"This seems the dearest pair of boots you ever had in your life, Mr. Stubbs," said Commissioner Dubobwig, very archly, and then he began to inquire about the rest of my misfortunes.
In the fulness of my heart I told him the whole of them; how Mr. Solomonson the attorney had introduced me to the rich widow, Mrs. Manasseh, who had fifty thousand pounds, and an estate in the West Indies. How I was married, and arrested on coming to town, and cast in an action for two thousand pounds, brought against me by this very Solomonson for my wife's debts.
"Stop," says a lawyer in the court. "Is this woman a showy black-haired woman, with one eye? very often drunk, with three children—Solomonson, short, with red hair?"
"Exactly so," says I, with tears in my eyes.
"That woman has married _three men_ within the last two years. One in Ireland, and one at Bath. A Solomonson is, I believe, her husband, and they both are off for America ten days ago."
"But why did you not keep your £2000?" said the lawyer.
"O! well, we may pass you; you have been unlucky, Mr. Stubbs, but it seems as if the biter had been bit in this affair."
"No," said Mr. Dubobwig, "Mr. Stubbs is the victim of a FATAL ATTACHMENT."
A remarkably successful operation has just been performed by Mr. Curtis, on the eyes of an elderly lady, who had been blind and deaf from her birth. The following letter to her niece has been sent to us by her friends, to show the rapidity of her literary acquirements, immediately on her attainment of the power of vision; and such of our readers as can fancy themselves deaf will certainly see it to consist of capital rhymes.
Dear Dolly, I'll thank you to send the cocoa, And Susan, who brings it, shall take back your boa.— Pray, tell Doctor Bleed'em I've got a sad cough; I caught it while watching young Hodge at the plough; I thought the day fine and was simple enough My umbrella to leave, so got wet through and through, For it came down in torrents; your poor aunt was caught In the rain, and I afterwards sat in a draught. This made me much worse, but experience I bought, And I'll never more trust to the sunshine and drought! Well, I made myself dry, and I sat down to tea: Of the good that it did me you'd form no idea. But I quite hate the country, the weather's so rough, So you'll see me, dear, soon in your little borough. I hope, after all, that my cold will be trivial— But still you may send me that stuff in the vial— In the kitchen you'll find it, just over the trough. Oh, my cough! oh, my cough! it all comes of the plough.