Beneath the cakes and tarts, and sugar’d treats,
In Mrs. Smelling’s window full of sweets.
BROKE BY A FALL OF THE STOCKS.
Soon sped the letter—thanks to modern plans,
Our English mails run little in the style
Of those great German wild-beast caravans,
Eil-wagons—tho’ they do not “go like ile,”—
But take a good twelve minutes to the mile—
On Monday morning, just at ten o’clock,