Norfolk to his dogs. They were admitted to the apartment in
which his Grace dined; and he often selected the fine cuts from
joints at table, and threw the pieces to the curs upon the
polished oak floors of Aruudel Castle.

In the autumn of 1831, Jerry's health began to decline, and he was
accordingly removed from Charing Cross to the suburban salubrity of the
Surrey Zoological Gardens. All was of no avail: though, as a biographer
would say of a nobler animal, every remedy was tried to restore him to
health. Life's fitful fever was well nigh over with him, and in the
month of December last--he died. His body was opened and examined, when
it appeared that his death was through old age; and, although he had
been a free liver, and, as Mr. Cross facetely observes, "was not a
member of a Temperance Society," his internal organization did not seem
to have suffered in the way usually consequent upon hard drinking.
Perhaps a few ascetic advocates of cant and care-wearing abstinence will
think that we ought to conceal this exceptionable fact, lest Jerry's
example should be more frequently followed. Justice demands otherwise;
and as the biographers of old tell us that Alexander the Great died of
hard-drinking, so ought we to record that Happy Jerry's life was not
shortened by the imperial propensity: in this case, the monkey has beat
the man: proverbially, the man beats the monkey. Jerry had, however, his
share of ailment: he had been a martyr to that love-pain, the
tooth-ache; several of his large molar teeth being entirely decayed.
This circumstance accounted for the gloomy appearance he would sometimes
put on, and his covering his head with his hands, and laying it in his
chair. Poor fellow! we could have sympathized with him from our very
hearts--we mean teeth. Jerry's remains have been carefully embalmed, (we
hope in his favourite spirit,) and are now at the Surrey Gardens; where
the arrival of a living congener is daily expected. Meanwhile, will