—_Bishop Hall’s Satires_. I am—that is to say I was—a great man; but I am neither the
      author of Junius nor the man in the mask; for my name, I believe,
      is Robert Jones, and I was born somewhere in the city of
      Fum-Fudge. The first action of my life was the taking hold of my nose with
      both hands. My mother saw this and called me a genius—my father
      wept for joy and presented me with a treatise on Nosology. This I
      mastered before I was breeched. I now began to feel my way in the science, and soon came to
      understand that, provided a man had a nose sufficiently
      conspicuous, he might, by merely following it, arrive at a
      Lionship. But my attention was not confined to theories alone. Every morning I gave my proboscis a couple of pulls and swallowed
      a half dozen of drams. When I came of age my father asked me, one day, if I would step
      with him into his study. “My son,” said he, when we were seated, “what is the chief end of
      your existence?”

      “My father,” I answered, “it is the study of Nosology.”

      “And what, Robert,” he inquired, “is Nosology?”

      “Sir,” I said, “it is the science of Noses.”

      “And can you tell me,” he demanded, “what is the meaning of a
      nose?”

      “A nose, my father;” I replied, greatly softened, “has been
      variously defined by about a thousand different authors.” [Here I
      pulled out my watch.] “It is now noon or thereabouts—we shall
      have time enough to get through with them all before midnight. To
      commence then:—The nose, according to Bartholinus, is that
      protuberance—that bump—that excrescence—that—”

      “Will do, Robert,” interrupted the good old gentleman. “I am
      thunderstruck at the extent of your information—I am
      positively—upon my soul.” [Here he closed his eyes and placed his
      hand upon his heart.] “Come here!” [Here he took me by the arm.] “Your education may now be considered as finished—it is high time
      you should scuffle for yourself—and you cannot do a better thing
      than merely follow your nose—so—so—so—” [Here he kicked me
      downstairs and out of the door. ]—“so get out of my house, and God
      bless you!”

      As I felt within me the divine afflatus, I considered this
      accident rather fortunate than otherwise. I resolved to be guided
      by the paternal advice. I determined to follow my nose. I gave it
      a pull or two upon the spot, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosology
      forthwith. All Fum-Fudge was in an uproar. “Wonderful genius!” said the Quarterly. “Superb physiologist!” said the Westminster. “Clever fellow!” said the Foreign. “Fine writer!” said the Edinburgh. “Profound thinker!” said the Dublin. “Great man!” said Bentley. “Divine soul!” said Fraser. “One of us!” said Blackwood. “Who can he be?” said Mrs. Bas-Bleu. “What can he be?” said big Miss Bas-Bleu. “Where can he be?” said little Miss Bas-Bleu.—But I paid these
      people no attention whatever—I just stepped into the shop of an
      artist. The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was sitting for her portrait; the
      Marquis of So-and-So was holding the Duchess’ poodle; the Earl of
      This-and-That was flirting with her salts; and his Royal Highness
      of Touch-me-Not was leaning upon the back of her chair. I approached the artist and turned up my nose. “Oh, beautiful!” sighed her Grace. “Oh my!” lisped the Marquis. “Oh, shocking!” groaned the Earl. “Oh, abominable!” growled his Royal Highness. “What will you take for it?” asked the artist. “For his nose!” shouted her Grace. “A thousand pounds,” said I, sitting down. “A thousand pounds?” inquired the artist, musingly. “A thousand pounds,” said I. “Beautiful!” said he, entranced. “A thousand pounds,” said I. “Do you warrant it?” he asked, turning the nose to the light. “I do,” said I, blowing it well. “Is it quite original?” he inquired; touching it with reverence. “Humph!” said I, twisting it to one side. “Has no copy been taken?” he demanded, surveying it through a
      microscope. “None,” said I, turning it up. “Admirable!” he ejaculated, thrown quite off his guard by the
      beauty of the manœuvre. “A thousand pounds,” said I. “A thousand pounds?” said he. “Precisely,” said I. “A thousand pounds?” said he. “Just so,” said I. “You shall have them,” said he. “What a piece of virtu!” So he
      drew me a check upon the spot, and took a sketch of my nose. I
      engaged rooms in Jermyn street, and sent her Majesty the
      ninety-ninth edition of the “Nosology,” with a portrait of the
      proboscis.—That sad little rake, the Prince of Wales, invited me
      to dinner. We were all lions and _recherchés_. There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry, Iamblicus,
      Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus Tyrius, and Syrianus. There was a human-perfectibility man. He quoted Turgôt, Price,
      Priestly, Condorcêt, De Staël, and the “Ambitious Student in Ill
      Health.”

      There was Sir Positive Paradox. He observed that all fools were
      philosophers, and that all philosophers were fools. There was Æstheticus Ethix. He spoke of fire, unity, and atoms;
      bi-part and pre-existent soul; affinity and discord; primitive
      intelligence and homoömeria. There was Theologos Theology. He talked of Eusebius and Arianus;
      heresy and the Council of Nice; Puseyism and consubstantialism;
      Homousios and Homouioisios. There was Fricassée from the Rocher de Cancale. He mentioned
      Muriton of red tongue; cauliflowers with _velouté_ sauce; veal _à
      la St_. Menehoult; marinade _à la_ St. Florentin; and orange
      jellies _en mosaïques_. There was Bibulus O’Bumper. He touched upon Latour and
      Markbrünnen; upon Mousseux and Chambertin; upon Richbourg and St.
      George; upon Haubrion, Leonville, and Medoc; upon Barac and
      Preignac; upon Grâve, upon Sauterne, upon Lafitte, and upon St.
      Peray. He shook his head at Clos de Vougeot, and told, with his
      eyes shut, the difference between Sherry and Amontillado. There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence. He discoursed of
      Cimabué, Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino—of the gloom of
      Caravaggio, of the amenity of Albano, of the colors of Titian, of
      the frows of Rubens, and of the waggeries of Jan Steen. There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University. He was of
      opinion that the moon was called Bendis in Thrace, Bubastis in
      Egypt, Dian in Rome, and Artemis in Greece. There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul. He could not help thinking
      that the angels were horses, cocks, and bulls; that somebody in
      the sixth heaven had seventy thousand heads; and that the earth
      was supported by a sky-blue cow with an incalculable number of
      green horns. There was Delphinus Polyglott.