"It's
wery likely some fire company's men marching to a bean-feast, or a
freemason's funeral obscenities," replied the alderman. When another
blast greeted our ears with a few notes of "See the Conquering Hero
comes," "La, mamma," whined out Miss Biddy Marigold, "I declare, it's
that filthy fellow Punch coming afore our vindow vith his imperence; I
prognosticated how it voud be, ven the alderman patronised him last veek
by throwing avay a whole shilling upon his fooleries." "You've no taste
for fun, Biddy," replied the alderman; at the same time making his
daughter and myself a substitute for crutches, by resting a hand upon
each shoulder. "I never laid out a shilling better in the whole course
of my life. A good laugh beats all the French medicine, and drives the
gout out at the great toe. I mean to pension Mr. Punch at a shilling a
veek to squeak before my vindow of a Saturday, in preference to paying
six guineas for a ~60~~box to hear all that outlandish squeaking at the
hopera." "La, pa, how ungenteel!" said Miss Biddy; "I declare you're
bringing quite a new-sense to all the square, vat vith your hurdy-gurdy
vonien, French true-baw-dears, and barrel organ-grinders, nobody has no
peace not at all in the neighbourhood." During this elegant colloquy,
the immortal Mr.
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