it is that before many moments the
delinquent poet was for the most part forgotten.

As the several dishes passed in review, Malachi in charge of the small
arms--plates, knives, and forks--and Todd following with the heavier
guns--silver platters and the like--the talk branched out to more
diversified topics: the new omnibuses which had been allowed to run in
the town; the serious financial situation, few people having recovered
from the effects of the last great panic; the expected reception to
Mr. Polk; the new Historical Society, of which every one present was a
member except St. George and Harry; the successful experiments which the
New York painter, a Mr. Morse, was making in what he was pleased to call
Magnetic Telegraphy, and the absurdity of his claim that his invention
would soon come into general use--every one commenting unfavorably
except Richard Horn:--all these shuttlecocks being tossed into mid-air
for each battledore to crack, and all these, with infinite tact the
better to hide his own and his companions' disappointment over the loss
of his honored guest--did St. George keep on the move.

With the shifting of the cloth and the placing of the coasters--the
nuts, crusts of bread, and finger-bowls being within easy reach--most
of this desultory talk ceased. Something more delicate, more human, more
captivating than sport, finance, or politics; more satisfying than
all the poets who ever lived, filled everybody's mind. Certain Rip Van
Winkles of bottles with tattered garments, dust-begrimed faces, and
cobwebs in their hair were lifted tenderly from the side-board and
awakened to consciousness (some of them hadn't opened their mouths for
twenty years, except to have them immediately stopped with a new cork),
and placed in the expectant coasters, Todd handling each one with the
reverence of a priest serving in a temple. Crusty, pot-bellied old
fellows, who hadn't uttered a civil word to anybody since they had
been shut up in their youth, now laughed themselves wide open. A
squat, lean-necked, jolly little jug without legs--labelled in
ink--"Crab-apple, 1807," spread himself over as much of the mahogany
as he could cover, and admired his fat shape upside down in its polish.
Diamond-cut decanters--regular swells these--with silver chains and
medals on their chests--went swaggering round, boasting of their
ancestors; saying "Your good health" every time any one invited them to
have a drop--or lose one--while a