HIGH TREASON.
March 16. The boy Jones found feasting in the larder at the palace.
Why, what a scandalous piece of disloyalty,
To want to be picking the mutton of royalty!
III.
Tom Gad, my eyes! to his own surprise,
Is learning how to dance;
Wherever he goes, he'll point his toes
As gentlemen do in France:
He'll be the pink of a London beau—
Quite the fashion, and all the go!
7. A wooden spoon presented by an old woman to the Queen.
All the spoons of the nation soon made known their wishes,
To be speedily plunged in Her Majesty's dishes;
Yet 'twas found to be useless to take any more,
For the spoonies at Court were too many before.
14. Reported destruction of the Falls of Niagara.
'Twas said that the Falls, with a terrible din,
Had fall'n from their perch on high;
But now it falls out that they ne'er fell in,
And so 'twas a fals-i-ty.
'Tis shocking to spread such news appallible,
About these Falls, which are still infallible.
Ball practice. Finishing lesson.
High and Low Water
HIGH AND LOW WATER.
A LETTER OF THE LIONS OF LONDON.
"From a Young Lady in Town to her Friend in the Country."
Polite Letter Writer.
I know, my dear Ellen, you think me to blame
For not writing once, since from Clumpsted I came;
But, what with the whirl and confusion of town,
I declare I have scarcely had time to sit down.
We are now in "The Season;" by fashion's blest laws
Always fix'd at this point of the twelvemonth, because
To mope in the country's a terrible thing,
With nothing to watch but the progress of Spring,
As its cowslips and primroses burst from the ground,
And nought but the chirps of the wood-birds resound.
But how different London—one scene of delight!
Sights and concerts by day, balls and operas by night.
And we've all been so happy, so busy, so gay,
With one drawback alone—it has rain'd every day!
You cannot conceive, if 'tis not pointed out,
How quickly in London you travel about;
So I'll tell you, all fabulous narratives scorning,
The various places we saw in one morning!
Our lodgings we left about half after nine,
And, taking a coach, we drove off to the Shrine
Of the Chapel at Bethlehem, whence we could glance
At the fine church of Auch, which you know is in France.
Next, into the famed Polytechnic we dropp'd,
And there, a few minutes, at Canton we stopp'd;
Then quitting this spot, with despatch just the same,
By the route of Pall Mall, into Syria we came
At the Kineorama—a tour rather fleet,
Since to Egypt you pass, without quitting your seat,
From whose ancient relics, time-worn and corroded,
We reach'd St. Jean d'Acre just as it exploded.
(To make my accounts with localities tally,
The fortress I mean overlooks Cranbourne-alley.)
And after we'd travell'd these scenes to explore,
We got home to dine, at our lodgings, by four.
We've attended the second interment of Boney;
We've heard Sophie Loëwe, and seen Taglioni;
Whilst Nisbett and Keeley, in London Assurance,
Have kill'd us with laughter, beyond all endurance.
With respect to Haitzinger and Stoeckel Heinefetter,
We fearlessly state, we have heard many better
Amongst our own people, deserving more praise,
Not omitting the young Infant Sappho, whose lays
Forced a cockney to state, against euphony sinning,
Entranced by her strains, that "her vays vas quite vinning!"
We climb'd up the stairs to the Monument top,
But it pour'd so with rain that Papa wouldn't stop.
We saw nought but the Thames and the fog, I declare,
Or, as Tom quoted, "nil nisi pontus et aer."
So we went to the Tunnel, because, as Pa said,
There, at least, we should have a dry roof o'er our head;
But we very soon found, to our horror and fright,
That the river, presuming it still had a right
To keep its own bed, and annoy'd at intrusion,
Broke in all at once, to our utter confusion,
And, had we not flown at the top of our speed,
You ne'er would have had this epistle to read.
But I find I have come to the end of my sheet,
And the postman is ringing his bell in the street;
So, with hundreds of kisses, I'll finish forthwith.
Believe me, love,
toujours à toi,
Mary Smith.