it has rolled itself away for the purpose, probably, of undergoing another capillary excision. Inquiries have been made at the barbers' and perfumers' shops in the neighbourhood, which, from their number of blocks and heads without brains, ought to know something of musical matters, but I can gain no tidings of the fugitive. An Egyptian Scarabæus in blue onyx, animated by some lively tune, not only crept from under a glass case, but crawled fairly out of my hall-door at the last concert. Should any of my musical visitants have been mounted on its back, like Arion on his dolphin, and an accident have occurred from their crossing the street amid the rush of carriages, I sincerely hope the poor beetle has escaped unhurt. That a Parisian shepherdess in bisquit should take French leave of my mantelpiece, is perhaps natural, and may be attributed to love of home rather than of music; nor is it wonderful that a gold box with Thieves vinegar should abscond, for the present possessor establishes his claim to the perfume by keeping its case:-but I cannot comprehend how a verd-antique pitcher with one ear, and that one hermetically sealed, should be so fascinated as to run off with one of my melodists, and thus deprive me at once of my "friend and pitcher;" nor why so apparently phlegmatic and discreet an inmate as a silver candlestick, should become a "Fanatico per la Musica," and walk off to encounter more melting strains than those to which it was nightly subjected in the performance of its duty. My wife remarks with great originality and shrewd ness, that things cannot go without hands." Not even harpsichords," I replied; "and yet they are constantly going." However, I am a recognised amateur, and of course bound to like music, whatever effects it produces; though I confess I should be better pleased if every visitant were compelled to give a concert in return, by which arrangement our moveables might justify their name, and after performing the tour of our circle, return to their original quarters. At all events I am an inveterate amateur, and therefore I exclaim con amore, and with infinite bitterness-Hail to that bewitching art, which lightens our bosoms as well as our brackets, eases us of our cares and candlesticks, imperceptibly steals away our vexations and valuables, and clears at the same moment our minds and our mantelpieces! PETER PINDARICS. The Poet and the Alchymist. AUTHORS of modern date are wealthy fellows ; 'Tis but to snip his locks they follow The rhimes and novels which cajole us, Not from the Heliconian rill, But from the waters of Pactolus. Before this golden age of writers, Of odes and poems to be twisted For patrons who have heavy purses.- All ticketed from A to Izzard; Like a ropemaker's were his ways, He spun, and like his hempen brother, Kept going backwards all his days. Hard by his attic lived a Chymist, And grubbing in his dark vocation, To find the art of changing metals, Our starving Poet took occasion To seek this conjuror's abode ; Not with encomiastic ode, Or laudatory dedication, But with an offer to impart, For twenty pounds, the secret art, Which should procure, without the pain Of metals, chymistry, and fire, What he so long had sought in vain, And gratify his heart's desire. The money paid, our bard was hurried Crow'd, caper'd, giggled, seem'd to spurn his And cried, as he secured the door, 66 And carefully put to the shutter, Now, now, the secret I implore; For God's sake, speak, discover, utter!" With grave and solemn look, the poet Who still, though bless'd, new blessings crave, That we may all have what we like, The Astronomical Alderman. THE pedant or scholastikos became The butt of all the Grecian jokes ;With us, poor Paddy bears the blame Of blunders made by other folks; Term'd Aldermen, who perpetrate Or Mr. Miller's, commonly call'd Joe. One of these turtle-eating men, When ridicule he meant to brave, Said he was more PH. than N. Meaning thereby, more phool than nave, Though they who knew our cunning Thraso Pronounced it flattery to say so. His civic brethren to express His "double double toil and trouble," And bustling noisy emptiness, Had christen'd him Sir Hubble Bubble. This wight ventripotent was dining With calipee and calipash That tomb omnivorous-his paunch, Inflicting many a horrid gash, To talk astronomy. "Sir," he exclaim'd between his bumpers, 66 Copernicus and Tycho Brahe, And all those chaps have had their day; They've written monstrous lies, Sir,-thumpers !— Move round the sun?-it's talking treason; "But," quoth his neighbour," when the sun Next morning in his former place?" "Ho! there's a pretty question truly !" So much his triumph seem'd to please him ; "Why, blockhead, he goes back at night, And that's the reason no one sees him." |