MASKED BUG-CATCHER. 211 



'Tis nothing but a bit of rubbish, a token of the housemaid's 

 negligence, a mingled piece conglomerate of flue, and dust, 

 and feathers, set in motion by the draught from underneath 

 the door. Yet, no ; never did wind create such careful mo- 

 tion ; and see ! There is a leg a living leg and now ano- 

 ther, protruded from the cloak of shreds and patches. Never 

 did lame beggar hitch in his gait more piteously. Perhaps 

 'tis a great wounded spider caught in the remnants of his own 

 snare. But whatever be the cripple, let's uncloak him. 



Oh, the rogue ! impostor ! hypocrite ! No sooner is he 

 stripped of his disguise of dirt, than he takes to his heels as 

 if the devil was behind him ; but he shall not escape us ; and 

 now that he is fairly caught, let us carry him before the light 

 for examination. And, truly, a more ill-looking miscreant, 

 and ferocious withal, was never ' c pulled up " at Bow Street ; 

 his eye, especially, has murder in it, and murder, doubtless, 

 was his design. What other could he have when lurking in 

 disguise, like a cowardly assassin, beside a bed ? He is self- 

 condemned, let not the monster live. Yet the monster is but 

 an insect after all ; as such, shall we not spare him as beneath 

 our anger ? 



" No ! for on such a dangerous plea, 

 Immunity we give each flea." 



True ; but ill-favoured as he is, our prisoner, in relation to 

 ourselves, is innocent ; nay, he is more, he is, to us, a friend 

 and benefactor in disguise; while of our enemy, the bug, 



