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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.
Sav. What say you to beautiful Naples ?
Leech. Ay, La Belle Napoli ?

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 ?
Sir C. Inferior to Dublin.
Leech. The Campagna.
Sir C. A great swamp !
Sav. Greece ?
Sir C. A morass !

Leech. Athens ?
Sir C. A bad Edinburgh !
Sav. Egypt?
Sir C. A desert!
Leech. The Pyramids?

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 !


Not have me! Not love me! Oh, what have I said?
Sure, never was lover so strangely misled.
Rejected! and just when I hoped to be blessed !
You can't be in earnest! It must be a jest.
Remember---remember how often I've knelt,
Explicitly telling you all that I felt,
And talked about poison in accents so wild,
So very like torture, you started--and smiled.
Not have me! Not love me! Oh, what have I done?
All natural nourishment did I not shun?

My figure is wasted; my spirits are lost;
And my eyes are deep sunk, like the eyes of a ghost.

Remember, remember—ay, madam, you must-
I once was exceedingly stout and robust;
I rode by your palfrey, I came at your call,
And nightly went with you to banquet and ball.

Not have me! Not love me! Rejected! Refused !
Sure, neyer was lover so strangely ill-used !
Consider my presents—I don't mean to boast--
But, madam, consider the money they cost!


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!
Sure, never was lover so left in the lurch!
My brain is distracted, my feelings are hurt;
Oh, madam, don't tempt me to call you a flirt.

Remember my letters; my passion they told;
Yes, all sorts of letters, save letters of gold;
The amount of my notes, too--the notes that I penned-
Not bank notes—no, truly, I had none to send !

Not have me! Not love me! And is it, then, true
That opulent Age is the lover for you?
'Gainst rivalry's bloom I would strive—'tis too much
To yield to the terrors of rivalry's crutch.

Remember-remember I might call him out;
But, madam, you are not worth fighting about;
My sword shall be stainless in blade and in hilt;
I thought you a jewel—I find you a jilt.



In Broad street buildings, on a winter night,
Snug by his parlor fire, a gouty wight

Sat, all alone, with one hand rubbing
His feet, rolled up in fleecy hose;
With t other be 'd beneath his nose
The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing,

He noted all the sales of hops,

Ships, shops and slops,
Gums, galls and groceries, ginger, gin,
Tar, tallow, tumerie, turpentine and tin;
When, lo! a decent personage in black

Entered, and most politely said-
“ Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track

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,
Nightly beset unguarded doors;
And see, how casily might one

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,
And walk off-thus !''
So said, so done ;-he made no more remark,

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,
But that was when a plain “ Gee wo!"

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 ! Neighsas the engine draws the train,

Nay" here's a pretty start 0 !"

All agriculture 's at a stand,

The railway laborers floor 'em,
For railway shares now plough the land,

Which ploughshares ploughed before 'em.

Twas very

irksome once to dig; Now irksomeness is o'er,

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