I am a Cheap Jack, and my own father's name was Willum Marigold. It
was in his lifetime supposed by some that his name was William, but
my own father always consistently said, No, it was Willum. On which
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, how much
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 neither, 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.
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 wiolin-
players screw up his wiolin, 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 as exactly similar to my