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whistles, how me admires, how he loves; in the second predicament — how he stumps, how he glumps, how he sneers, how he satirizes, how he grumbles, how he frowns, how he vilifies, how he hates — in short, how he behaves, with a difference, like Mr. Booby. As he ascended Grove-Hill his step was brisk and elastic; he simpered complacently, held his bouquet mincingly in his lemon-colored glove, and had his new hat stuck jauntily a little on one side of his head. As he descended the steep, his tread was heavy, sometimes amounting to a stamp, the flowers had been thrashed into a bundle of stalks, the delicate kid-glove was being gnawed into a mitten, and the bran-new beaver was sullenly thrust down over his eyebrows. As he mounted, his eyes were cast upward towards the elm-tree tops, as if looking for birds'-nests. As he descended, his eyes were turned to the gravel-path, as if in search of Brazilian pebbles. As he went up, he hummed “La gi darem.” As he went down, he muttered curses between his teeth. In going up, he had carefully picked his way, avoiding every dirty spot. In going down, he tramped recklessly through the mud, and stepped into the very middle of the puddles. “And had the Beauty slighted him f° Why, those persons who saw him come out of the housedoor, remarked as he stumbled down the steps, that his face was as red and hot as a fiery furnace: others who did not notice him till he had cleared the front garden-gate, observed that his complexion was as pale as ashes. And both reports were true, for like the Factions of the Red and White Roses, did Anger and Vexation alternately domineer and hoist their colors by turns in his countenance. “But had the Beauty really behaved ill to him ** Why, in going to the house he had conducted himself towards men, women, and children with a studied and almost affected courtesy; whereas in going from the premises he jostled the gentlemen, took the wall of ladies, punched each little boy who came within reach of his arm, and kicked every dog that ran within range of his foot. “Then she had been scornful to him!”

Everybody in the street looked after him. Some thought that he was mad; some, that he was in liquor—others, that he was walking for a wager, and from his ill-temper, that he was losing it. “Poor man l’” However, on he went, striding, frowning, muttering, and swearing, gnawing one kid-glove, and shaking the other like a muffin-bell. On he went — like an overdriven beast — on through Church Street, and away across the Green, kicking hoops, tops, and marbles; thumping little boys, and poking little girls, snubbing nursemaids, making faces at their babies, and grinning viciously at everything in nature that came within his scope. He was out of humor with heaven and earth. It pleased him to know, by a sudden yell in the road, that a cur was run over; and he was rather glad than otherwise to see a horse in the pound. “Poor fellow ! how cruelly he must have been treated l’” Well, on he went to the Red Cap, where an omnibus was just on the point of starting. It was invitingly empty, so without asking whether it went to the East or West End, in jumped Mr. Booby, and threw himself on the centre seat at the further end of the vehicle. And now, for the first time, he had leisure to feel that he had been worked and walked, morally as well as physically into a violent heat. He let down all the windows that would go down, tugged out his handkerchief, wiped the dew from his face, and then fanned himself with his hat. The process somewhat cooled the outer man, but his temper remained as warm as ever, and at last found vent. “Confound the old fool!” he exclaimed, with an angry stamp on the floor of the omnibus, – “Confound the old fool with her Camberwell Beautyl Why didn't she tell me it was a Butterfly l’”

THE CONFESSIONS OF A PHOENIX.

“How ! dead!
How dead? Why, very dead indeed!”
KILLING No MURDER.

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I was once dead. “Eh! how ! what l” interrupts the Courteous Reader, naturally startled by such a posthumous announcement. “What! dead, dead, dead!” inquires a Criminal Judge, unconsciously using the legal formula. “Whatl food for worms ?” exclaims a great Tragedian. “What! gone to another and a better world?” says a sentimental spinster. “Or to a wus,” snuffles a sanctified shoemaker. “What, to that bourne,” says a Bagman, “to which no traveller makes more than one journey?” “What, — unriddled that great enigmal’ cries a metaphysician, “ of which we obtain no solution but by dissolution ?” “Or, in plain English, Hic Jacet?” puts in an Undertaker. “What, hopped the twig 2— kicked the bucket?— bowled out 2—gone to pot? — mizzled 2–ticked off?— struck off the roster?—slipped your cable?— lost the number of your mess?” ask as many professional querists. “Oh! a case of suspended animation — hung and cut down l’” “Or a cut throat and sewed up?” “Poisoned and pumped out?” hints a Medical Student. “Drowned, and ‘unsuffocated gratis’?” quotes a reader of “Don Juan.”

“Or buried in a trance?” guesses a Transcendental Speculator. “Poo, poo! he means dead-beat,” cries a Sportsman. “Or dead lame,” prompts a Veterinarian. “Or dead asleep,” proposes a Mesmerizer “Or dead drunk,” mutters a Tea-totaller. “Or only metaphorically,” suggests a Poet. But begging the pardon of the Poet, the Tea-totaller, the Mesmerizer, the Horse-Doctor, and the Student, I had no such meaning: but that I was departed, deceased, demised, defunct, or whatever term may denote the grand Terminus. “What! as dead as a house — as a herring — as a door-nail —as dumps — as ditch-water — as mutton —” Yes — or as Cheops, or Julius Caesar, or Giles Scroggins, or Miss Bailey. In short, as declared before, I was once dead —a regular subject for the Necrologist—an entry for the Registrar — an item for the Obituary as thus : — On the 3d instant, suddenly, Peregrine Phoenix, Esq., of Clapham Rise.

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“To be sure,” murmurs Memory, applying her right forefinger to her forehead, and pressing on her own organ, “to be sure there have been many persons who, though seemingly dead, and even interred, have afterwards returned to life. For example: the wife of Reichmuth Adolch, the Councillor of Cologne, who died of the plague, and was buried with a diamond ring on her finger, and was revived by the violence of the thievish sexton in wrenching off the ornament. Then there was Monsieur François de Civille, thrice coffined and thrice restored; not to forget the romantic tale of the lady of Nicholas Chassenemi, who was rescued from the grave by her old lover Cariscendi. Also, the Honorable Mrs. Godfrey, Mistress of the Robes to Queen Anne, and sister of the great Duke of Marlborough, who lay in a trance for a week. Then there was Isabella Wilson, who, after eleven days of rigid insensibility, would have been entombed but for the interference of the Doctor, who felt some warmth about the heart; and Mr. Cowherd of Cartmell, Lancashire, who revived after being laid out; and Isaac Rooke, who revived after a coroner had been summoned; and Walter Wynkbourne, executed on the gallows at Leicester in 1350—but jolted to life in a cart. Above all, there was Anne Green, who, after being hung and pulled by the legs, and struck on the chest by the but-end of a musket, yet recovered, and married and bore three children.” “Hout aye,” chimes in a Scottish Mnemosyne. “And there was yon Ill-hangit Maggie, as they ca'd her.” “Yaw, yaw,” adds a Teutonic Remembrancer. “Also dere vas de Yarman, Martin Grab, who comed to himself quite lively, after he was a copse.” And so he did. And thereby hangs a tale of the DEADALIVE, which will serve for a fresh chapter.

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IN the Free City of Frankfort-on-the-Maine, the bodies of the dead are not kept for several days, as with us, in the house of mourning, but are promptly removed to a public cemetery. In order to guard, however, against premature interment, the remains are always retained above ground till certain signs of decomposition are apparent; and besides this precaution, in case of suspended animation, the fingers of the corpse are fastened to a bell-rope, communicating with an alarum, so that on the slightest movement the body rings for the help which it requires for its resuscitation — a watcher and a medical attendant being constantly at hand.

Now the duty of answering the Life-bell had devolved on one Peter Klopp — no very onerous service, considering that for thirty years since he had been the official “Death Watch,” the metallic tongue of the alarum had never sounded a single note. The defunct Frankforters committed to his charge had remained, one and all, man, woman, and child, as stiff, as still, and as silent, as so many stocks and stones. Not that in every case the vital principle was necessarily extinct: in some bodies out of so many thousands it doubtless lingered, like a spark amongst the ashes — but disinclined by the national phlegm to any active assertion of its existence.

For a German, indeed, there is a charm in a certain vaporous dreamy state, between life and death, between sleeping

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