the brilliance
of his. Titmouse began to love her very fast. After the ladies had
withdrawn, you should have heard the way in which Tag-rag went on with
Titmouse!--I can liken the two to nothing but an old fat spider and a
little fly.

"Will you come into my parlor?
Said the spider to the fly;"

--in the old song: and it might have been well for Titmouse to have
answered, in the language of the aforesaid fly:--

"No, thank you, sir, I really feel
No curiosity."

Titmouse, however, swallowed with equal facility Mr. Tag-rag's hard port
and his soft blarney; but _all_ fools have large swallows. When, at
length, Tag-rag with exquisite skill and delicacy alluded to the
painfully evident embarrassment of his "poor Tabby," and said he had
"all of a sudden found out what had been so long the matter with her,"
[ay, even this went down,] and hemmed, and winked his eye, and drained
his glass, Titmouse began to get flustered, blushed, and hoped Mr.
Tag-rag would soon "join the ladies." They did so, Tag-rag stopping
behind for a few moments to lock up the wine and the remains of the
fruit, not wishing to subject the servant-boy to temptation by the rare
opportunity afforded by fruit left on the table. Miss Tag-rag presided
over the tea-things. There were muffins, and crumpets, and reeking-hot
buttered toast; and hospitable Mrs. Tag-rag would hear of no denial,
"things had been _got_, and must be _eat_," she thought within herself;
so poor Titmouse, after a most desperate resistance, was obliged to
swallow a round of toast, half a muffin, an entire crumpet, and four
cups of hot tea; after which _they_ felt that _he_ must feel
comfortable; but he, alas, in fact, experienced a very painful degree of
turgidity, and a miserable conviction that he should be able neither to
eat nor drink anything more for the remainder of the week!

After the tea-things had been removed, Tag-rag, directing Titmouse's
attention to the piano, which was open, (with some music on it, ready to
be played from,) asked him whether he liked music. Titmouse, with great
eagerness, hoped Miss T. would give them some music; and she, after
holding out a long and vigorous siege, at length asked her papa what it
should be.

"_The Battle of Prague_," said her papa.

"_Before Jehovah's awful throne_, my dear!" hastily and anxiously
interposed her mamma.

"The Battle," sternly repeated her papa.

"It's Sunday night, Mr. T.," meekly rejoined his