University of Virginia Library

THE
MAN WITH A NOSE.[1]

On stepping into a stage coach, we all feel a
greater or less degree of curiosity respecting our
travelling companions. We immediately inquire
of ourselves, “Who can they be, and whither are
they going?”—though, had we met them elsewhere,
we would not have given five straws to have been
put in possession of their history from the time of
their birth, and to have a revelation of their future

destiny thrown into the bargain. Were I disposed
to moralize, I would say that a stage coach is your
only true leveller; and to be squeezed into one, and
jolted over a turnpike, for sixteen hours in succession,
at the rate of eight miles an hour, is the surest
way to awaken the sensibilities, in spite of cushions,
bolstering, and a seat between the axletrees.

I was called to the interior of Pennsylvania last
spring. The stage was full, and, as we left Philadelphia
before day, the passengers could not see
each other's visages. A profound silence prevailed
for the first ten miles, which may have been in consequence
of the difficulty of making an observation
in the dark; but, no sooner had the first golden tints
of the sun appeared, than the drowsy travellers, one
and all, rubbed their eyes, and the talent of Lavater
was called in requisition.

We rode a few hundred yards farther in silence,
when a fat, pursy gentleman, who occupied about
two-thirds of the back seat, broke the spell by saying,—

“We are packed like figs in a drum, and every
jolt only serves to settle us more compactly.”

“If that be the case, my dear, we shall be well
settled by the time we arrive at our journey's end,”
observed a young woman on the same seat. A
simper accompanied the remark, which denoted
that she intended to be witty; and perhaps she was
so, for her husband chuckled at the idea until the
low, growling chuckle was changed into an asthmatic
cough. When he had recovered sufficient breath,
he said, “Your wit will be the death of me yet.”

“And that,” said she, looking tenderly, “would
be the death of my wit.” I judged from the look
that they had been recently married; and, if so, the
principle which prevails in preparing fowls for market
had been observed in the present instance—fat
and lean together.

Immediately after this sally, another exclaimed,
in a theatrical tone, “'Sdeath, I undergo more cramps
and pains than ever Prospero inflicted on Caliban.

The scoundrel of a driver must have stowed more
than his complement into the vehicle.”

“Let us count noses,” cried the young woman.

“That I must beg you to undertake, madam,” replied
the other, bowing; “for, if I begin with you, I
shall never get to the end of my task.” He was a
little dapper fellow, of about five feet five, with a
profusion of hair on his head, which was surrounded
by a travelling cap, stuck on with a rakish air. He
wore a rusty frock coat, with military collar, buttoned
tight up to the neck, around which was swathed
a large cravat, which made up in quantity what
it wanted in cleanliness. The collar of his shirt
had modestly retired—perhaps ashamed to be seen
in such company. His right hand was thrust in his
bosom, and his left arm was placed akimbo, to the
great annoyance of his next neighbour; but then it
gave the little tragedian an air of importance, such
as became the representative of kings and princes of
the blood. He determined to be “every inch a king,”
though riding in a stage coach. When he paid the
lady the foregoing compliment, he bowed, and endeavoured
to throw a vast deal of meaning into his
countenance, by way of elucidating what he would
be at; but it was unnecessary. Let a woman alone
to ferret out a compliment, even though it be spoken
in high Dutch. She archly replied, “If that be the
case, sir, begin on the other side of the stage, and
you will count more rapidly.” The little fellow
with the bushy head bowed and smirked, while the
pursy gentleman growled, and moved his mass of
mortality as if his seat had become rather uncomfortable.
His better half—better, perhaps, in quality,
but not in quantity—observed his uneasiness, and
enquired what ailed him.

“The road is rough, my pet bird, and it seems as
if every stone were a load-stone, and attracted the
wheels to it.”

“Oh! is that all?” said she, and smiled more
sweetly than ever Hero smiled upon Leander, or
Eurydice upon her fiddling husband, after having

defied the devil and all his works to get possession
of her.

“All, quite all!” replied the pursy gentleman,
and smiled also; but his smile was not quite as
sweet as that of his bewitching companion.

“When shall we proceed to count noses?” inquired
the bushy-headed tragedian, at the same time
drawing his chin within his military collar and enormous
cravat.

“At once,” said the lady. “So, begin.”

“Shall I trouble you?”

“Since you insist. One, two, three.”—She paused.

“Go on.”

“One, two, three.”—She paused again.

“Zounds! there are more than three in the stage,
or is that the extent of your arithmetic, madam?”
said the tragedian, smiling.

The lady made no reply, but kept her eyes bent
towards the opposite part of the stage. He complimented
her again, but she seemed not to hear him,
and her eyes were immovable. Could she have been
shocked at the complexion of his cravat, or did she
imitate the retiring modesty of his dickey?—Neither!
A lady will receive a compliment from a
dirty beau as the pearl fisher takes his prize, without
regard to the rough and dirty shell of the oyster.

“One, two, three!”—She could go no further.
The tragedian turned to see what object thus engrossed
her attention, and rendered her deaf even to
a compliment. He beheld it, and his lower jaw fell
with astonishment. When somewhat recovered, he
exclaimed,

“Bardolph, by all that's wonderful!”

“Slawkenbergius was a fool to him,” cried the
lady. The pursy gentleman looked in the same direction,
and grumbled something like “Heaven protect
us!” half chuckle, half earnest.

The object of their admiration was a man of about
fifty. He was dressed in a rusty black coat, of the
Lord Townly cut, which gave incontrovertible marks
of having belonged to a former age. The wearer had

increased in size since the time of first putting it on;
so much so, that the button holes could now scarcely
squint at each other, around a certain protuberance
which shall be nameless, but which adds more to the
dignity of a justice, in his chair, than a knowledge
of the statutes. A degree of relationship was, however,
still kept up between the button holes, by
means of pieces of tape. His rusty coat had been
carefully brushed, and, though a piece of antiquity,
it had nothing of the dust of former ages about it.
His linen was as white as snow, and his small cravat,
in all respects unlike that of the tragedian, was
twisted into the dimensions of a rope, and tied as
tight as a halter round his neck. He wore a foxy
scratch, which was surmounted by a hat, which appeared
not to have had a nap since the days of the
seven sleepers, but which had been brushed with the
accustomed care from long habit.—His hands were
locked in each other before him; he sat erect, and
looked out with evident delight upon the surrounding
landscape. There was an air of gentility about
him that could not be mistaken, and yet the sprightly
woman found it impossible to get beyond this object
in her enumeration. And why so?—His face,
in longitude, would have corresponded with that of
a horse, and was of a mahogany complexion. His
forehead was elevated and wrinkled. His eyebrows
were long, gray and bushy; and his eyes small,
black, and protruded like those of a lobster. His
nose!—how can I possibly describe that nose!—In
its formation, as little regard had been paid to the
line of beauty as in the growth of a potato. It was
studded with warts, which added to its magnitude,
and the skin covering the whole strongly resembled
a fig turned inside outwards; and yet he exhibited it
to public view with apparent unconsciousness. How
frequently is a man's face the most repulsive part of
him; and yet, in consequence of the custom of the
times, that, and that alone, is he compelled to expose
to public scrutiny.

Beside the man with a nose was seated an old

lady with a bandbox, whose face was a mere caricature
upon that of the gentleman. It was but little
more than half a span from the tip of the chin to the
top of the forehead. Her mouth was toothless, and
her nose—if it deserved the name—was unequal, in
point of size, to one of the protuberances that grew
spontaneously upon the proboscis just described. A
pair of spectacles rode astride of this mere apology
for a nasal organ, and were kept in their position by
means of a piece of riband fastened to her cap. An
old lady of this cast of countenance generally proves
to be an annoyance in a stage coach, more especially
if she travels with a bandbox.

Women will talk, at home or abroad, whether
they have any thing to say or not; and I have observed
that in a stage, an old woman is never at a
loss for a subject. She feels an irresistible desire to
know the business of her fellow travellers, and propounds
questions as confidently as if she had a right
to interrogate. I was, therefore, not astonished when
I heard the old lady with an apology for a nose, commence
her battery upon the gentleman with the unearthly
proboscis.

“Where did you come from this morning, Sir?”
said she abruptly, at the same time adjusting her
glasses, and, bending forward, peered up into his
face.

“From the Boar's Head, in Eastcheap,” replied
the tragedian, in a low tone, to the young lady, who
smiled approbation; and even the pursy gentleman
gave a low growl, as if he relished the jest.

“From home, madam,” said the man with the
nose, bowing graciously. His inquisitive companion,
who took a deliberate survey of the wonderful work
of nature, shook her head knowingly and said, “It's
impossible all that can be real flesh and blood!”

The stage now stopped at an inn, and the passengers
alighted for breakfast. Inbred politeness never
leaves a man, no matter in what situation he may be
placed. A gentleman, from the caudle-cup upwards,
maintains the same character at home and abroad;

he neither puts it on with a new coat, nor lays it
down when his coat becomes thin at the elbows. It
is his birth-right, and the world cannot deprive him
of it. But this remark does not hold good with your
gentleman of yesterday. He may be compared with
the poor player who assumes the part of royalty,
struts an hour upon the stage, and feels himself a
king; but is no sooner divested of his pasteboard
crown and mantle, than his dignity leaves him, and
he reverts to the original blackguard again. But
while I am moralizing, I lose the thread of my
story.

As the stage drove up to the door of the inn, the
little tragedian assisted the witty lady to alight, and
escorted her to the breakfast room, leaving her overgrown
helpmate to get out as he could. One after
another the travellers jumped out and entered the
tavern; and, finally, the gentleman with the mahogany
face alighted, and stood at the door and assisted
the pursy gentleman and the old lady to come to
a landing. This was the true touch-stone of good
feeling and politeness. Had the lady been young,
handsome and witty, all might have accounted for
his attention; but she was old, toothless and disagreeable;
but it was enough for him that she appeared
invested with petticoats. Had he lived in the age
of chivalry, for that act alone he would have been
knighted, and called the knight of the brazen proboscis.
He entered the breakfast room supporting
the pursy gentleman and the old lady with the bandbox.
They took seats at the table, and she sat beside
him.

The man with a nose was a perfect Chesterfield at
table. While the rest of the company ate as though
they were eating for a wager against time, he pressed
them to partake of various dishes, fearing they might
not help themselves without being invited. All was
hurry and bustle; and there was a constant clattering
of knives and forks, and a whisking of servants
in and out of the room.

The gentleman with the nose had not yet tasted

a mouthful. He had been attending to others instead
of minding his own business. “A cup of coffee, Sir,”
cried a servant, and thrust it beneath his proboscis.
He raised his head, and turned his face towards the
waiter. The servant started—his hand shook, and
the cup of coffee was deposited in the lap of the traveller.
His face became of a darker mahogany hue.
—He made use of such an exclamation as any gentleman
would have given vent to on such an occasion,
and rose from his seat as nimbly as if Gammer Gurton's
needle had been sticking in his small clothes.
The servant handed him a towel to rub himself
down, and, after making an awkward apology, left
the room, muttering, “Why the devil does he travel
with such a nose?”

Now, the gentleman wore white cassimere small
clothes, and, though they were thread bare, and darned
across the right knee, there was not a speck of
soil upon them when he first stepped into the stage
in the morning. But of what avail was their primitive
purity? A dish of muddy coffee had been slushed
over them, and they presented a convincing proof
that even the cleanest unmentionables, like every
other mortal production, are liable to be sullied in
this world. The traveller resumed his seat, after
being rubbed down with a tow towel; the old lady
of the bandbox adjusted her spectacles, and leaned
forward to take a survey of the afflicted premises.
The distressed traveller did the same. His nose had
assumed all the colours of the rainbow, and his face
seemed to have extended to twice its usual dimensions.
After a careful examination of the damage
done, the old lady looked her companion in the face,
and shaking her head sorrowfully, said, “What a
pity!”

“A great pity,” replied the other, and shook his
head too. There is some comfort in being commiserated
in our misfortunes.

“Tara, tara, tara, tara,” went the horn of the stage
driver. “The stage is waiting, gentlemen,” cried

the landlord, bustling into the room with an air of
importance.

“Waiting! let it wait,” cried the tragedian, with
his mouth filled after the fashion of Sancho Panza—
“I have not half finished my breakfast yet.” The
man with the nose had not yet began.

“Tara, tara, tara,” again went the horn.

“Silence that dreadful horn, it frightens the inn
from its propriety,” exclaimed the little Roscius,
with a tragedy swell.

“Waiter, a cup of coffee,” exclaimed the distressed
traveller. The bar maid handed it to him, and
smiled as she did so. But why did she smile? She
was a blooming girl, and perhaps had been told that
a smile added to her beauty. Be this as it may, I
have observed that few pretty girls can look a man
full in the face without smiling. I leave it to physiologists
to find out the reason.

“Gentlemen, the stage is waiting,” again cried the
landlord. The man with the nose swallowed his
coffee, and scalded his throat in the hurry—the tragedian
rose from the table swearing that he had not
made half a meal, though all the dishes were empty
within arm's reach of him—and the pursy gentleman,
as he waddled out, grumbled something like an insinuation
that there was an understanding between
the driver and the landlord to disturb the travellers
as soon as they were comfortably seated, in order to
save the victuals. The reason of this dissatisfaction
was a plain one—They were now called on to discharge
their bills, and some folks make it a rule never
to pay money without first getting into a passion.
How different the deportment of the mahogany faced
gentleman. He had had his clean white cassimeres
drenched with muddy coffee, and his throat scalded
with the slops of the pot three times replenished and
concocted, and yet he paid his bill without a complaint,
and bowed to the landlord as he deposited his
change in the right hand pocket of his hapless small
clothes. He left the breakfast room escorting the
lady with the bandbox to the stage.

As they left the room, there was a spontaneous
exclamation among the inmates of the inn, “What a
nose!”

The landlord shook his head mysteriously, and
protested that he had never seen any thing like it belonging
to either fish, flesh or fowl. The girls came
rushing from all parts of the house tittering; they
gathered together, and had their joke to themselves.
Something tickled them mightily—what it was I do
not pretend so say. The landlady bounced in in a
fluster, exclaiming, “Where is it?—which way has
it gone?” She would have hurried out to the stage,
but her husband interfered, by saying,—

“Remember you are not in a situation now, my
dear, to look upon a sight of that nature.”

“Fiddle de dee,” cried the hostess, snapping
her fingers—“I must have a look at it, if I die by
it.”

“It may cost you your life,” replied mine host,
again shaking his head.

“Well, I might as well die that way as from curiosity,”
said the hostess, and made for the door;
but the landlord was an athletic man, and catching
her in his arms, in spite of her struggles, fairly carried
her to her chamber and turned the key on her.
The landlord entertained certain old womanish notions,
and had a proper regard for the personal appearance
of his progeny. As the stage drove off,
the landlady was seen at her chamber window,
looking out with all the eyes that nature had given
her. The whole inn was in an uproar—the dogs
barked after us, and, as we passed along, the teamsters
stood staring vacantly in the middle of the
road.

The passenger who had occasioned all this consternation
looked out and enjoyed the beauties of
nature, apparently unconscious that nature had been
to him so niggard of her gifts. The lady with the
bandbox was still next to him, for she now considered
herself as having a kind of legal right to his
protection, having commiserated with him on the fate

of his breeches. It is astonishing upon how slight a
foundation stage coach friendships are built.

“Where are you travelling to?” asked the old
woman, as the stage turned upon the soft road.

“To Gadshill, I'll vouch for him,” replied the
tragedian.

“Or to the Promontory of Noses,” added the
witty lady.

“To the end of my journey,” replied the gentleman,
making a bow that would have served as a
model for Sir Charles Grandison.

Nothing occurred worthy of note until the stage
drove up for dinner. The mysterious gentleman
had scarcely opened his lips during the morning,
but kept his eyes constantly fixed on the passing
scenery. This may be accounted for by his having
a toothless old woman seated at his opposite elbow.

Dinner was on table as we alighted. An experienced
traveller avoids the post of carver as he would
the seat of famine. It is diverting to see the company
seated, with their hands before them, and looking
anxiously for some one possessed of sufficient
courage to attack the eatables and cut them out employment.
As I said before, the man with a nose
was Chesterfield revivified. He assumed the post
of honour, and, after whetting his knife, he commenced
operations on a roasted goose, displaying a
knowledge of the science that would have done
credit to the grand carver of an eastern monarch.
He was skilful, but the goose was obstinate; turning
to the waiter, he said—

“Had you lived in the days of ancient Rome,
they would have hurled you from the Tarpeian
Rock for this.”

“Anan?” said the servant.

“You have roasted one of the sacred geese that
cackled in the capitol,” continued the other, gravely.
This was the first attempt at a joke that the man
with the nose had made during the day, and it was so
good that the servant left the room ready to split his
sides with laughter. I do not pretend to say that he

saw clearly through the remark, but he saw the gentleman's
nose clear enough, and that of itself was
worth the best jest in Joe Miller. The traveller
continued the dissection with renewed vigour, and
finally succeeded in dismembering the goose; but
during this undertaking his fellow travellers had
each despatched a plate full from another dish, and
were now ready to reap the harvest of his labour.
He helped them all round, and consulted the palate
of each in his equitable distribution.

“Shall I trouble you for a side bone,” grumbled
the pursy gentleman, without raising his chin from
his plate, but kept his gastronomic powers in full
operation until such time as more grist should be
ready for his grinders. The carver complacently
undertook the task, and, bracing every nerve, laboured
until large beads of perspiration stood on his
forehead, and his nose

Alcides, it is said, cleansed the Augean stable, but
it is no where to be found on record that he ever
severed the back bone of a goose similar to that
under consideration. The carver was a man of resolute
spirit; he persevered—and what will not perseverance
accomplish? His labour done, he wiped
the sweat from his brow with a white linen handkerchief,
which still retained the marks of its folds,
and then helped the pursy gentleman to his favourite
part. The carver had not yet tasted a mouthful.
The goose had flown before the incessant fire
kept up by the travellers; not a particle remained
on the dish but the parson's nose, and that was a
favourite mouthful with the patient gentleman. He
understood every branch of the science of carving,
and the least important is by no means that which
teaches the carver how to help the company satisfactorily,
and still retain his favourite part upon the
dish. This will account for the parson's nose
having survived the general havoc. The traveller
now rested from his labour, and casting a complacent
glance upon the dish, stuck a fork into the delicate
morsel. He raised it, and was about to translate
it to his own plate, when the lady of the bandbox,
who was seated close at his left elbow, watched
his motions like a cat, and thrusting her plate immediately
beneath the sorry remnant of the goose,
exclaimed, “I'll thank you for that.” The gentleman
bowed, the morsel dropped from the point of
his fork, and the next moment it was mumbled between
the nose and chin of the old woman. The
carver dropped his knife and fork in despair, and
the stage driver's horn now informed him that the
time he had devoted to politeness should have been
devoted to eating. He took a mouthful of bread
and a glass of brandy and water, and returned to
his seat in the stage. The little tragedian was in
an ill humour at being disturbed before he had emptied
more than half the dishes—and the pursy gentleman
growled something about the extortionate
charges, but his voice stuck by the way, unable to
pass through the quantity of dinner he had swallowed.

The lady with the bandbox resumed her seat beside
the man with a nose, and the rest of the company
being packed as before, the driver flourished his
whip, and we left the inn at a brisk pace, which
promised much, but promises are not always realized.
Any one who is at all acquainted with the
nature of man, must have remarked that, if there be
any thing like good nature in his composition, it will
be sure to show itself shortly after dinner, provided
the dinner was a good one. If you have a favour
to ask, never ask it of a man while his stomach is
empty. Shakspeare says something about a judge
hanging a prisoner lest his dinner should grow cold;
and Shakspeare, it is acknowledged, understood
something of human nature. Now, though the mysterious
gentleman had not dined on any other than
the chameleon's dish, his countenance brightened,
either from long habit of being better satisfied with

human affairs at that hour of the day, or from the
aforesaid glass of brandy and water, which he swallowed
with a mouthful of bread, on the summons
of the stage driver. Be this as it may, he surveyed
the surrounding country, as they rode along, with
increased delight.

When Eve was turned out of Paradise, she still
retained that unquenchable thirst after knowledge
which has entailed such countless woes upon her
progeny; and all her daughters, even to the present
day, are sure to inherit that trait of character, which
may be the reason of the impossibility of regaining
Eden on this side of the grave.

The lady of the bandbox had made some progress
in her second half century, and doubtless had drunk
deep of the fountain of knowledge, but still her
thirst was unallayed. One would naturally suppose
that ladies of her age, who had seen so much, would
rest satisfied with their stock of information; but,
on the contrary, the appetite becomes insatiable with
years; and, while there is any thing to be learnt,
they are on thorns until they get at the bottom of it.
Speaking figuratively, such was the case with the
lady of the bandbox. I do not mean to say that
she was actually seated on thorns in the stage coach.

The old lady was not what may be called a woman
of few words—they are scarce, and she was
not of the number—but she was a blunt woman, and
came to the point without circumlocution. With
her compressed face, button nose, and projecting
chin, Lavater would not have read her character
without the aid of spectacles.

“What trade may you follow for a livelihood?”
said she to her companion, adjusting her spectacles,
and looking him full in the face. Not a word had
been spoken during the preceding half hour.

“I sometimes make shoes,” replied the gentleman,
and took a pinch of snuff. It was the first
pinch he had taken; but if every man wore a nose
like his, and took but such a pinch once in a day,

Crœses himself would be denied admittance into
the company of our tobacco planters.

“Impossible that you should be a shoemaker,”
exclaimed the old lady. The gentleman bowed,
smiled, but returned no answer.

“That's an odd fish,” said the tragedian; “I wonder
who he can be!”

The witty lady made a reply, which was intended
to be witty, but as it proved an abortion, I refrain
from putting it on record. Her husband, however,
growled something like a laugh of approbation. I
heard it rumbling its way upwards, like distant
thunder, but it was smothered in the intricate passage
before it could find its way to his lips.

By this time no small degree of curiosity prevailed
among the passengers to know who the mysterious
gentleman actually was, but the old lady was
decidedly the most curious. How to gratify her
thirst after knowledge in the present instance was a
difficult question, for her companion was not disposed
to be more communicative than an oyster at
ebb tide. Silence again prevailed, but was broken
this time by the strange gentleman. He was not
talkative, as I have just remarked, but when he did
speak it was to the purpose.

“Madam!” said he, bowing to the old lady; but
as she was rather dull of hearing, he was obliged to
repeat his salutation and bow also. She caught the
sound, and, adjusting her spectacles, thrust her apology
for a nose within the shade of his proboscis,
that not a word might escape her ear in the rattling
of the stage wheels.

“Did you speak, sir?”

“I did, madam.”

“And what did you say, sir?”

“I believe your bandbox has got between my knees,
that's all.”

He was right in his conjecture; the bandbox was
actually there. Now, though a bandbox is not only
a necessary but indispensable appendage to a travelling
lady, yet all must allow that it can very

readily be dispensed with when it gets between a
gentleman's knees in a stage coach, for it does not
at all accord with the fitness of things to have it
there, and this was the opinion entertained by the
man with the nose. The old lady removed the box,
and as she did so, resumed the attack.

“Well, really, now I should like to know what
business you follow.”

“I sometimes make a coat,” replied the other,
smiling.

“Oh, la! impossible that so polite a gentleman as
you should be a tailor,” exclaimed the old lady.
The gentleman bowed, and made no reply.

“A mysterious fellow, that,” said the tragedian;
“and I should not be astonished if he were some
German prince in disguise.”

“In disguise! In a mask, you mean,” said the
witty lady.

“No, it is real flesh and blood, every inch of it,”
replied the tragedian, looking askance at the traveller's
nose.

“Perhaps so; but then it must be of foreign
growth. Such fruits are not indigenous to our soil.”

The stage now approached a village. “I believe
I shall get out here,” said the gentleman. The old
lady became fidgetty at the prospect of losing her
companion before her curiosity should be gratified.
She repeated her question.

“I sometimes make noses,” replied the persecuted
gentleman, with a contortion of muscles that
approximated a smile.

“Make noses!” exclaimed the old lady, and involuntarily
applied her hand to her own apology for a
nose, and looked as though she would say, “Is this
beyond your skill to remedy?”

“Make noses!” cried the witty lady; and after
casting a suspicious glance at his proboscis, turned
to the tragedian and said, with an air of triumph,
“I knew I could not be mistaken.”

“Make noses!” said the tragedian doubtingly.

“Make noses!” growled the pursy gentleman, in

a tone that seemed to be a distant echo of the tragedian's
voice.

The mysterious gentleman sat erect, apparently
indifferent to what was passing. The muscles of
his rigid countenance were immovable, and by his
twinkling black eyes alone did he betray that he
enjoyed the consternation into which he had thrown
his fellow travellers.

“Yes,” repeated he, “make noses;” and took another
pinch of snuff. I described the first pinch;
it is unnecessary to describe the second, farther
than to state that it was such a pinch as no other
mortal breathing could have taken. It made him
sneeze, and as he sneezed every passenger started
electrified from his seat.

“Angels and ministers of grace defend us!” exclaimed
the tragedian.

“What strange noise was that?” asked the pursy
gentleman, who was rather dull of hearing.

Every one turned an eye of suspicion towards the
man with the nose, but not a word was uttered, for
they imagined that the devil himself was ensconsed
within that brown coat and white cassimere breeches.
They looked at each other in silent astonishment.
The stage driver blew his horn again, to announce
his approach to the village.

“Oh! is that all!” they cried simultaneously.

“All, I assure you,” said the gentleman, bowing.
They laughed heartily at their ridiculous mistake,
but the lady with the bandbox could not even smile,
for they now rapidly approached the village, and her
curiosity had not yet been gratified. The stage
drove up to the inn, and the passengers unpacked
themselves and alighted. The important moment
had arrived, when the old lady's curiosity must be
gratified or never. Why she was so desirous of
ascertaining his pursuit, is a difficult question to
answer. It may have been nothing more than a natural
impulse, or she may have mistaken his marked
attention for something more than common courtesy.
Women are, at all stages of life, subject to delusions

of this nature. The strange gentleman rose
from his seat, and was about leaving the stage. The
impulse, no matter from what cause it originated,
now became too strong to be controlled. The lady
of the bandbox now laid violent hands upon the tail
of the black coat of the Lord Townly cut mentioned
in an early part of this narrative. The wearer of it
turned—an inconvenience that he would not have
been subject to had nature provided him with an
eye in the back of his head. The old lady assumed
a girlish air, which dowagers of a certain, or rather
uncertain age are in the habit of assuming, though
quite as unseasonable as green peas at Christmas,
and simpering, cried, “Really, you shall not stir
until I have gained my point.”

“What point, madam?” inquired the gentleman,
bowing gravely.

“You must tell me by what means you make a
livelihood.”

“By making faces,” exclaimed the gentleman.
The lady shrieked, and let go of his coat. The
persecuted traveller still retained his politeness, but
the expression of his countenance was such as I shall
not attempt to describe. There is nothing on record
to be compared with it, unless, indeed, that mysterious
picture mentioned by Washington Irving in
his story of the young Italian. The gentleman
walked off, like the honourable Dick Dowlass, with
his wardrobe tied up in a pocket handkerchief.

“Who can he be!” exclaimed the travellers, looking
after him with astonishment, as he slowly proceeded
along the street. My curiosity was also excited,
and, on examining the way-bill, I discovered
that the man with a nose had adhered to the truth
in his various accounts of his means of making a
living. He was a portrait painter.