ich substituted human beings for lime-burners, and made the elite of
the east end of the mighty metropolis dance by thousands, where nothing
but the top of a thistle ever danced before. There have been more "first
affections" awakened in the rambles through the shades of Rosherville
than in fifty Almacks, and five hundred times more matches in
consequence, than ever took refuge in Gretna; and all this--for a
shilling!

As we neared the pier, I observed a small but elegant yacht, lying to;
with several groups of dark-featured and cloak-covered men listening,
with all the eagerness of foreign gesture, to the brazen harmony. My
Italian _compagnon de voyage_, instantly bounded from his seat, ran to
the ship's side, and held a rapid dialogue with the crew of the little
vessel. They were just from Rome, and were bringing over the newly
appointed Archbishop from the Vatican! The novelty of the voyage did not
seem to agree with the pleasurable faculties of those sons of "Bella
Italia," for nothing could be conceived more deplorable than their
physiognomies.

The scene reminded me of one which I had witnessed at Naples, on the
arrival of the first steam-boat from Rome, conveying the Cardinal Legate
to the Court of his Majesty of the Two Sicilies.

I disdain all the formalities of poetry. Let others prepare their
parchment-bound portfolios, throw their visages into the _penseroso_,
fling their curls back from their brows, unbutton their shirt-collars,
and, thus Byronised, begin. To _me_ all times and places are the
same.--The inspiration rushes on me, and I pour out my "unpremeditated
song" in the original rapture of Bardism!

THE CARDINAL'S VOYAGE.

I have seen some queer things,
Both in people and kings,
Since first I began as a dreamer;
But I ne'er thought to hear
Any thing half so queer
As a Cardinal's trip in a steamer.

I once saw a Rabbi,
The prince of the shabby,
In a gale of wind playing the screamer,
Till we plumped him o'erboard,
Towed along by a cord,
For a bath at the tail of the steamer.

'Tis true, the Chinese
Looked as black as their teas,
When battered by brave Sir John Bremer:
But John Chinaman's slaughter
Was all milk and water,
To the havoc on board of the steamer.

On a coil of the cable,
Right under the table,
With the glass at 500 of Reaumur,
Busy "making his soul,"