his case was one of aggravation, and he was so remarkably ugly, that he 'created no interest.' He left us for a foreign exile; and if, as a man, I lament him, I confess to you, Gentlemen, as a 'Tax-collector,' I am easily consoled.
"Our third loss must be fresh in your memory. Peter Popwell, as bold a fellow as ever breathed, is no more!"—(a movement in the assembly)—"Peace be with him! He died on the field of battle; shot dead by a Scotch Colonel, whom poor Popwell thought to rob of nothing with an empty pistol. His memory, Gentlemen—in solemn silence!
"These make the catalogue of our losses,"—(resumed the youthful chief, so soon as the 'red cup had crowned the memory' of Peter Popwell,)—"I am proud, even in sorrow, to think that the blame of those losses rests not with me. And now, friends and followers! Gentlemen of the Road, the Street, the Theatre, and the Shop! Prigs, Toby-men, and Squires of the Cross! According to the laws of our Society, I resign into your hands that
