it has rolled itself away for the purpose, probably, of undergoing another capillary excision. Inquiries have been made at the barbers' and perfumers' shops in the neighbourhood, which, from their number of blocks and heads without brains, ought to know something of musical matters, but I can gain no tidings of the fugitive. An Egyptian Scarabæus in blue onyx, animated by some lively tune, not only crept from under a glass case, but crawled fairly out of my hall-door at the last concert. Should any of my musical visitants have been mounted on its back, like Arion on his dolphin, and an accident have occurred from their crossing the street amid the rush of carriages, I sincerely hope the poor beetle has escaped unhurt. That a Parisian shepherdess in bisquit should take French leave of my mantelpiece, is perhaps natural, and may be attributed to love of home rather than of music; nor is it wonderful that a gold box with Thieves vinegar should abscond, for the present possessor establishes his claim to the perfume by keeping its case:-but I cannot comprehend how a verd-antique pitcher with one ear, and that one hermetically sealed, should be so fascinated as to run off with one of my melodists, and thus deprive me at once of my "friend and pitcher;" nor why so apparently phlegmatic and discreet an inmate as a silver candlestick, should become a "Fanatico per la Musica," and walk off to encounter more melting strains than those to which it was nightly subjected in the performance of its duty.

My wife remarks with great originality and shrewd

ness, that things cannot go without hands." Not even harpsichords," I replied; "and yet they are constantly going." However, I am a recognised amateur, and of course bound to like music, whatever effects it produces; though I confess I should be better pleased if every visitant were compelled to give a concert in return, by which arrangement our moveables might justify their name, and after performing the tour of our circle, return to their original quarters. At all events I am an inveterate amateur, and therefore I exclaim con amore, and with infinite bitterness-Hail to that bewitching art, which lightens our bosoms as well as our brackets, eases us of our cares and candlesticks, imperceptibly steals away our vexations and valuables, and clears at the same moment our minds and our mantelpieces!

PETER PINDARICS.

The Poet and the Alchymist.

AUTHORS of modern date are wealthy fellows ;

'Tis but to snip his locks they follow
Now the golden-hair'd Apollo.-
Invoking Plutus to puff up the bellows
Of inspiration, they distill

The rhimes and novels which cajole us,

Not from the Heliconian rill,

But from the waters of Pactolus.

Before this golden age of writers,
A Grub-street Garreteer existed,
One of the regular inditers

Of odes and poems to be twisted
Into encomiastic verses,

For patrons who have heavy purses.-
Besides the Bellman's rhymes, he had
Others to let, both gay and sad,

All ticketed from A to Izzard;
And living by his wits, I need not add,
The
rogue was lean as any lizard.

Like a ropemaker's were his ways,
For still one line upon another

He spun, and like his hempen brother, Kept going backwards all his days.

Hard by his attic lived a Chymist,
Or Alchymist, who had a mighty
Faith in the Elixir Vitæ ;
And though unflatter'd by the dimmest
Glimpses of success, kept groping

And grubbing in his dark vocation,
Stupidly hoping

To find the art of changing metals,
And guineas coin from pans and kettles,
By mystery of transmutation.

Our starving Poet took occasion

To seek this conjuror's abode ;

Not with encomiastic ode,

Or laudatory dedication,

But with an offer to impart,

For twenty pounds, the secret art,

Which should procure, without the pain

Of metals, chymistry, and fire,

What he so long had sought in vain,

And gratify his heart's desire.

The money paid, our bard was hurried
To the philosopher's sanctorum,
Who, somewhat sublimized and flurried,
Out of his chemical decorum,

Crow'd, caper'd, giggled, seem'd to spurn his
Crucibles, retort, and furnace,

And cried, as he secured the door,

66

And carefully put to the shutter,

Now, now, the secret I implore;

For God's sake, speak, discover, utter!"

With grave and solemn look, the poet
Cried-" List-Oh, list! for thus I show it:-
Let this plain truth those ingrates strike,

Who still, though bless'd, new blessings crave,

That we may all have what we like,
Simply by liking what we have!"

The Astronomical Alderman.

THE pedant or scholastikos became

The butt of all the Grecian jokes ;With us, poor Paddy bears the blame

Of blunders made by other folks;
Though we have certain civic sages

Term'd Aldermen, who perpetrate
Bulls as legitimate and great,
As any that the classic pages
Of old Hierocles can show,

Or Mr. Miller's, commonly call'd Joe.

One of these turtle-eating men,
Not much excelling in his spelling,

When ridicule he meant to brave,

Said he was more PH. than N.

Meaning thereby, more phool than nave, Though they who knew our cunning Thraso Pronounced it flattery to say so.

His civic brethren to express

His "double double toil and trouble," And bustling noisy emptiness,

Had christen'd him Sir Hubble Bubble.

This wight ventripotent was dining
Once at the Grocers' Hall, and lining

With calipee and calipash

That tomb omnivorous-his paunch,
Then on the haunch

Inflicting many a horrid gash,
When, having swallow'd six or seven
Pounds, he fell into a mood
Of such supreme beatitude,
That it reminded him of Heaven,
And he began with mighty bonhomie

To talk astronomy.

"Sir," he exclaim'd between his bumpers,

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Copernicus and Tycho Brahe,

And all those chaps have had their day;

They've written monstrous lies, Sir,-thumpers !—

Move round the sun?-it's talking treason;
The earth stands still-it stands to reason.
Round as a globe?-stuff-humbug-fable!
It's a flat sphere, like this here table,
And the sun overhangs this sphere,
Ay-just like that there chandelier."

"But," quoth his neighbour," when the sun
From East to West his course has run,
How comes it that he shows his face

Next morning in his former place?"

"Ho! there's a pretty question truly !"
Replied our wight with an unruly
Burst of laughter and delight,

So much his triumph seem'd to please him ; "Why, blockhead, he goes back at night, And that's the reason no one sees him."