Postlude

THE book is finished! With a sigh,
My pen upon the desk I lay;
The weary task is o'er, and I
Am off upon a holiday,
To Paris, lovely Paris, where
I have a little ventr'-à-terre.[B]
And tho' my verses may be weak,
And call for your severest strictures,
The illustrations are unique,—
I really never saw such pictures!
(At times, in my unthinking way,
I almost hope I never may.)

Footnotes:

[A] Note.—"Lors, dit-on, quand il jouait Handel
Le jeu ne valait pas la chandelle."
[B] Publisher's Reader—"Pied-a-terre"?
Author—Shut up!