WHAT DO FOLKS LAUGH AT ? 29 



had " vanished into thin air," and a feature occupied its site like a 

 squashed orange. As 1 came up to them, I unconsciously, so great was 

 my alarm, exclaimed, " What, in the name of heaven, can have hap- 

 pened, tohave thus suddenly disfiguredthelovely Miss Stanley." — " What 

 do you mean. Sir Charles, I do not comprehend you, — allow me to in- 

 troduce the Count D'Or — Sir Charles Markland, Count D'Or — Count 

 D'Or — Sir Charles Markland." Of course, the usual happiness was ex- 

 pressedonmypart. " Andnow, Miss Stanley, pray pardon me, and appease 

 my curiosity — tell me what you were laughing at ?" " Oh ! a mere 

 trifle, nothing at all. Sir Charles," replied the beauty. " Nothing," 

 nothing !" echoed the Count. " Good God !" I mentally ejaculated, 

 as parting from the elegant pair I continued my saunter down the 

 street ; " how can people he such unmitigated asses, as to riggle their 

 faces into such shapes, that even " the attractive monkeys" of the Zoolo- 

 gical Gardens would blush blue to own. Surely, they cannot have the 

 minutest idea how execrably ugly they looked !" 



Now, peruser, duck ! you must be aware that I am a bit of a met-a- 

 physician, an ontologist ; a bit of a poet ; a bit of a mis-an-thrope ; a 

 bit of an exquisite ; and a complete — nonentity. Dreaming, I like to walk 

 about, a sonnambula in fancy, not in reality. Hating the world, I once 

 thought of exploring the untrodden wilds of Africa ; in hopes of finding 

 a Utopia in the bosom of the vast Continent ; some faery glen 'mid the 

 cloud-capped hills, and gardens of flowers ; whose inhabitants were 

 as unstained as the mountain dews which fed their streams, rippling 

 through the wilderness. I delighted, too, in German literature ; it was 

 my joy to clothe things in robes of mystery ; to believe men were but 

 shades stalking o'er the world ; their actions springing from no cause, 

 or if any, unknown, but to the initiated : this I longed to be. 



" What do folks laugh at?" The gong was struck — it vibrated in 

 my ears, like a rusty voice of an old harpsicliord, doomed to be thumped 

 by the bread-and-butter fingers of some blue-sash-white-frocked school- 

 girl, for three hours per diem ; unhappy instrument, what are the mise- 

 ries of the " interesting niggers" compared with thine ! It haunted me 

 — what do folks laugh at ? I entered the Athenreum ; the first person 

 I saw was one of the footmen, with his hands rubbing to and fro be- 

 tween his legs, convulsed with laughter ; which, vainly endeavouring to 

 repress, spluttered out on either side of his mouth, like— I have, at a dis- 

 tance, heard — sausages squabbling in a frying-pan. Now, thought I, 

 here is a fit subject to be anatomized ; and touching the fellow on the 

 shoulder with my cane, I vociferated, " How now, sirrah, what are vou 

 laughing at ?" The man became calm in an instant, and turning round 

 wilh an awkward bow, replied : " Nothing, sir — I beg your honour's 

 l)ardon — Sir Charles." " Nothing again," I muttered, as I walked 

 awav, " confound the rascal ; what do folks laugh at ?" How fearful 

 was the thought tliat stuck to mc by day and by night. I had mooted 

 a problem, which like perpetual motion could not be solved, for what 

 was nothing ! Could I grasp it, gaze upon it, hear it, taste it, smell it ? 

 — no ! I sought my chambers with a fevered brain. All round the 

 room the things were grinning at me — the chairs U4jliftc(l their scats, 

 resembling mouths stretching with merriment ; the open piano uttered 

 fierce yells ; Hood's Annual and the Pilgrims of the Rhine lay upon the 



