"jZ Mr. Samuel Shrub. 



Rector), and enough to fill the bosoms of his fellow towns- 

 men with envy, hatred, and malice, 



Diggles, the landlord of the Swan, swells with anger 

 at the sight (a bad-tempered man is Diggles), and clutches 

 his great fat church-service as if he would uncommonly 

 like to brain the excellent Shrub with it. Note too the 

 scowl he gives as he almost " shies " a crown-piece into 

 the plate when it comes round. Our wily churchwarden 

 serves him out, though, by pretending he has not seen 

 the gift, and then, discovering his mistake, begging his 

 pardon with much apparent concern. 



He's known, too, in London is our sporting landlord, 

 let me tell you. Let the reader imagine himself, on a 

 bleak, cheerless afternoon in December in the exceedingly 

 comfortable smoking-room of the ''Junior Mars and Nep- 

 tune Club." There he will behold Lieutenant Rag, of the 

 Lancers, and Captain Famish, of the Roans, soused in a 

 couple of arm-chairs, smoking their after-luncheon cigars, 

 and discussing the affairs of the nation. Having settled 

 everything to their mutual satisfaction — from the arrange- 

 ment of European difficulties generally, to the great 

 superiority of the understandings pertaining to charming 

 little Miss Poppet, of the LoUypop Theatre, over those 

 belonging to Violet De Courcy {nee Sniggs), of the 

 Frivolity — the lower limbs of the latter being contemp- 

 tuously described as '' like broomsticks, by Jove ! " they 

 turn their attention to hunting. 



Says Lieutenant Rag to Captain Famish, lazily puffing 

 a huge cloud of smoke from his lips, and watching it dis- 

 porting itself as it curls itself away in a variety of rings 

 towards the ceiling, '' I say, ole f ler, do you think 

 hounds'U go to-morrow, eh ? " 



