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tem Justina libatur," we are to toss off a bumper to every letter of her name, be the idol of my heart as interminable as she pleases in her baptismal application, a Polyhymnia or Sesquipedalia at the least, Bacchus will not look the worse in an Anacreontic for combining his old and new attributes, the vine and the tea plant. Let us try
Fill the Tea-pot, fill!
Round my rosy temples twine
A Tea-leaf wreath, that I may sing
When the whole East proclaim'd him king,
His flushing cheek he wildly press'd,
Fill the Tea-pot, fill!
Give me a nymph whose lengthen'd name
And so on. As I'm an honest man, and a sober, I think these verses, as flowing, bibulous, and hilarious as any that were ever roared over a magnum of Port, or a beaker of Burgundy, to a shrieking set of three-bottle Corinthians. Falstaff and his followers may bluster about their sherries-sack; but I maintain against all impugners, that it will not mount into the brain and fill
it so full of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes as your
"To part her time 'twixt reading and Bohea;
What revolution in taste can be effected without compromising the interests of some individual or other? Here is a Bardolph-faced friend who tells me it will be very hard for him to have the complexion and reputation of drunkenness without its enjoyment; but there is no help for it-he must look his fortunes in the face, and reflect that it is better to
be accused of a vice, being innocent, than acquitted of it, being guilty. Next comes a punster, who trembles lest his occupation should be gone; assuring me that many of his best jokes would never have been relished, had not his half-tipsy auditors been enabled to hear, as well as to see double; and that the only good hit he ever made at a tea-table, was at a Newmarket party, when incautiously burning his fingers by taking up the toast from the fire, and breaking the plate as he let it fall upon the floor, he observed that it was too bad to lose the plate after having won the heat. My dear sir, as Dr. Johnson said upon another occasion, rest your fame for colloquial excellence upon that, and judge from such a specimen what you may hope to accomplish when you become more copiously saturated with Souchong. Writers as well as utterers of good things will be spiritualised and clarified in their intellects, by substituting libations of tea for those of wine; and, as to the averment of the miscalled Teian bard
"If with water you fill up your glasses,
That hurries a bard to the skies."
I hold it to be a pernicious, false, and Bacchanalian heresy, for which he was deservedly choked with a grape-stone. No; your genuine Apollo sits throned upon a pile of tea-chests instead of Parnassus: your authentic Castaly flows from a tea-pot, your legitimate Muses haunt the plantations of Canton. If a man were
naturally so prosaic as to be enabled to say, with Benedick" I can find out no rhyme to lady but baby,—an innocent rhyme," I defy him to persevere in the use of this verse-compelling beverage, without committing poetry. Even a tea-board will convert and stimulate the most inert. Look you there! I am unconsciously lapsing into rhyme-an involuntary Improvisatore!-Tea, I was going to state, inspires such warm poetical desires.-Lo, where it comes again! One would imagine I had dipped my pen in Souchong instead of ink. It absolutely runs away with me, perpetrating bouts rimés in its course, and forcing me to commit to paper the following
ADDRESS TO MY KETTLE.
Leaving some operatic zany
Some learned singers, when they try
They, when their inward feelings boil,
And make a most discordant coil,
You, when you 're chafed, but sing the more;
In silent steam your passions soar,—