you inexpressibly, Money.”  “A Blanquette de Veau, then, if you like, Sir.”  “Blanket de Vo! a cover to lay, indeed, Crowns.  Mem:  inhabitants of Gin stew blankets of the country, and then eat them—­the Alsatians!” “Poultry, Sir, if you desire it.”  “Ah! some hopes there, Money—­What is that you hold?” “A Poularde, Sir.”  “Obliged, Crowns—­no Pull-hard thank you, devilish tough I doubt—­Mem:  fowl called Pull-hard at Gin—­Try again, my man.”  “A Dindon and dans son jus, Sir.”  “Ding dong and a dancing Jew!—­sort of stewed Rothschild, I suppose—­Well! if I don’t mean exactly to starve, I fear I must even venture on the Jew.—­Not bad, by Long—­Mem:  Dancing Jews in sauce capital—­mention that to young G——­, of the Tenth.”  The business of mastication arrested for a moment the sapient remarks of the Impayable, until our notice was again attracted by his leaping from his chair, and cutting divers capers around the room, which, if they did honour to his agility, harmonized but ill with the precisian starchness of his habiliments, the order whereof was grievously derange by his antics.—­“Water! water!  Crowns.—­I have emptied the vinegar cruet by mistake—­Oh Lud! can scarcely breathe—­Water!  Crowns, water! in mercy.”  “It was the Vin du Pays, I assure you, Sir,—­nothing else upon my word.”  “Water! water! oh—­here—­here I have it.”  “No, Sir; I beg—­that is Eau de Cerises—­Kirschen-wasser—­Cherry water.”—­“Any—­any water will do,”—­and, ere Money could arrest his hand, the water-sembling but fiery fluid, the ardent spirit of the cherry, had been swallowed at a draught.  He gaped and gasped for breath—­he groaned and writhed in torment—­and, borne out in the arms of Crowns and his men, the spirit-stirring Dandy was removed to bed, whence he arose to return, without delay, to London by the shortest possible road, even with the fear of another fieri facias before his eyes, to descant on vinous acidities, Gin Lakes, and the liver-consuming Spa of Vo.—­New Monthly Mag.

* * * * *

ENCOMIUM MORIAE, OR THE PRAISE OF FOLLY.

  If from our purse all coin we spurn
  But gold, we may from mart return. 
    Nor purchase what we’re seeking;
  And if in parties we must talk
  Nothing but sterling wit, we balk
    All interchange of speaking.

  Small talk is like small change; it flows
  A thousand different ways, and throws
    Thoughts into circulation,
  Of trivial value each, but which
  Combin’d, make social converse rich
    In cheerful animation.

  As bows unbent recruit their force. 
  Our minds by frivolous discourse
    We strengthen and embellish,
  “Let us be wise,” said Plato once,
  When talking nonsense—­“yonder dunce
    For folly has no relish.”

  The solemn bore, who holds that speech
  Was given us to prose and preach,
    And not for lighter usance,
  Straight should be sent to Coventry;
  Or omnium concensu, be
    Indicted as a nuisance.