by Marlborough House. I accompanied my mother, who wore, I remember,
yellow brocade, and a wreath of red roses, without feathers. Round
the throne were grouped--the Duke of MARLBOROUGH (who kept in the
background because he had just been defeated at Fontenoy), Lord
PALMERSTON, nick-named "Cupid" by Mistress NELL GWYNNE (a well-known
Court beauty), Mr. GARRICK, and Signor GRIMALDI, two Actors of repute,
and Cardinal WISEMAN, the Papal Nuncio. Her Majesty was most gracious
to me, and introduced me to one of her predecessors, Queen ELIZABETH,
a reputed daughter of King HENRY THE EIGHTH. Both Ladies laughed
heartily at my curls, which in those days were more plentiful than
they are now. I was rather alarmed at their lurching forward as I
passed them, but was reassured when the Earl of ROCHESTER (the Lord
Chamberlain) whispered in my ear that the Royal relatives had been
lunching. As I left the presence, I noticed that both their Majesties
were fast asleep.

I have just mentioned Lord ROCHESTER, whose acquaintance I had the
honour to possess. He was extremely austere, and very much disliked by
the fair sex. On one occasion it was my privilege to clean his shoes.
He had but one failing--he habitually cheated at cards. I will now
tell a few stories of the like character about Bishop WILBERFORCE,
THACKERAY, Mrs. FRY, PEABODY, WALTER SCOTT, and Father MATTHEW.

[No you don't, my venerable twaddler!--ED.]

* * * * *

THE LARGE CIGAR.

[Illustration]

You lie on the oaken mantle-shelf,
A cigar of high degree,
An old cigar, a large cigar,
A cigar that was given to me.
The house-flies bite you day by day--
Bite you, and kick, and sigh--
And I do not know what the insects say,
But they creep away and die.

My friends they take you gently up,
And lay you gently down;
They never saw a weed so big,
Or quite so deadly brown.
They, as a rule, smoke anything
They pick up free of charge;
But they leave you to rest while the bulbuls sing
Through the night, my own, my large!

The dust lies thick on your bloated form,
And the year draws to its close,
And the baccy-jar's been emptied--by
My laundress, I suppose.
Smokeless and hopeless, with reeling brain,
I turn to the oaken shelf,
And take you down, while my hot tears rain,
And smoke you, you brute, myself.

* * * * *

[Illustration: