I’m quite shure our LORD MARE woudn’t do so.  I bleeve as he never has not nothink less than Bank-notes and suvreigns, but allers plenty of ’em.”  “How many dinners does he give during the year?” says he.  “Ah, Sir,” says I, “that’s rayther a staggering qweshun to arnser.  Me and BROWN has often tried our hands at it, but ginerally breaks down about Witsuntide; but I shoud say sumwares about three thowsand, and about twice as many lunchons.”  “Good grayshus!” says the Amerricane, “what a number!” “Yes,” says I, “and so much is they thort on, that p’raps the werry greatest trubbel that has worrited the manly bussoms of Lord SORLSBUBY and all his brother Ministers is the mellancolly fack, that they has bin compelld to decline the LORD MARE’s customery Ministerial Bankwet this year, coz they coudn’t tell for serten whether they would be the Ministers to go to it!  And the LORD MARE to drown his sorrer has gone and berried hisself in the ’art of Scotland!” “What a sad story to be shure!” said my Amerricane, with a sigh!  “Yes, Sir,” I replied, “these are sum of the many trubbels as our werry greatest men has to endewr, and happy is he who does not quiver when he has his arrow full of ’em!” And so we parted.

ROBERT.

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TO MISS AIDA JENOURE.

(ON THE WITHDRAWAL OF “THE MOUNTEBANKS.")

Dear AIDA, good-bye; since it must be, it must; Yet your slaves view your absence from Town with disgust.  For myself, I’d as soon live at Shipston-on-Stour As endure life in London without our JENOURE.  Sprightly Mountebank AIDA, sweet Mistress of Arts, You smiled as you danced yourself into our hearts.  And now from the Strand to the Vale of far Maida There’s only one chorus—­“Come back to us, AIDA!” Les absents, you know the old maxim, ont tort, Wherefore dance yourself back, and be present once more.

* * * * *

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