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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 is Thomas Smith, 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 bought me a
treatise on Nosology. Before I was breeched I had
not only mastered the treatise, but had collected into
a common-place book all that is said on the subject
by Pliny, Aristotle, Alexander Ross, Minutius Felix,
Hermanus Pictorius, Del Rio, Villarêt, Bartholinus,
and Sir Thomas Browne.

I now began to feel my way in the science, and
soon came to understand that, provided a man had a
nose sufficiently big, he might, by merely following
it, arrive at a lionship. But my attention was not

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confined to theories alone; every morning I took a
dram or two, and gave my proboscis a couple of
pulls. 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 got there, “what
is the chief end of your existence?”

“Father,” I said, “it is the study of Nosology.”

“And what, Thomas,” he continued, “is nosology?”

“Sir,” I replied, “it is the Science of Noses.”

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

“A nose, my father,” said I, “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—”

“That will do, Thomas,” said the old gentleman.
“I am thunderstruck at the extent of your information—
I am positively—upon my soul. Come here!
(and he took me by the arm). Your education may
now be considered as finished, and it is high time
that you should scuffle for yourself—so—so—so—
(here he kicked me down stairs 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, and
determined to follow my nose. So I gave it a pull

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or two, and wrote a pamphlet on Nosology. All
Fum-Fudge was in an uproar.

“Wonderful genius!” said the Quarterly.

“Superb physiologist!” said the New Monthly.

“Fine writer!” said the Edinburgh.

“Great man!” 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 them no manner of attention, and walked
into the shop of an artist.

The Duchess of Bless-my-Soul was sitting for her
portrait; the Marchioness of So-and-So was holding
the Duchess's poodle; the Earl of This-and-That was
flirting with her salts; and his Royal Highness of
Touch-me-Not was standing behind her chair. I
merely walked towards the artist, and held up my
proboscis.

“O beautiful!” sighed the Duchess.

“O pretty!” lisped the Marshiness.

“O horrible!” groaned the Earl.

“O abominable!” growled his Royal Highness.

“What will you take for it?” said the artist.

“A thousand pounds,” said I, sitting down.

“A thousand pounds?” he inquired, turning the
nose to the light.

“Precisely,” said I.

“Beautiful!” said he, looking at the nose.

“A thousand pounds,” said I, twisting it to one
side.

“Admirable!” said he.

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“A thousand pounds,” said I.

“You shall have them,” said he, “what a piece
of virtu!” So he paid me the money, and made a
sketch of my nose. I took rooms in Jermyn street,
sent her Majesty the ninety-ninth edition of the
Nosology with a portrait of the author's nose, and
his Royal Highness of Touch-me-Not invited me to
dinner.

We were all lions and recherchés.

There was a Grand Turk from Stamboul. He
said that the angels were horses, cocks, and bulls—
that somebody in the sixth heaven had seventy thousand
heads and seventy thousand tongues—and that
the earth was held up by a sky-blue cow, having
four hundred horns.

There was Sir Positive Paradox. He said that
all fools were philosophers, and all philosophers were
fools.

There was a writer on ethics. He talked of fire,
unity, and atoms; bi-part, and pre-existent soul;
affinity and discord; primitive intelligence and homoomeria.

There was Theologos Theology. He talked of
Eusebius and Arianus; heresy and the Council of
Nice; consubstantialism, Homousios, and Homouioisios.

There was Fricassée from the Rocher de Cancale.
He mentioned Latour, Markbrunnen, and Mareschino;
muriton of red tongue, and cauliflowers with
velouté sauce; veal à la St. Menehoult, marinade
à la St. Florentin, and orange jellies en mosaiques.

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There was Signor Tintontintino from Florence.
He spoke of Cimabué, Arpino, Carpaccio, and Argostino;
the gloom of Caravaggio, the amenity of
Albano, the golden glories of Titian, the frows of
Rubens, and the waggeries of Jan Steen.

There was the great geologist Feltzpar. He talked
of internal fires and tertiary formations; of aëriforms,
fluidiforms, and solidiforms; of quartz and marl; of
schist and schorl; of gypsum, hornblende, micaslate,
and pudding-stone.

There was the President of the Fum-Fudge University.
He said that the moon was called Bendis in
Thrace, Bubastis in Egypt, Dian in Rome, and Artemis
in Greece.

There was Delphinus Polyglott. He told us what
had become of the eighty-three lost tragedies of
Æschylus; of the fifty-four orations of Isœus; of the
three hundred and ninety-one speeches of Lysias; of
the hundred and eighty treatises of Theophrastus; of
the eighth book of the conic sections of Apollonius;
of Pindar's hymns and dithyrambics; and the five-and-forty
tragedies of Homer Junior.

There was a modern Platonist. He quoted Porphyry,
Iamblicus, Plotinus, Proclus, Hierocles, Maximus
Tyrius, and Syrianus.

There was a human-perfectibility man. He
quoted Turgot, Price, Priestly, Condorcet, De Stael,
and “The Ambitious Student in Ill Health.”

There was myself. I spoke of Pictorius, Del Rio,
Alexander Ross, Minutius Felix, Bartholinus, Sir
Thomas Browne, and the Science of Noses.

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“Marvellous clever man!” said his Highness.

“Superb!” said his guests; and the next morning
her grace of Bless-my-Soul paid me a visit.

“Will you go to Almack's, pretty creature?” she
said, chucking me under the chin.

“Upon honor,” said I.

“Nose and all?” she asked.

“As I live,” I replied.

“Here, then, is a card, my life, shall I say you will
be there?”

“Dear Duchess, with all my heart.”

“Pshaw, no!—but with all your nose?”

“Every bit of it, my love,” said I; so I gave it a
pull or two, and found myself at Almack's.

The rooms were crowded to suffocation.

“He is coming!” said somebody on the staircase.

“He is coming!” said somebody further up.

“He is coming!” said somebody further still.

“He is come!” said the Duchess; “he is come,
the little love!” and she caught me by both hands,
and looked me in the nose.

“Ah joli!” said Mademoiselle Pas Seul.

“Dios guarda!” said Don Stiletto.

“Diavolo!” said Count Capricornuto.

“Tousand teufel!” said Baron Bludennuff.

“Tweedle-dee—tweedle-dee—tweedle-dum!” said
the Orchestra.

“Ah joli! Dios guarda! Diavolo! and Tousand
teufel!” repeated Mademoiselle Pas Seul, Don Stiletto,
Count Capricornuto, and Baron Bludennuff.
This applause—it was obstreperous; it was not the

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thing; it was too bad; it was not to be borne. I
grew angry.

“Sir!” said I to the Baron, “you are a baboon.”

“Sir!” he replied after a pause, “Donner und
blitzen!” This was sufficient. We exchanged cards.
The next morning I shot off his nose at six o'clock,
and then called upon my friends.

“Bête!” said the first.

“Fool!” said the second.

“Ninny!” said the third.

“Dolt!” said the fourth.

“Noodle!” said the fifth.

“Ass!” said the sixth.

“Be off!” said the seventh.

At all this I felt mortified, and so called upon my
father.

“Father,” I said, “what is the chief end of my
existence?”

“My son,” he replied, “it is still the study of
Nosology; but in hitting the Baron's nose, you have
overshot your mark. You have a fine nose, it is true;
but then Bludennuff has none. You are d—d; and
he has become the lion of the day. In Fum-Fudge
great is a lion with a big proboscis, but greater by
far is a lion with no proboscis at all.”

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