“Have I not declared that every part of my entertainment shall be strictly classical? and ought not each dish to convey some moral device, some allegorical design? Are we to feed with as little discrimination as the dogs that devoured the sacred Apis?”

The knowledge which the reader must have already collected of Mr. Twaddleton’s character will have satisfied him that, in every action of his life, he was more or less influenced by the spell of ancient authority; but we doubt whether he may not yet have to learn the extent to which the reverend gentleman carried this enthusiasm. We shall, accordingly, beg to state a few instances, which will serve to illustrate this circumstance. Be it known, then, that the very first act which announced the preferment of the Reverend Peter Twaddleton to the dignity of Vicar of Overton, was not, as some might suppose, an increased rate of compensation for the tithes; nor was it a rate levied for the repairs of his house; but the removal of the vane from the spire of the church, which, as it consisted of a simple cross piece of iron, seemed to the vicar’s imagination to be wriggling about, without any consciousness of its ancient origin and dignity. He therefore, at his own expense, replaced it by the figure of a cock, which he caused to be duly executed after an authentic model. It will be remembered that the crowing of the cock warned Peter; for which reason the monks first placed the figure of that bird on their churches, as an emblem to call the people to prayers; and, since the image was made to revolve with the wind, it soon acquired the name of the weathercock. With respect to the arrangement of his table, he displayed an equal veneration for ancient forms. He perpetuated the use of the wassail bowl, which was scrupulously prepared with apples and ale, according to the most orthodox receipt. His mince-pies at Christmas were fabricated with the same inflexible adherence to ancient authority; he maintained that the introduction of meat into their composition was a scandalous heresy; that the choicest productions of the East ought alone to be admitted, since the custom was originally intended to allegorise the offerings made by the wise men who came from afar to worship, bringing spices, &c. He was also as critical with respect to the shape, as he was with regard to the composition of these dainty inventions; he insisted upon the ancient or coffin shape, which he stated to have been in imitation of the cratch, or manger, wherein the infant Jesus had lain. His table was, with the same antiquarian correctness, punctually supplied at Easter with a gammon of bacon; a custom, which would, perhaps, have been more honoured in the breach than in the observance, since it was evidently founded on the abhorrence our forefathers thought proper to express towards the Jews, at the season of commemorating the resurrection.^[61] The idea was in direct opposition to the liberal sentiments of the vicar, but, being an ancient custom, he never ventured to question its propriety. In like manner, his tranquillity would have been sadly disturbed, had Annette ever forgotten the pancakes on Shrove-Tuesday; for he was decidedly of opinion that it was a dish which had derived its origin from the heathen Fornacalia, a festival instituted by Numa,^[62] in honour of the goddess Fornax; and was intended to commemorate the making of bread before the invention of ovens. Upon the subject of cross-buns he displayed great profundity; he observed, that the word bun was derived from boun, a species of sacred bread described by Hesychius, and which was anciently offered to the gods; in support of which opinion he quoted Julius Pollux and Diogenes Laertius; nor did he relinquish the subject, until he had ably descanted upon the address with which heathen customs had been, as it were, naturalized, and perpetuated as Christian observances. The boun, he would say, lost its idolatrous impurity by receiving the sign of the cross; in the same manner that Druidical idols, and stones erect, by having crosses cut upon them, continued to receive a justifiable reverence, even as late as the seventh century.

In short, the extent to which our excellent but eccentric vicar was carried, on such occasions, can scarcely be credited, except by those who are acquainted with the extravagant whimsies of a genuine antiquary. We have never contemplated this part of his character without congratulating the rising generation at Overton on the circumstance of the offices of village schoolmaster and vicar of the parish not having centered in the same individual; for we have not the shadow of a doubt, so great was his veneration for ancient usages, but he would have whipped up every child within his jurisdiction, on the morning of Childermas-day, or that of the Holy Innocents, as we are informed was the ancient custom, “in order that the memorial of Herod’s murder of the Innocents might stick the closer.” On the other hand, he would readily have forgiven any offence had the boy only cited a few lines from a favourite classic; for often had he been heard to relate with much satisfaction the well-known story of the Athenian Captives, whose lives were preserved in Sicily, from their being able to repeat portions of the dramas of Euripides. Whether, in spite of the censure and remonstrance of St. Austin, he would have ventured to continue the half-holiday on a Thursday, it is difficult to say; although the high antiquity of a custom originally established in honour of Jupiter, would, doubtless, have produced its influence upon the judgment of the antiquary.

One more anecdote, and we trust our illustrations of the vicar’s character will be perfect. The reader will remember, that to Dr. Doseall, the renowned Esculapius of the village, he had given the title of Polyphemus: this might appear inconsistent with his acknowledged kindness, and we are therefore bound to state his justification. “Was it not,” he asked, “a notorious custom in Athens to give nicknames expressive of personal peculiarities? Do we not learn from Aristophanes, that the poet Theognis, from the deficient warmth of his compositions, went by the name of Snow? and moreover, did not the Athenians, as a body, from their passion for news, and their habit of swallowing open-mouthed the flying rumours of the day, receive the soubriquet of Gapers, just as the London inhabitants of the present day rejoice in that of Cockneys?”

We have thought it right to relate these few anecdotes, in order to vindicate the propriety of the major’s choice, and to convince the reader that a better qualified master of the ceremonies could not possibly have been provided. Having, therefore, paid this homage to the judgment of the major, and to the antiquarian lore of the vicar, we shall return to the party, whom we had rather abruptly quitted, and continue our relation of the conversation which followed.

“So, then, you have determined that the vicar shall superintend the banquet,” said Mrs. Seymour. “There is, however, one part of the ceremony which I shall certainly not feel disposed to resign into his hands, the ordering and disposition of the bridal cakes; the genius of Gunter shall be invoked to produce one of the most triumphant specimens of his art.”

“Psha, nonsense! you surely would not countenance that ice-clad mountain, through whose dark regions the demon of indigestion holds undisputed sway.”

“Why, zounds, vicar, do you expect me to submit to such vagaries?--a wedding without a cake!--it cannot be tolerated. I shall next hear of an English feast without roast-beef,” vociferated the major.

“You shall, doubtless, have your cake; but let it be the true Roman bride-cake, made after the receipt which Cato has given in his work, De Re Rustica, chapter 121. You must be aware, Mr. Seymour, that the mustacea of the Romans, the species of cake used at weddings, consisted of meal, aniseed, cummin, and several other aromatic ingredients.”

“And do you seriously believe that any of us will swallow such a medicated farrago?” said the major.

“The unenlightened may, perhaps, refuse it; and should the children prefer your modern combination, they might stand excused, since classical inspiration rarely descends upon a boy, until he has construed a Greek chorus,” observed the vicar.

“Were I to swallow a grain of it,” said Mrs. Seymour, “I verily believe I should be ill for a week.”

“Mere prejudice, madam; the object of the mustacea was actually to remove or prevent the indigestion which might be occasioned by eating too copiously at the marriage entertainment; and it must, I think, be acknowledged that the compound was better adapted for such a purpose than the modern bride-cake, to which it gave origin.”

“With respect to the roast-beef, to which the major has just alluded,” continued the vicar, “I shall only observe, that it was not until the reign of Henry VIII. that it appears to have taken its part in the formation of our national character.”

“I would beg to enquire to whom the selection and arrangement of the comic entertainments are to be intrusted. Unless the major should have already found a competent person, I think I can recommend to his notice an individual who is eminently qualified for the duties,” said Mr. Seymour.

“I am, at this moment, in quest of such a director,” said the major.

“Ned Hopkins, then, who has for some time past taken up his abode at our village alehouse, is the very person, of all others, whom you seek. I have no doubt that for a trifling consideration he will undertake the office; and I feel equally confident that he will execute its duties to your satisfaction.”

“Ned Hopkins!” exclaimed the vicar, with some surprise.

“To be sure; and who better understands the trim of those itinerant sons of Comus? Was not his father a mountebank doctor, and a professor of the art of legerdemain?”

“I value not Ned Hopkins the less on that account; the immortal Virgil was the son of a servant, or assistant, to a wandering astrologer, or ‘Medicus Magus,’ as Juvenal has it; and the mother of Euripides was a cabbage-woman, for which Aristophanes so unjustifiably ridicules him. But my dislike to Ned Hopkins is founded upon his own dissipated habits, his disgusting jokes, and Bacchanalian buffoonery.”

“Ay,” continued Mr. Seymour, “and his bad puns, vile quotations, and hackneyed proverbs; and yet you must confess that, after all, he is a very clever fellow.”

“Sir,” observed the vicar, “Satan does not usually select a fool as his ambassador.”

“Upon my word, gentlemen, this must needs be a very amusing fellow; and you have so far excited my curiosity, as to make me desirous of hearing something farther of his history and habits,” said the major.

“He is one of those loose spirits,” replied Mr. Seymour, “who live upon expedients; and measuring their consciences by their wants, derive a revenue from sources, of which those who jog on quietly through the beaten paths of life have not the most remote conception. He commenced his career under the tutelage of the first fire-eater of the day, but having clumsily scalded his mouth, he lost his reputation, and found it advisable to seek some other stage for the display of his abilities. Possessed of a very considerable degree of native humour and caustic shrewdness, he engaged himself as a ‘mercenary,’ or literary drudge, to a popular publisher of comic song books, sanguinary murders, magical magazines, amorous valentines, oracles of health, and plans for the liquidation of the national debt; which occupations have, as I have been credibly informed, produced for him during a successful season, some twenty or thirty pounds in the lawful coin of the realm: but Ned, like many a great genius, was better pleased with an hour of idleness than a week of study; and, strange to say, would at any time have preferred a cup of wine to a bucketful of the finest water from Helicon; no sooner, therefore, had he collected a few pounds, than he descended from his high literary station, a lofty garret; and, taking up his abode at some hedge alehouse, would enjoy a life of happy leisure, until every particle of that worldly substance which he had gained by inspiration from above, was gratefully returned to the skies in the form of tobacco fumes. For some months past,” added Mr. Seymour, “he has been a constant resident at the Bag of Nails, where, as I am led to believe, he pays for nothing but his tobacco; the worthy hostess having found him a very profitable bait for customers, is too willing to barter the drippings of the kitchen for his wit, and the leakage of the tap-room for his songs.”

“I am very curious to become acquainted with this comical being,” said the major.

“Suppose we walk into the village,” said Mr. Seymour; “we shall be certain of finding him smoking his pipe on a bench before the alehouse door; where he is as regularly stationed by his patroness, to catch customers, as the saucer of treacle is placed in the window of a pastry-cook to attract flies.”

“You will excuse my accompanying you,” cried Mr. Twaddleton; “I cannot relish his stale jokes and potted stories.”

The gentlemen accordingly directed their route through Forest Lane, and took leave of the vicar at the entrance of the church-yard. On arriving within twenty yards of the public-house, Mr. Seymour noticed a column of smoke which curled in wreaths about its porch. “There sits Ned,” cried he; “I knew we should find him at his post.”

“Hopkins! Hopkins!” cried Mr. Seymour, “I fear you have not taken the worthy vicar’s advice.”

“An old dog cannot alter its way of barking, sir; nor is it easy to straight in the oak the crook that grew in the sapling.”

“I am to presume, then, to speak courteously, that you are still, ‘a man of leisure.’”

“Ay, verily am I; as idle, sir, as a chimney in the dog-days,” replied the wag of the tap-room.

“That, by the by, is not a very happy simile of yours, when applied to a man who is smoking all day long,” observed Mr. Seymour.

“I admit it,” said Ned, “so here’s another for you,--as lazy as Ludlam’s dog, that leaned his head against the wall to bark. But, after all, Mr. Seymour, a day of leisure is to me a golden age, and I am of my Lord Peterborough’s way of thinking, who used to say, ‘a golden age was that in which every one might pipe when and where he pleased.’”

The wag, at this instant, gave such a practical illustration of his theme, as would have suffocated the major, had not his military habits rendered him smoke proof.

“In short, gentlemen,” continued Ned, “a pipe is the solace of my life and the mainspring of my spirits; knock out my pipe and you knock out my brains. I verily believe that, if I could not obtain the ‘furies’ frankincense,’ as they have been pleased to call tobacco, I should be like Vicar Breedon, who, according to William Lilly, cut the bell-ropes and smoked them.” So saying, he gave another puff, and then removing the pipe from his mouth, sang the following ditty:--

“Always merry, Ned,” cried Mr. Seymour.

“Lord bless you, sir, what is life but a jest? I jest to live, and I live but to jest. And so I shall continue to do, until I am put to bed by the shovel.”

“Your father was a reputed jester, was he not?” asked Mr. Seymour.

“He was, God bless his memory! and it was his constant prayer that his son Neddy might turn out as sharp a man as his father; and if there be any truth in the adage that ‘dogs bark as they are bred,’ I certainly had as good a chance of success as most people. Momus rocked my cradle; I ate fire before I was seven years old; and so anxiously did my father superintend my education, that he never suffered me to cut a morsel, until I had cut a joke. ‘Neddy,’ he used to say, ‘I perceive you are like my bagpipes, never audible except your pouch is full of wind; for after a good meal you are as mum as a mouse in a mill; so remember, my lad, no joke no pudding.’ Thus schooled, I became, through necessity, a wit, and earned every mouthful by a pun; in short, after a little time, my genius illumined every dish, and, like the fire of London, blazed from Pudding Lane to Pie Corner.”

“And you afterwards appeared on the stage, as a candidate for popular applause, which you were fortunate enough to obtain; how came you to desert your calling?” said the major.

“He who licks honey from thorns pays too dearly for it,” replied the wit. “So I packed my wardrobe in a pocket handkerchief, and trudged off to Cockneyshire.”

“And what was your object?” asked the major.

“To carry my wit to a better market; and instead of retailing it at country fairs, to offer it wholesale to some of the great publishers, from whom I immediately received considerable orders. The profit which rewarded my poetry soon convinced me, notwithstanding all that had been said to the contrary, that there were still some gold mines in Parnassus. I lived for the first week on liquid blacking. I well remember it was winter, and although I contrived by my eulogies of the jet polish, to obtain a daily meal from a neighbouring chop-house, I was compelled to sit in my chamber at night without fire or candle, until the publication of my song, ‘Ah let my muse a flame inspire,’ lighted a cheerful blaze in my grate, and enabled me to purchase a few pounds of rush-lights. In short, gentlemen, without exhausting your patience with a long recital of my adventures, suffice it to say, that I have always been able to keep my pipe smoking by my puffs, my pot boiling by the ebullition of my wit, and my grate blazing by the fire of my genius; while paste and scissors have never failed to secure a constant supply of cabbage, upon which I have thrived like any caterpillar.”

Here Hopkins returned to the porch, and took a draught as deep as ever Bitias drank, or the Athenian Diotimus, nicknamed the Funnel, ever swallowed.

“Did I not say,” resumed the wag, “that my pipe was the nurse of wit? I ought to have called her the dry nurse. It is a hard case, gentlemen, but I am in the situation of the flying-fish, incapable of keeping myself up, unless I occasionally moisten my wings.”

“If you persist in this dreadful habit,” said Mr. Seymour, “you will assuredly destroy the coat of your stomach!”

“The coat of my stomach!” replied Ned; “if that is all, my stomach must even be contented to do what its master has so often done before it--go in its waistcoat, with the understanding that it shall have an additional glass to keep it warm. The stomach had better give up its coat than its master his habit.”

“But suppose I could prove, that by giving up this system, you would lengthen your days,” observed Mr. Seymour.

“Lengthen my days.--you are quite right, Mr. Seymour; being rather low in cash, I was compelled to forego my comfort for one whole day, and it was the longest day I ever knew in my life; you are quite correct, sir.”

“You are incorrigible, Ned. But come, what say you to a profitable engagement?” asked Mr. Seymour.

“Why, as to that, sir, I have always a ready mouth for a ripe cherry.”

“You must know, then, that my friend, Major Snapwell, proposes to give a grand rural fÊte to the inhabitants of Overton; and, as he intends to convert his grounds into a fair upon the occasion, he is desirous of finding some person acquainted with comic entertainments, who would undertake the office of manager, to contract with the necessary performers, and superintend all the arrangements.”

“I am the lad for the major’s silver,” said the delighted wag; “for without vanity, I may say that few persons better understand the art of mixing up the motley ingredients of fun and frolic; there is, besides, that in the major’s face which I would willingly call master.”

“And were I to judge from your frontispiece,” said the major, “I should say that every day in your calendar was a red-lettered one--the painting of that red nose of yours must have cost a trifle.”

“Cannot tell; it is not yet finished,” retorted the wit.

Major Snapwell, with the assistance of Mr. Seymour, now entered more fully into the nature and extent of the exhibitions which he wished Hopkins to provide; but as he was, at present, unable to fix the exact period for the fÊte, he directed him to take such steps only as might be necessary for securing the performers, and to hold himself in readiness for active service.