romised
that he would not be absent long, snatched his cap, hurried out of
the room, and I heard his footsteps, as he ran through the silent
quadrangle, and afterwards along the High-street. An hour soon elapsed,
whilst the table was cleared, and the tea was made, and I again heard
the footsteps of one running quickly. My guest suddenly burst into the
room, threw down his cap, and as he stood shivering and chafing his
hands over the fire, he declared how much he had been disappointed in
the lecture. Few persons attended; it was dull and languid, and he was
resolved never to go to another. "I went away, indeed," he added, with
an arch look and in a shrill whisper, coming close to me as he spoke--"I
went away, indeed, before the lecture was finished. I stole away; for it
was so stupid, and I was so cold, that my teeth chattered. The Professor
saw me, and appeared to be displeased. I thought I could have got out
without being perceived; but I struck my knee against a bench, and made
a noise, and he looked at me. I am determined that he shall never see
me again."

"What did the man talk about?

"About stones! about stones!" he answered, with a downcast look and in
a melancholy tone, as if about to say something excessively profound.
"About stones!--stones, stones, stones!--nothing but stones!--and so
drily. It was wonderfully tiresome--and stones are not interesting
things in themselves!"

_New Monthly Magazine._

* * * * *

WAR SONG,

FOR THE ARMY TO BE SENT AGAINST THE EMPEROR OF CHINA.

Come, tie on your bonnet, your shawl, and your boa!
Each proud virgin amazon, onward with me!
Come, rouse for the fight, all ye maids who adore[25]
The flavour of Twankay, Souchong, or Bohea!

Come, clatter the tea-cups, and brandish each spoon,
Beat loudly the tea-tray, the kettle, and urn;
No more for the lover or sweet honey-moon,
But for Twankay and war let your soft bosoms burn!

Shall a petitcoat savage--the horrible bore--
Infringe on our rights, and deny us our tea?
No, no! by the gown which my grandmother wore.
We'll smother the wretch in a chest of Bohea!

Come, launch, by brave maidens, each tea-chest canoe,
And spread out your large Canton crapes to the air;
The kettle sings muster-call--hark! the cats mew!
"Young Hyson"'s the word, the "delight of the fair!"

Great Twining a tea-wreath shall twine for us all--
The faires