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I long to see the cob and “Rob,"

Old Bevis and the Collie ; And won't we read in “ Traveller's Rest!" Home readings after all are best ;

None else seem half so “jolly!”

One misses your dear kindly store

Of fancies quaint and funny;
One misses, too, your kind bon-mot ;-
The Mayfair wit I mostly know

Has more of gall than honey!

How tired one grows of " calls and balls”!

This “toujours perdrix” wearies; I'm longing, quite, for “Notes on Knox;" (.4 propos, l've the loveliest box

For holding Notes and Queries :)

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A change of place would suit my case;

You'll take me ?-on probation ?
As “ Lady-help,” then, let it be;
I feel (as Lavender shall see)

That Jams are my vocation !

How's Lavender? My love to her.

Does Briggs still Airt with Flowers ?Has Hawthorn stubb'd the common clear? You'll let me give some picnics, Dear,

And ask the Vanes and Towers ?

I met Belle Vane. " He's” still in Spain !

Sir John won't let them marry. Aunt drove the boys to Brompton Rink; And Charlie,-changing Charlie, -think,

Is now au mieux with Carry!

And No. You know what “No” I mean

There's no one yet at present:
The Benedick I have in view
Must be a something wholly new,--

One father's far too pleasant.
So hey, I say, for home and you !

Goodbye to Piccadilly;
Balls, beaux, and Bolton Row, adieu !
Expect me, Dear, at half-past two;
Till then,—your Own Fond—MILLY.




EHOLD the last man of the season

Left pacing the park all alone,
He'll blush if you ask him the reason,

Why he with the rest is not gone ? He'll seek


with shame and with sorrow, He'll smile with affected delight ;. He'll swear he leaves London to-morrow,

And only came to it last night! He'll tell


that nobles select him To cheer their romantic retreats, That friends from all quarters expect him

To stay at their elegant seats. Invited by all, then, how can he

Know which he should favour or shun;
He's sure of offending so many,

By paying a visit to one.
He'll say that the Yacht Club implore him

To cruise in their exquisite ships:
That ladies of fashion quite bore him

To join in their wandering trips :


That stewards of all races entreat him

To go to them ; what can he do? So odd


should happen to meet him, So strange as he's just passing through.

In town, in the month of September,

We find neither riches nor rank; In vain we look out for a member

To give us a nod or a frank. Each knocker in silence reposes, In


find One dirty old woman who dozes,

Or peeps through the dining-room blind!

every mansion

Then hence, thou last man of the season ;

Lest fashion the outrage should blab ; Shrink back as if guilty of treason

Within the dark depths of thy cab. If money be wanting, go borrow,

Remain-and thy character's lost ! Go print thy departure to-morrow : “ Sir Linger from Long's to the coast!'





Y Brown has gone away to Greece,

My Robinson to Rome;
My Jones was off to-day for Nice,

And I am still at home.
One friend is on the Tiber,

Another on the Rhone,
The third a bock-imbiber-

And I am all alone.


The Row is dull as dull can

Deserted is the Drive;
The glass that stood at eighty-three

Stands now at sixty-five.
The summer days are over ;

The town, ah, me! has flown
Through Dover or to clover-

And I am all alone.

I hate the mention of Lucerne,

Of Baden and the Rhine;
I hate the Oberland of Berne,

And Alp and Apennine.
I hate the wilds of Norway,

As here I sit and moan-
With none to cross my doorway-

For I am all alone.

Brick streets do not a prison make,

Nor hollow squares a cell;
And so for Memory's pleasant sake,

I'll bear my sorrow well.
My lyre may lose the gladness

That mark'd its former tone;
But, oh! respect my sadness
For I am all alone.



EE Richmond is clad in a mantle of

snow; The woods that o'ershadow'd the

hill, Now bend with their load, while the river below, In musical murmurs forgetting to flow,

Stands mournfully frozen and still,

Who cares for the winter! my sunbeams shall

Serene from a register stove ;
With two or three jolly companions to dine,
And two or three bottles of generous wine,

The rest I relinquish to Jove.

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The oak bows its head in the hurricane's swell,

Condemn’d in its glory to fall:
The marigold dies unperceiv’d in the dell,
Unable alike to retard or impel

The crisis assign’d to us all.

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Then banish to-morrow, its hopes and its fears ;

To-day is the prize we have won ;
Ere surly old age in its wrinkle appears,
With laughter and love, in your juvenile years

Make sure of the days as they run.

The park and the playhouse my presence shall

greet, The opera yield its delight; Catalani may

charm but ten times more sweet, The musical voice of Laurette when we meet

In tête-à-tête concert at night.


False looks of denial in vain would she Aling,

In vain to some corner begone ;
And if in our kisses I snatch off her ring,
It is, to my fancy, a much better thing
Than a kiss after putting one on!


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