ere, writes
poetry, improvises, and is a very good old Blunderbore; just the sort of
instrument to make an artesian well with, anywhere. Well, sir, after
dinner, the consul proposed my health, with a little French conceit to
the effect that I had come to Italy to have personal experience of its
lovely climate, and that there was this similarity between the Italian
sun and its visitor, that the sun shone into the darkest places and made
them bright and happy with its benignant influence, and that my books
had done the like with the breasts of men, and so forth. Upon which
Blunderbore gives his bright-buttoned blue coat a great rap on the
breast, turns up his fishy eye, stretches out his arm like the living
statue defying the lightning at Astley's, and delivers four impromptu
verses in my honour, at which everybody is enchanted, and I more than
anybody--perhaps with the best reason, for I didn't understand a word of
them. The consul then takes from his breast a roll of paper, and says,
'I shall read them!' Blunderbore then says, 'Don't!' But the consul
does, and Blunderbore beats time to the music of the verse with his
knuckles on the table; and perpetually ducks forward to look round the
cap of a lady sitting between himself and me, to see what I think of
them. I exhibit lively emotion. The verses are in French--short line--on
the taking of Tangiers by the Prince de Joinville; and are received
with great applause; especially by a nobleman present who is reported to
be unable to read and write. They end in my mind (rapidly translating
them into prose) thus,--

'The cannon of France Rendering thanks
Shake the foundation To Heaven.
Of the wondering sea, The King
The artillery on the shore And all the Royal Family
Is put to silence. Are bathed
Honour to Joinville In tears.
And the Brave! They call upon the name
The Great Intelligence Of Joinville!
Is borne France also
Upon the wings of Fame Weeps, and echoes it.
To Paris. Joinville is crowned
Her national citizens With Immortality;
Exchange caresses And Peace and Joinville,
In the streets! And the Glory of France,
The temples are crowded Diffuse themselves
With religious pat