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as rapidly as possible this repast of the body, I hastened to the feast of reason, which I began by reciting a little song of my own composition, entitled

Forgetful Cupid.

A rose one morning Cupid took,

And fill'd the leaves with vows of love,
When zephyr passing fann'd the book,
And wafted oaths and leaves above.

Seizing his dart, the god then traced
Pledges to Psyche in the sand;
But soon the refluent tide effaced
The fleeting record of his hand.

Quoth Psyche, "From your wing I'll take
Each morn a plume, and you another,
With which new pledges we will make,
And write love-letters to each other."

Cries Cupid," But if every pen

Be used in writing oaths to stay,
What shall I do for pinions, when

I want them both-to fly away?"

I frankly admitted that I thought the flow of these verses somewhat Moore-ish, and observed that they adapted themselves happily to one of the Irish Melodies; when I overheard Miss Caustic whisper to her neighbour, that if I was correct as to the metre, there wanted nothing but different words and sentiments to make it really very like Moore. "Envy does merit like its shade pursue," and we all know Miss Caustic's amiable propensities. If I were to require her to write a better, before she presumed to criticize my production, I fancy she would be condemned to a pretty long silence.

Mr. Scribbleton, a multifarious operator for the theatres, particularly in getting up farces, next favoured us with a comic song, which he assured us was the easiest thing in the world to compose, as it was only to take a story from Joe Miller, versify it, and add a little nonsense by way of chorus, and he had never known the experiment fail. He relied confidently on a double encore for the following, inserted in a forthcoming piece, put into the mouth of a Yorkshireman.

The Smoky Chimney.

Gripe's chimney were smother'd wi' soot and wi' smoke,
But I won't pay for sweeping, he mutter'd:

So he took a live goose to the top-gave a poke,

And down to the bottom it flutter'd.

Hiss, flippity! hiss flappity!

Flippity, flappity, hiss!

Wauns! how cruel, cries one-says another, I'm shock'd—
Quoth Gripe, I'm asham'd on't, adzooks;

But I'll do so no more. So the next time it smoked,
He popp'd down a couple of ducks:

Quaak, flippity! quaak, flappity!
Flippity, flappity, quaak!

At my earnest solicitation, Mr. Schweitzkoffer next recited some farther extracts from "The Apotheosis of Snip." This hero is conducted to the Dandelion Tea Gardens, formerly established in the vicinity of Margate, where he delivers a political harangue, which a part of the company receive in dudgeon, while others supporting the orator, a pelting of stones and general combat ensue, of which the particulars are thus humorously detailed.

Not with more dire contention press'd
The Greeks and Trojans, breast to breast,
When, brandish'd o'er Patroclus dead,
Gleam'd many a sword and lance,
And from their flashing contact shed
Light on his pallid countenance,
Than did these Dandelion wights,
Rivals of Greek and Trojan knights,
Who all as thick and hot as mustard,

O'er Snip, the prostrate, fought and bluster'd.

Nor was that combat so prolific

Of doleful yells and screams terrific ;

For Trojan stout and stubborn Greek,

Tho' wounded, scorn'd to whine or squeak,

While those who were from wounds most safe
Did here most clamorously chafe.
Mothers, aunts, sisters, nieces, grannies,
Always more voluble than man is,
Might here, by their commingled gabble,
Have stunn'd the chatterers of Babel,-
As if their warriors made their doxies
Their vocal deputies and proxies,
And by their better halves confess'd
The feelings they themselves suppress'd-
As when a bagpipe's squeezed behind,
It squeaks by pipe to which 'tis join'd.

Questions, calls, cries, and interjections,
Were intermix'd in all directions;-
Where's Jacky, Harry, Ned, and Billy?—
Come hither, Tummas, or they'll kill ye!—
Good gracious! where is Mr. Wiggins?
Mamma, we can't find uncle Spriggins.
Dear me! that lady's in a swound.:-
Well, ma'am, you needn't tear one's gownd
Jacky, do
you take care of Polly.
O heavens! there's another volley!

O Mr. Stubbs! what shall I do?
Has any lady found a shoe?
Sally's lace veil is gone, I vow—
I'll take my oath 'twas here just now.
Why do you stare at me, good madam?
I know no more of it than Adam.
Why, see, you thoughtless little fool,
You popp'd it in your ridicule.
OI shall ne'er survive the squeedge!
A smelling-bottle would obleege.-
I vow I feel quite atmospheric :-
Salts! salts! she's in a strong hysteric!
O that a person of my station
Should be exposed to such flustration !
You haven't, madam, seen Sir John ?-
Where is my stupid coachman gone?—
Well, goodness me, and lackadaisy !
I'm sure the people must be crazy.
What do you mean, ma'am, by this riot.?
Mean?-why you've almost poked my eye out.
Those parasols are monstrous sharp.--
Ma, that's the man as play'd the harp.
Well, this is Dandelion, is it?!

I sha'n't soon make another visit.

George Crump, the inspired carman, of whose original Muse I have already furnished interesting specimens, having completed a poem entitled "The Skittle Ground," with the exception of the introductory stanzas, applied to me for that difficult portion; and as I was very sure that he would never imitate the discourteousness of Dr. Darwin, who received a similar contribution from Miss Seward, and prefixed it to his Botanic Garden without the smallest acknowledgment, I resolved to gratify his

wish, running over in my mind the opening lines of the most celebrated epics. Virgil's " Arma virumque cano"-Tasso's "Canto l'arme pietose"-Ariosto's "Canto le Donne e' i Cavalieri"-Milton's "Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit," with many other initiatory verses, occurred to my recollection; but Mr. Crump, having intimated at our conversazione that he had himself hit upon a happy exordium, I obtained silence, when he recited the following four lines as his proposed commencement, assuring us that the fact corresponded with his statement, which he considered a most auspicious augury.

While playing skittles, ere I took my quid,

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The Muses I invoked my work to crown;

Descend, ye Nine !" I cried,—and so they did,

For in a trice I knock'd the nine pins down!

It was my intention to have furnished some farther poetical flowers from the literary garland woven at this interesting Symposium, but the recollection of an incident which occurred towards the end of the entertainment actually paralyzes my faculties, and makes the pen flutter in my hand. My father, who is passionately fond of whist, had stipulated for a table in one corner of the room; and for the purpose of tenanting it had invited four or five humdrum neighbours, who could only be called men of letters in the postman's sense of the phrase, although they were perfectly competent to go through the automatical movements of shuffling, cutting, and dealing. After the rubber had been played once over in fact, and twice in subsequent discussion, they prepared to depart, and

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