II. Lo! with icicled beard Januarius comes! And the blood in his veins is all frozen and gelid, And he beareth a bottle; but TORPOR benumbs Every limb of the saint:—Would ye wish to dispel it? With the hand of good-fellowship grasp the hoar sage— Soon his joints will relax and his pulse will beat quicker; Grasp the bottle he brings—'twill grow warm. I'll engage, Till the frost of each heart lies dissolved in the LIQUOR!
Probatum est. P. Prout.
Water-grass-hill, Kal. Januarii.
PROLOGUE.
For us, and our Miscellany, Here stooping to your clemency, We beg your hearing patiently. Shakspeare, with a difference.
"Doctor," said a young gentleman to Dean Swift, "I intend to set up for a wit."
"Then," said the Doctor, "I advise you to sit down again."
The anecdote is unratified by a name, for the young gentleman continues to the present day to be anonymous, as he will, in all probability, continue to future time; and as for Dean Swift, his name, being merely that of a wit by profession, goes for nothing. We apprehend that the tale is not much better than what is to be read in the pages of Joe Miller.