His _Journey to the Fountains of the
Niger_ is generally esteemed highly amusing, if not instructive: it
was knocked off at Highbury; and his _Wanderings in the Mountains of
the Moon_, written in Little Chelsea, has been favourably reviewed by
many well-informed and discriminating organs of literary intelligence,
as the work of a man evidently well acquainted with the regions he
professes to describe.
Where the Happy Jacks are at this moment no one can tell. They have
become invisible since the last clean out. A deprecatory legend has
indeed been in circulation, which professed that Jack was dead, and
that this was the manner in which, on his deathbed, he provided for
his family:--
'Mrs Happy Jack,' said the departing man, 'I'm not afraid of you. You
have got on some way or other for nearly forty years, and I don't see
why you shouldn't get on some way or other for forty more. Therefore,
so far as you are concerned, my mind is easy. But, then, you
girls--you poor little inexperienced poppets, who know nothing of the
world.
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