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Sav. You should go to Switzerland.
Sir C. I have been nothing there--people say so much about everything—there certainly were a few glaciers, some monks, and large dogs, and thick ankles, and bad wine, and Mont Blanc; yes, and there was ice on the top, too; but I prefer the ice at Gunter's-less trouble, and more in it.
Leech. Then if Switzerland would n't do, I'd try Italy.
Sir C. My dear Leech, I've tried it over and over again, and what then ?
Sav. Did not Rome inspire you?
Sir C. Oh, believe me, Tom, a most horrible hole! People talk so much about these things—there 's the Colosseum, now-round, very round, a goodish ruin enough, but I was disappointed with it; Capitol-tolerable high; and St. Peter's -marble, and mosaics, and fountains, dome certainly not badly scooped, but there was nothing in it.
Leech. Come, Coldstream, you must admit we have nothing like St. Peter's in London.
Sir C. No, because we don't want it; but if we wanted such a thing, of course we should have it. A dozen gentlemen meet, pass resolutions, institute, and in twelve months it would be run up; nay, if that were all, we'd buy St. Peter's itself, and have it sent over.
Leech. Ha, ha ! well said, you ’re quite right.
Sir C. Not bad,—excellent watermelons, and goodish opera ; they took me up to Vesuvius-a horrid bore ; it smoked a good deal, certainly, but altogether a wretched mountain ;-saw the crater-looked down, but there was nothing in it.
Sav. But the bay ?
Leech. Athens ?
Sir C. Humbugs !--nothing in any of them! Have done ----you bore me.
Leech. But you enjoyed the hours we spent in Paris, at
any rate ?
Sir C. No; I was dying for excitement. In fact, I've no appetite, no thirst; everything wearies me-no, they fatigue
Leech. Fatigue you !-I should think not, indeed; you are as strong as a lion.
Sir C. But as quiet as a lamb—that was Tom Cribb's character of me: you know I was a favorite pupil of his. I'd give a thousand pounds for any event that would make my. pulse beat ten to the minute faster. --Is it possible, that between
you cannot invent something that would make my blood boil in my veins,—my hair stand on end—my heart beat-my pulse rise—that would produce an excitement-an emotion-a sensation !
THE REJECTED.-T. H. BAYLEY.
Not have me! Not love me! Oh, what have I said?
My figure is wasted; my spirits are lost;
Remember, remember—ay, madam, you must-
Not have me! Not love me! Rejected! Refused !
you 've worn them; and just can it be To take all my trinkets, and not to take me ? Nay, don't throw them at me !—You 'll break-do not startI don't mean my gifts—but you will break my heart!
Not have me! Not love me! Not go to the church!
Remember my letters; my passion they told;
Not have me! Not love me! And is it, then, true
Remember-remember I might call him out;
THE GOUTY MERCHANT.-HORACE SMITH.
In Broad street buildings, on a winter night,
Sat, all alone, with one hand rubbing
He noted all the sales of hops,
Ships, shops and slops,
Entered, and most politely said-
To the King's Head,
And left your door ajar, which I
Observed in passing by, And thought it neighborly to give you notice." * Ten thousand thanks !" the gouty man replied ; • You see, good sir, how to my chair I'm tied ;
Ten thousand thanks! How very few get,
In time of danger,
Such kind attentions from a stranger ! Assuredly that footman's throat is
Doomed to a final drop at Newgate ; And he well knows (the heedless elf !)
That there's no soul at home except myself." “ Indeed!" replied the stranger, looking grave; • Then he's a double kpave:
He knows that rogues and thieves, by scores,
Of these domestic foes,
Even beneath your very nose, Perform his knayish tricks; Enter your room, as I have done;
Blow out your candles-thus, and thus
Pocket your silver candlesticks,
Nor waited for replies,
But marched off with his prize, Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark !
Ah! raillery once was all the go,
We could endure men's banter,
A race run in a canter.
Now canter will not do at all,
Jog-trot is out of fashion ; And even a gallop at the full
Puts people in a passion.
The rail ! the rail ! it's all the rail
When people are departing, They're wretched (n'importe how they're train'd)
Till in a train for starting
The rail ! the rail ! no slow-coach now!
The horse that drew the cart 0 ! Neighs—as the engine draws the train,
Nay" here's a pretty start 0 !"
All agriculture 's at a stand,
The railway laborers floor 'em,
Which ploughshares ploughed before 'em.
irksome once to dig; Now irksomeness is o'er,