SIR PETTRONELL FLASH. 35 



publisher. Mr. P., said Sir Pettronell, I am aware I am a 

 stranger to you — my name is Sir Pettronell Flash — here Mr. 

 P. bowed (though not much the wiser for the information.) Who 

 I am is of little consequence, and for the present I choose to be 

 unknown. I am a gentleman — here Mr. P. bowed very low, 

 because the term implied independence and patronage — I wish 

 you, continued Sir Pettronell, to peruse carefully the manuscripts 

 you hold in your hand, and in a little time I will return and 

 receive your opinion — a man who is constantly supplying the 

 tables of the public must know well what is best suited to their 

 taste. The writer of the papers is a friend of mine, one to whom 

 I am warmly attached, and am, therefore, anxious as to his 

 success. Should you think the papers unworthy of notice, the 

 author will be too proud to solicit it; and since he does not 

 behold his intellectual offspring with the "bliss of excessive 

 fondness," neither will he condescend to be an eleemosynary 

 suitor for public bounty. I submit these manuscripts to you, 

 relying on your judgment, and confiding in your probity. Here 

 Sir Pettronell paused ; the little critic, as might be supposed, 

 made a bow — a low bow — yes, a very low bow. Sir Pettronell 

 rose from his chair, and moved towards the door. Mr. P. not 

 knowing exactly what to say, and yet by habit knowing what to 

 do — moved after his upright comical visitor, for the purpose of 

 bowing him into the street, and to see whether he rode or walked, 

 went up or down the row, &c. Sir Pettronell was aware of the 

 thing and waving his hand — like Hamlet in the play — motioned 

 the little man to his chair. I insist on it, Sir, .aat you do not 

 rise — for once I can dispense with ceremony. The critic was as 

 immoveable as Lot's wife. One more graceful bend of the neck, 

 and Sir Pettronell closed the door — one, two, three, four, five 

 steps, and all was as silent as the grave. 



Most extraordinary, said little Mr. P., starting from his chair, 

 most mysterious; what is he ? who can he be ? Once I thought 

 I smel't the poor author — one of the poor proud Quixotte's of 

 literature; but then his manner was potent as a Lord's. Hollo, 

 Sir boy — opening the door — did that Sir Pettronell come in a 

 carriage ? No, Sir, cried the boy. Nor coach nor cab — did he 

 ride home, wherever the devil it is. No, Sir, again cried the boy. 

 Here the little man took up his hat and departed. 



The visit and departure of Sir Pettronell, as described in the 

 preceding page, occurred on the morning of one of those cold, 

 rainy November days which are a certain stimulus to fire-sides, 

 arm-chairs, and recent novels. On the evening of the same day 

 the bibliopolist was sitting in his private room — his snug hiber- 

 nacle, ten feet by eight — a blazing fire threw its cheerful gleams 

 over the apartment, giving to the most trifling object an un- 

 certain and interesting appearance by the changing lights and 

 shadows, as the flame peered up, or flickered low and feebly. 



February, — vol. ii, no. vii. F 



