30 SIR PETTRONELL FLASH. 



looking mortal, with a thin sabre-like nose, and a quick, restless, 

 grey eye, which luminous organ might have been often dimmed 

 with the dew of compassion or lit up with the sympathies of a 

 benevolent heart; but from being a disposer of books, Mr. P. had 

 presumed to be their judge, and had become one of those un- 

 skilful executioners of merit, who pour the " waters of bitter- 

 ness" into the parent bosom which had nourished it. Cushioned 

 over his orbits was that severe corrugation — frons caperata — of 

 his occipito-fron talis, which is the badge of his judicial office, 

 and the seal of the Aristarchi. Mr. P. was a severe-looking man, 

 — dressed all in *' fatal black," he sat the " wizard of the den," 

 surrounded with the battling spirits of defunct *' works," the 

 " fanthoms of the feather." Tick, tick, tick, said the dial, and the 

 little man read on in silent acerbity. Sir Pettronell Flash, said 

 the boy, swinging open the door with an air of importance. The 

 name was enough — with a startling alacrity the bibliopole rose 

 from his chair; for one brief — too brief moment. Sir Pettronell 

 was exchanging the sweet reciprocities of courtesy, and the silent 



salutations of the great . Oh you shakers of hands — you 



bodily embracers — ye nodders and bawlers in the public streets, 

 ye shameless vulgar — ye base io polli, know you not that Ange- 

 rona was the mother of gentility, and she was worshipped in 

 tilence. 



The salutations of the great are never meteorological, — " the 

 heavens above and the earth beneath" are the properties of the 

 vulgarly honest; with the distinguished, habitual ceremony 

 removes the sense of it, and frees them from embarrassment ; 

 the first brief salutation is succeeded by the quick wit and 

 sparkling repartee, or the deep mystery of fashion and the world. 

 The introductory colloquial phrases mark the order of the 

 species — to " compare great things with small." The aspiring, 

 but not inspired minstrel, strikes with feeble hand the Orphean 

 lyre, shrinking even from the sound he solicits — with magic 

 burst the "Prince of Song" salutes and charms you ''arma 

 virumque cano." Trusting his head to Providence, the little 

 bald-headed critic bent down in one, straight, waveless line the 

 whole of his vertebral column, — again he bowed. Sir Pettronell 

 stood erect — his right leg slightly in advance, with a partial 

 latteral submission of the left knee, and a minute incurvation of 

 the big-toe. With one hand Sir Pettronell touched — merely 

 touched — a small tortoiseshell eye-glass, which was supported 

 by a narrow and not very black ribbon, his left hand retained 

 his hat, the heeds of which just impinged upon the fore-arm. 

 With half-closed eyes. Sir Pettronell bowed — slowly and in- 

 sensibly his head resumed its position. The bow was enough — 

 perfectly translatable — but his name was quite unequivocal. Sir 

 Pettronell — the sound seemed to have been coeval with the flood 

 — so truly noble — so serene. " A rose by any other name may 

 smell as sweet; but oh, an Euphonious name, like Absolom's 



