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I am a Cheap Jack, and my own father's name was William Marigold. It was in his lifetime supposed by some that his name was William, but my own father |always consistently said, No, it was William. On which the point I content myself with looking at the argument this way: If a man is not allowed to know his own name in a free country

is he allowed to know in a land of slavery? As to looking at the

argument through the medium of the Register, Willum Marigold come

into the world, before Registers come up much,--and went out of it

too. They wouldn't have been greatly in his line either if they

had chanced to come up before him.


I was born on the Queen's highway, but it was the King's at that

time. A doctor was fetched to my own mother by my own father, when

it took place on a common; and in consequence of his being a very

kind gentleman, and accepting no fee but a tea-tray, I was named

Doctor, out of gratitude and compliment to him. There you have me.

Doctor Marigold.

I am at present a middle-aged man of a broadish build, in cords,

leggings, and a sleeved waistcoat the strings of which is always

gone behind. Repair them how you will, they go like fiddle-strings.

You have been to the theatre, and you have seen one of the violins-

players screw up his violin, after listening to it as if it had been

whispering the secret to him that it feared it was out of order, and

then you have heard it snap. That's exactly similar to my

waistcoat as a waistcoat and a violin can be like one another.

I am partial to a white hat, and I like a shawl round my neck wore

loose and easy. Sitting down is my favorite posture. If I have a

taste in point of personal jewelry, it is mother-of-pearl buttons.

There you have me again, as large as life.