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Grave judges there and jokers,

With actors and stockbrokers,
With every sort of person, of high and low degree;

Professor of art fistic,
And preacher ritualistic,

With poet wild and mystic-
At brave London-by-the-Sea.

O’er downs to madly scamper,

Without a care to hamper'Tis just the thing to do you good I think you'll

quite agree:
All worry you are crushing,
Your blood is gaily flushing,

As off you're swiftly rushing-
At light London-by-the-Sea.

With Amazons fast going,

Such tangled tresses flowing,
Such skirts and dainty ribbons in breezes blowing

What joy to canter faster
With beauties of the castor,

As humble riding master,
At smart London-by-the-Sea.

Then frequently there passes

of school lasses, So full of buoyant spirits and of gladsome girlish

glee ;
That when they softly patter
The pavé o'er and chatter,
I'm as mad as any

hatter At fair London-by-the-Sea.

Some take a modest tiffin,
On bun or Norfolk biffin,

At Streeter's or at Mainwaring's, but that will

not suit me;
Though folks may call me glutton
I do not care a button,

But love a lunch with Mutton-
At this London-by-the-Sea.

The flys are slow and mouldy,

As ev'ry one has told ye, Its shrimps by far the finest you could ever wish

for tea;

Its shops are rare and splendid,
Where ev'rything is vended

Till money's all expended
At dear London-by-the-Sea.

If spirits you would lighten

Consult good Doctor Brighton,
And swallow his prescriptions and abide by his

decree :
If nerves be weak or shaken,
Just try a week with Bacon,

His physic soon is taken-
At our London-by-the-Sea.




Paris, March 30, 1832.
OU bid me explain, my dear angry

How I came thus to bolt, without saying

farewell; And the truth is,—as truth you will have, my

sweet railer,

There are two worthy persons I always feel loth To take leave of at starting,—my mistress and

tailor, As somehow one always has scenes with them

both: The Snip in ill-humour, the Siren in tears,

She calling on Heaven, and he on th' attorney,Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his

dears, A young gentleman risks being stopp'd in his

journey: But to come to the point,—tho' you think, I daresay, That 'tis debt or the cholera drives me away, 'Pon honour you're wrong;—such a mere bagatelle

As a pestilence, nobody, now-a-days, fears: And the fact is, my love, I'm thus bolting, pell

mell, To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers; This deluge of coronets, frightful to think of, Which England is now, for her sins, on the brink of, This coinage of nobles,-coin'd, all of them, badly, And sure to bring Counts to a discount most sadly.

Only think, to have Lords overrunning the nation,
As plenty as frogs in a Dutch inundation;
No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection,
And tadpole young Lords, too, in every direction,
Things created in haste, just to make a Court list of,
Two legs and a coronet all they consist of!

The prospect's quite frightful, and what Sir George

Rose (My particular friend) says is perfectly true, That so dire the alternative, nobody knows, 'Twixt the Peers and the Pestilence, what he's And Sir George even doubts,-could he choose

to do;

his disorder,– 'Twixt coffin and coronet, which he would order.

This being the case, why, I thought, my dear

Emma, 'Twere best to fight shy of so curst a dilemma; And tho' I confess myself somewhat a villain

To 've left idol mio without an addio, Console your sweet heart, and, a week hence, from

Milan I'll send you—some news of Bellini's last trio.

N.B. Have just pack'd up my travelling set-out,
Things a tourist in Italy can't go without-
Viz., a pair of gants gras, from old Houbigant's

shop, Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis might

chap. Small presents for ladies, -and nothing so wheedles The creatures abroad as your golden-eyed needles. A neat pocket Horace, by which folks are cozen'd, To think one knows Latin, when—one, perhaps,


With some little book about heathen mythology,
Nothing on earth being half such a bore as
Not knowing the difference 'twixt Virgins and

Once more, love, farewell, best regards to the girls,
And mind
you beware of damp feet and new Earls.





EAR Exile, I was proud to get

Your rhyme, I've laid it up in


You know that you are all to “Pet,”She fear'd that she was quite forgotten! Mamma, who scolds me when I

mope, Insists, and she is wise as gentle, That I am still in love! I hope That you

feel rather sentimental! Perhaps you think your Love forlore

Should pine unless her slave be with her ; Of course you're fond of Rome, and more

Of course you'd like to coax me thither! Che! quit this dear delightful maze

Of calls and balls, to be intensely Discomfited in fifty ways

I like your confidence, immensely! Some girls who love to ride and race,

And live for dancing, like the Bruens, Confess that Rome's a charming place

In spite of all the stupid ruins ! I think it might be sweet to pitch

One's tent beside those banks of Tiber, And all that sort of thing, of which

Dear Hawthorne’s “quite” the best describer. To see stone pines and marble gods

In garden alleys red with roses ;The Perch where Pio Nono nods ;

The Church where Raphael reposes.

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