O loving pair! as thus I gaze
  Upon the girl who smiles always,
  The little hand that ever plays
    Upon the lover’s shoulder;
  In looking at your pretty shapes,
  A sort of envious wish escapes
  (Such as the Fox had for the Grapes)
    The Poet, your beholder.

  To be brave, handsome, twenty-two;
  With nothing else on earth to do,
  But all day long to bill and coo: 
    It were a pleasant calling. 
  And had I such a partner sweet;
  A tender heart for mine to beat,
  A gentle hand my clasp to meet;—­
  I’d let the world flow at my feet,
    And never heed its brawling.

LXIX.  ON A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.

    This is one of the most popular of the famous Roundabout Papers
    written by Thackeray for the Cornhill Magazine, of which he was
    the first editor.

Where have I just read of a game played at a country house?  The party assembles round a table with pens, ink, and paper.  Some one narrates a tale containing more or less incidents and personages.  Each person of the company then writes down, to the best of his memory and ability, the anecdote just narrated, and finally the papers are to be read out.  I do not say I should like to play often at this game, which might possibly be a tedious and lengthy pastime, not by any means so amusing as smoking a cigar in the conservatory; or even listening to the young ladies playing their piano-pieces; or to Hobbs and Nobbs lingering round the bottle and talking over the morning’s run with the hounds; but surely it is a moral and ingenious sport.  They say the variety of narratives is often very odd and amusing.  The original story becomes so changed and distorted that at the end of all the statements you are puzzled to know where the truth is at all.  As time is of small importance to the cheerful persons engaged in this sport, perhaps a good way of playing it would be to spread it over a couple of years.  Let the people who played the game in ’60 all meet and play it once more in ’61, and each write his story over again.  Then bring out your original and compare notes.  Not only will the stories differ from each other, but the writers will probably differ from themselves.  In the course of the year the incidents will grow or will dwindle strangely.  The least authentic of the statements will be so lively or so malicious, or so neatly put, that it will appear most like the truth.  I like these tales and sportive exercises.  I had begun a little print collection once.  I had Addison in his nightgown in bed at Holland House, requesting young Lord Warwick to remark how a Christian should die.  I had Cambronne clutching his cocked hat, and uttering the immortal La Garde meurt et ne se rend pas.  I had the Vengeur going down, and all the crew hurraying like madmen.  I had Alfred toasting the muffin:  Curtius (Haydon) jumping into the gulf; with extracts from Napoleon’s bulletins, and a fine authentic portrait of Baron Munchausen.