GLAZIERS’ HOUSES:
oR,
THE SHAVING OF SHAGPAT
I will write him a very taunting letter—As You Like It.
In these latter days, when (too often) a newspaper proprietor
is like a Buddhist monk, afraid to scratch his head lest he
should incommode his vermin, it is indeed a joy for a young
and nameless author to be presented with a long sword by a
cordial editor, with the injunction: “There, my lad, sweep
away, never mind what you hit—I’ll stand the racket.”
Whoosh! off we go. One, two, three—crash! What’s
that? ‘“Aere perennius”? Or a perennial ass?
Let us see—a very curious problem.
A problem not to be solved by mere surface scraping.
Well then?
A thankless and invidious task it may seem to pierce
deeper than the “wolf in Dr. Jaeger’s clothing” of our wittiest
woman and most alluring morphinomane. That task is ours.
For last night in the visions of mine head upon my bed I
beheld, strangely interwoven with this striking picture, the
scene between Little Red Riding Hood and her sick grand-
mother—how perverted! For in my dream it seemed that the
old lady had devoured the wolf and that the scourge of the
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