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• "A metaphor taken from the forty-horse power' of a steam-engine. That nad wag, the Reve rend Sidney Smith, sitting by a brother clergyman at dinner, observed afterwards that his dull neighbour had a twelve-parson power' of conversation."

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Py;

A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown On a fool's head-and there is London Town!"

My excellent friend, John Bull, quotes the following incident on Shooter's Hill as bad:-I, Morgan ODoherty, quote it as exquisitely good. Judge between us! I conceive it to be almost, if not altogether, as fine as a certain passage in the life of Ferdinand Count Fathom-of which it is indeed (in so far) a manifest imitation. I think the slang very commendable; and I think, in short, that the little bits I have put in Italics are superb.

"Don Juan had got out on Shooter's

hill;

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"St Ursula and her cleven thousand virgins were still extant in 1816, and may be so yet as much as ever."

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is

That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum

Through Kennington and all the other 'tons,'

Which make us wish ourselves in town at once ;

"Through Groves, so call'd as being void of trees,

(Like lucus from no light;) through prospects named

Mount Pleasant, as containing nought to please,

Nor much to climb; through little boxes framed

Of bricks, to let the dust in at your case, With To be let,' upon their doors proclaim'd;

Through Rows' most modestly call'd 'Paradise,'

Which Eve might quit without much sacrifice ;

"Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and a whirl

Of wheels, and roar of voices, and con

fusion;

Here taverns wooing to a pint of purl,' There mails fast flying off like a delu

sion;

There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl

In windows; here the lamplighter's infusion

Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass, (For in those days we had not got to Gas ;)

"Through this, and much, and more, is the approach

Of travellers to mighty Babylon; Whether they come by horse, or chaise, or coach,

With slight exceptions, all the ways

seem one.

I could say more, but do not choose to encroach

Upon the guide-book's privilege. The

Sun

Had set some time, and night was on the ridge

In thunder, holds the way it can't well Of twilight, as the party cross'd the miss,

bridge.

"The advance of science and of language has rendered it unnecessary to translate the above good and true English, spoken in its original purity by the select mobility and their patrons. The following is a stanza of a song which was very popular, at least in my early days:

'On the high toby-spice flash the muzzle,

In spite of each gallows old scout;

If you at the spellken can't hustle,

You'll be hobbled in making a Clout.

Then your Blowing will wax gallows haughty,
When she hears of your scaly mistake,
She'll surely turn snitch for the forty-
That her Jack may be regular weight.'

If there be any gemman so ignorant as to require a traduction, I refer him to my old friend and corporeal pastor and master, John Jackson, Esq. Professor of Pugilism; who, I trust, still retains the strength and symmetry of his model of a form, together with his good humour and athletic as well as mental accomplishments."

[Observe, this is a note of Byron's, not mine.-M. OD.]

"That's rather fine, the gentle sound of Thamis

Who vindicates a moment too his streamThough hardly heard through multifarious ' damme's.'

The lamps of Westminster's more regular gleam,

The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine

where fame is

A spectral resident-whose pallid beam In shape of moonshine hovers o'er the pileMake this a sacred part of Albion's Isle."

What think you of the ensuing morçeau on Life in London?

"His morns he pass'd in business-which dissected,

Was, like all business, a laborious nothing,

That leads to lassitude, the most infected And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing,

And on our sophas makes us lie dejected, And talk in tender horrors of our loathing

All kinds of toil, save for our country's good

Which grows no better, though 'tis time it should.

"His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons,

Lounging, and boxing; and the twilight hour

In riding round those vegetable puncheons Call'd Parks,' where there is neither fruit nor flower

Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings;

But after all it is the only bower,' (In Moore's phrase) where the fashionable fair

Can form a slight acquaintance with fresh air.

"Then dress, then dinner, then awakes

the world!

Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, then roar Through street and square fast flashing chariots hurl'd

Like harness'd meteors; then along the floor

Chalk mimics painting; then festoons are twirled ;

Then roll the brazen thunders of the door,

Which opens to the thousand happy few An earthly Paradise of Or Molu.'

"There stands the noble Hostess, nor shall sink

With the three-thousandth curtsey; there the Waltz,

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