"But where, my dear sprite, for this age have you been?
Have you plunged in the Danube, or danced on the Seine?
Or have taken in Lisbon your station?
Or have flapped over Windsor your butterfly-wings,
O'er its bevy of beauties, and courtiers, and kings--
The wonders and wits of the nation?"

"No; of all climes for folly, Old England's the clime;
Of all times for fully, the present's the time;
And my game is so plentiful here,
That all months are the same, from December to May;
I can bag in a minute enough for a day--
In a day, bag enough for a year.

"My game-bag has nooks for 'Notes, Sketches, and Journeys,'
By soldiers and sailors, divines and attorneys,
Through landscapes gay, blooming, and briary;
And so, as you seem rather pensive to-night,
To dispel your blue-devils, I'll briefly recite
A specimen-leaf from my diary:--

"'THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER.

"'Through smoke-clouds as dark as a forest of rooks,
The rich contribution of blacksmiths and cooks
From the huge human oven below,
I heard old St. Paul's gaily pealing away;
Thinks I to myself, 'It is Lord Mayor's Day,
So, I'll go down and look at the Show.'