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friend of the turtle-soup making terrific play among the pease, his knife darting down his throat. It is all over. We can eat no more.

We are full of Bacchus and fat venison. We lay down our weapons and rest. " Why, in the name of goodness,” says I, turning round to Pillkington, who had behaved at dinner like a doctor ;

But a great rap, tap, tap proclaimed grace, after which the professional gentlemen sang out, “Non Nobis," and then the dessert and the speeches began; about which we shall speak in the third course of our entertainment.

why —?”

III. On the hammer having ceased its tapping, Mr. Chisel, the immortal toast-master, who presided over the President, roared out to my three professional friends, “ Non Nobis ;” and what is called the business of the evening ” commenced.

First, the Warden of the Worshipful Society of the BellowsMenders proposed “ Her Majesty” in a reverential voice. We all stood up respectfully, Chisel yelling out to us to “Charge our glasses.” The royal health having been imbibed, the professional gentlemen ejaculated a part of the National Anthem; and I do not mean any disrespect to them personally, in mentioning that this emineatly religious hymn was performed by Messrs. Shadrach and Meshech, two well-known melodists of the Hebrew persuasion. We clinked our glasses at the conclusion of the anthem, making more dents upon the time-worn old board, where many a man present had clinked for George III., clapped for George IV., rapped for William IV., and was rejoiced to bump the bottom of his glass as a token of reverence for our present Sovereign.

Here, as in the case of the Hebrew melophonists, I would insinuate no wrong thought. Gentlemen, no doubt, have the loyal emotions which exhibit themselves by clapping glasses on the tables. We do it at home. Let us make no doubt that the bellows-menders, tailors, authors, public characters, judges, aldermen, sheriffs, and what not, shout out a health for the Sovereign every night at their banquets, and that their families fill round and drink the same toast from the bottles of halfguinea Burgundy.

“ His Royal Highness Prince Albert, and Albert Prince of Wales, and the rest of the Royal Family,” followed, Chisel yelling out the august titles, and all of us banging away with

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our glasses, as if we were seriously interested in drinking healths to this royal race : as if drinking healths could do anybody any good; as if the imprecations of a company of bellowsmenders, aldermen, magistrates, tailors, authors, tradesmen, ambassadors, who did not care a twopenny-piece for all the royal families in Europe, could somehow affect heaven kindly towards their Royal Highnesses by their tipsy vows, under the presidence of Mr. Chisel.

The Queen Dowager's health was next prayed for by us Bacchanalians, I need not say with what fervency and efficacy. This prayer was no sooner put up by the Chairman, with Chisel as his Boanerges of a Clerk, than the elderly IIebrew gentlemen before mentioned began striking up a wild patriotic ditty about the “ Queen of the Isles, on whose sea-girt shores the bright sun smiles, and the ocean roars; whose cliffs never knew, since the bright sun rose, but a people true, who scorned all foes. 0, a people true, who scorn all wiles, inhabit you, bright Queen of the Isles. Bright Quee — Bright Quee-ee -ee-ee-ee-en awf the Isles !” or words to that effect, which Shadrach took up and warbled across his glass to Meshech, which Meshech trolled away to his brother singer, until the ditty was ended, nobody understanding a word of what it meant; not Oldboy — not the old or young Israelite minstrel his companion - not we, who were clinking our glasses -- not Chisel, who was urging us and the Chairman on —

not the Chairman and the guests in embroidery

- not the kind, exalted, and amiable lady whose health we were making believe to drink, certainly, and in order to render whose name welcome to the Powers to whom we recommended her safety, we offered up, through the mouths of three singers, hired for the purpose, a perfectly insane and irrelevant song.

Why,” says I to Pillkington, 6o the Chairman and the grand guests might just as well get up and dance round the table, or cut off Chisel's head and pop it into a turtle-soup tureen, or go through any other mad ceremony as the last. Which of us here cares for her Majesty the Queen Dowager, any more than for a virtuous and eminent lady, whose goodness and private worth appear in all her acts? What the deuce has that absurd song about the Queen of the Isles to do with her Majesty, and how does it set us all stamping with our glasses on the mahogany?” Chisel bellowed out another toast “The Army ; ” and we were silent in admiration, while Sir George Bluff, the greatest General present, rose to return thanks.

Our end of the table was far removed from the thick of the affair, and we only heard, as it were, the indistinct cannonading of the General, whose force had just advanced into action. We saw an old gentleman with white whiskers, and a flaring scarlet coat covered with stars and gilding, rise up with a frightened and desperate look, and declare that “this was the proudest a-hem moment of his a-hem

unworthy as he was a-hem as a member of the British — a-hem — who had fought under the illustrious Duke of — a-hem — his joy was to come among the Bellows-Menders a-hem - and inform the great merchants of the greatest City of the hum that a British

- a-hem was always ready to do his - hum. Napoleon Salamanca a-hem had witnessed their — hum, haw — and should any other hum — ho — casion which he deeply deprecated haw there were men now around him - a-haw who, inspired by the Bellows-Menders' Company and the City of London — a-hum — would do their duty as a-hum — a-haw

a-hah.” Immense cheers, yells, hurrays, roars, glass-smackings, and applause followed this harangue, at the end of which the three Israelites, encouraged by Chisel, began a military cantata — Oh, the sword and shield – on the battle-field Are the joys that best we love, boy's Where the Grenadiers, with their pikes and spears, through the ranks of the foemen shove, boys Where the bold hurray strikes dread dismay, in the ranks of the dead and dyin' — and the baynet clanks in the Frenchmen's ranks, as they fly from the British Lion.” (1 repeat, as before, that I quote from memory.)

Then the Secretary of the Tape and Sealing-Wax Office rose to return thanks for the blessings which we begged upon the Ministry. He was, he said, but a humble — the humblest member of that body. The suffrages which that body had received from the nation were gratifying, but the most gratifying testimonial of all was the approval of the Bellows-Menders’ Com

(Immense applause.) Yes, among the most enlightened of the mighty corporations of the City, the most enlightened was the Bellows-Menders'. Yes, he might say, in consonance. with their motto, and in defiance of illiberality, Afflavit veritus et dissipati sunt. (Enormous applause.) Yes, the thanks and pride that were boiling with emotion in his bosom, trembled to find utterance at his lip. Yes, the proudest moment of his life, the crown of his ambition, the meed of his early hopes and struggles and aspirations, was at that moment won in the approbation of the Bellows-Menders. Yes, his children should know that he too had attended at those great, those noble, those

same.

joyous, those ancient festivals, and that he too, the humble individual who from his heart pledged the assembled company in a bumper that he too was a Bellows-Mender.

Shadrach, Meshech, and Oldboy, at this began singing, I don't know for what reason, a rustic madrigal, describing,

Oh, the joys of bonny May — bonny May—a-a-ay, when the birds sing on the spray,” &c., which never, as I could see, had the least relation to that or any other Ministry, but which was, nevertheless, applauded by all present. And then the Judges returned thanks; and the Clergy returned thanks; and the Foreign Ministers had an innings (all interspersed by my friends' indefatigable melodies) ; and the distinguished foreigners present, especially Mr. Washington Jackson, were greeted, and that distinguished American rose amidst thunders of applause. He explained how Broadway and Cornhill were in fact the

He showed how Washington was in fact an Englishman, and how Franklin would never have been an American but for his education as a printer in Lincoln's Inn Fields. He declared that Milton was his cousin, Locke his ancestor, Newton his dearest friend, Shakspeare his grandfather, or more or less he vowed that he had wept tears of briny anguish on the pedestal of Charing Cross — kissed with honest fervor the clay of Runnymede - that Ben Jonson and Samuel — that Pope and Dryden, and Dr. Watts and Swift were the darlings of his hearth and home, as of ours, and in a speech of about five-andthirty minutes, explained to us a series of complimentary sensations very hard to repeat or to remember.

But I observed that, during his oration, the gentlemen who report for the daily papers were occupied with their wine instead of their note-books — that the three singers of Israel yawned and showed many signs of disquiet and inebriety, and that my old friend, who had swallowed the three plates of turtle, was sound asleep.

Pillkington and I quitted the banqueting-hall, and went into the tea-room, where gents were assembled still, drinking slops and eating buttered muffins, until the grease trickled down their faces. Then I resumed the query which I was just about to put, when grace was called, and the last chapter ended. • And, gracious goodness!” I said, “ what can be the meaning of a ceremony so costly, so uncomfortable, so savory, so unwholesome as this? Who is called upon to pay two or three guineas for my dinner now, in this blessed year 1847? Who is it that can want muffins after such a banquet? Are there no

poor? Is there no reason? Is this monstrous belly-worship to exist for ever?

Spec,” the Doctor said, “ you had best come away. I make no doubt that you for one have had too much.” went to his brougham. May nobody have such a headache on this happy New Year as befell the present writer on the morning after the Dinner in the City!

And we

WAITING AT THE STATION.

We are amongst a number of people waiting for the Blackwall train at the Fenchurch Street Station. Some of us are going a little farther than Blackwall – as far as Gravesend ; some of us are going even farther than Gravesend - to Port Phillip, in Australia, leaving behind the patrie fines and the pleasant fields of Old England. It is rather a queer sensation to be in the same boat and station with a party that is going upon so prodigious a journey. One speculates about them with more than an ordinary interest, thinking of the difference between your fate and theirs, and that we shall never behold these faces again.

Some eight-and-thirty women are sitting in the large Hall of the station, with bundles, baskets, and light baggage, waiting for the steamer, and the orders to embark. A few friends are taking leave of them, bonnets are laid together, and whispering going on. A little crying is taking place; - only a very little crying, and among those who remain, as it seems to me, not those who are going away. They leave behind them little to weep for; they are going from bitter cold and hunger, constant want and unavailing labor. Why should they be sorry to quit a mother who has been so hard to them as our country has been? How many of these women will ever see the shore again, upon the brink of which they stand, and from which they will depart in a few minutes more? It makes one sad and ashamed too, that they should not be more sorry. But how are you to expect love where you have given such scanty kindness? If you saw your children glad at the thoughts of leaving you, and for ever : would you blame yourselves or them? It is not that the children are ungrateful, but the home was unhappy, and the parents indifferent or unkind. You are in the wrong, under

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