Well—first we played the game of “What is my thought like.” Smile not, sagacious reader—Canning did the same. Several good answers were elicited in the course of the game, among which were the following:—
“Why is a dew-drop like Miss R’s sash?”
“Because it trembles on a flower.”
“Why is fame like a clasp?”
“Because it is all a catch.”
“Why is Mrs. —— like an omnibus?”
“Because we are all carried away by her.”
“Why is my heart like a mirror?”
“Because you can see yourself in it.”
When the game was over, one of the gentlemen took from his pocket a volume of poems, by that Proteus author, “Anon,” of which he happened to have the only copy in the country, and read aloud the following verses, in a voice tremulous with the weight of its own melody and feeling:—