It's passing sweet, An absolute treat, When friends, long sever'd by distance, meet, With what warmth and affection each other they greet! If there seems any chance of a little cadeau, 66 A " Present from Brighton," or "Token," to show, In the shape of a work-box, ring, bracelet, or so, That our friends don't forget us, although they may go To Ramsgate, or Rome, or Fernando Po. If some little advantage seems likely to start, It's surprising to see how it softens the heart, And you 'll find those whose hopes from the other are strongest, For although it is clear, When abroad, and we have not a single friend near, To encourage the beast, Perhaps thinking" Enough is as good as a feast;" And his "That's a good dog!" into "Down, Sancho, down !" But nothing could stop his mute fav'rite's caressing, As if he had said, "Most beloved of masters, pray, don't go to bed; And kept him awake with his very cold nose; And moaning and pining, Till Blogg really believed he must have some design in Extremely annoy'd by the "tarnation whop," as it 's call'd in Kentuck, on his head and its opposite, Blogg show'd fight; When he saw, by the light Of the flickering candle, that had not yet quite Certain dark-colour'd stains, as of blood newly spilt, He was "wide awake" In an instant; for, when only decently drunk, And hark-what's that?— They have got into chat In the kitchen below-what the deuce are they at ?— Of her wrist, And her great mutton fist, The edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder !- Had not made Blogg perspire Half so much, or a dose of the best James's powder.- * The horrid old ruffian comes, cat-like creeping; And sees, as he fancies, the Bagman sleeping! For Blogg, when he'd once ascertain'd that there was some "Precious mischief" on foot, had resolved to "play 'Possum :". Down he went, legs and head, Flat on the bed, Apparently sleeping as sound as the dead; While, though none who look'd at him would think such a thing, Crept, stealthily still, in, And you'd not have insured his guest's life for a shilling, From what Mr. Jackson reports, I suppose There are few that surpass a flush hit on the nose. Now, had I the pen of old Ossian or Homer, (Though each of these names some pronounce a misnomer, And say the first person Was call'd James M'Pherson, While, as to the second, they stoutly declare He was no one knows who, and born no one knows where,) For the last twenty years, By the lively young Peers, Who, doffing their coronets, collars, and ermines, treat As "prime a Set-to,' And "regular turn-up," as ever you knew ; Not inferior in "bottom" to aught you have read of Detesting"The Gloves;" And, turning, with air most disdainfully mocking, I must leave you to "fancy" The thumps and the bumps, and the ups and the downs, And the taps, and the slaps, and the raps on the crowns, That pass'd 'twixt the Husband, Wife, Bagman, and Dog, As Blogg roll'd over them, and they roll'd over Blogg; While what's called "The Claret" Flew over the garret : Merely stating the fact, As each other they whack'd, The Dog his old master most gallantly back'd; Making both the garçons, who came running in, sheer off, With "Hippolyte's" thumb, and "Alphonse's " left ear off; .Next, making a stoop on The buffeting group on The floor, rent in tatters the old woman's jupon; This desperate fray Might have ended at last, I'm not able to say, In came half a score Of the passengers, sailors, and one or two more It's a great many years ago-mine then were few- She had been, in her day, A First-rate, but was then what they term a Rasée,— The little I know that concerns Navigation, Of a practice which often, in cases of robbing, Was adopted on shipboard-I think 'twas call'd " Cobbing." But I think that a Boot-jack was brought into play- But the system is one Of which Sancho's exploit would increase the facility. But the Frenchman was placed I mean the old scoundrel whose actions we've traced- His consent was the last thing the men thought of asking. Was obliged to go through, With her boys, the rough discipline used by the crew, Who, before they let one of the set see the back of them, "Cobb'd" the whole party,-ay, "every man Jack of them." Moral. And now, Gentle Reader, before that I say Farewell for the present, and wish you good day, If ever you travel, like Anthony Blogg, Be wary of strangers!-don't take too much grog Lastly, don't act like Blogg, who, I say it with blushing, L'Envoye. I felt so disgusted with Blogg, from sheer shame of him, Mind, it's no wish of mine, Is, (a penny will do 't,)-by addressing a line APPENDIX. Since penning this stanza, a learned Antiquary The real "Bermoothes," In the Mediterranean,-now call'd Lampedosa; Have found Prospero's "Staff;" But 'twas useless to dig, for the want of a pick or axe. When he's blown up the whole Royal George at Spit-head, HAVE you, my most feeling, and considerate, and imaginative reader, ever taken an evening lounge, sojourn, saunter, meditation (call it what you will)—in Greenwich Park, on a real summer's evening, when sunlight, and verdure, and decay, harmonize together, and make music to the human heart? If you have, you will know the scene I would bring before you; and if you have not, you will never waste a coming summer. I would speak, moreover, more particularly to the initiated, -to those who have entered the inconvenient doorway, escaping, as it would seem, through triangular iron bars from the scattered flock of cocked-hats on broad gravelled roads, and under great globe-crowned gate-columns, and from silent though frequented cloisters into goodly meads, with hills rising, tree-crowned (pensioner-looking trees!), and with rich old brown-red buildings, yet all the grass, timber, and edifice speaking of other days and other monarchs, all sublimed and sweetly saddened by sunshine and time! In summer, I perhaps could not thus speak of this affectingly-charming, sacred scene; but at the moment when I am writing, the north-east wind has suddenly driven me to winter in the Italy of the mind, we all know that the mind can make its own Italy, and I choose mine, for reasons which will immediately appear, to be in my dear, old, solemn, sun-honoured, colour-chastened, hero-dotted park of Greenwich. Reader! come with me! Let us pay our mite to the Janitor that opens the open gate, and enter. The change is wondrous! very Recently-but an instant ago-we were on the loosest of gravelled roads, amidst a throng of the longest blue-flaps, the "shockingest bad hats," (all, however, three-cornered,) the most irregular apportionment of arms and eyes, the greatest variety of legs obtained from Crooked-lane (save where the leg had put in to wood, when perchance |