e me, never be seduced by any womankind into
enterin' fash'nable society, and moving among the circles of _bong
tong_. (I have been obligated to study French without a master; 'cause
the Upper Ten always talks in bad French, and so a word or two will
slip in onawares, even ven talking to a friend--just as a bad oyster
will sometimes make its way into a good stew, spite of the best
artist.)

I envies you, Samivel. You don't know what a treat it is to me to be
admitted confidentially behind the counter, and to find myself
surrounded once more by these here congenial bivalves. I can't escape
from old associations. Oysters stare me in the face wherever I go.
They're fash'nable, Samivel, and it's about the only think in fash'n
as I reg'larly likes.

The other day we gave a _derjerner_, (that's French for brekfax,
Samivel,) which took place about dinner time, and consisted of several
distinguished pussons of the city, and three or four Hungry'uns as
came over in the last steamer--reg'lar rang-a-tangs, vith these 'ere
yaller anchovies growin' onto their upper lips. The old ooman, or
madame, as she calls herself, was on hand to receive--but I was out of
the way. She was mightily flustered, for she know'd I could talk a
little Dutch, and she wanted me for to interpret with the Hungry'uns.

So she speaks up werry sharp, (the old ooman can speak werry sharp by
times,) and says to my youngest, a boy,--

"Where on airth _can_ your father be?"

"O, daddy's in the sink room," says the young 'un, "a openin'
eyesters."

The whole _derjerner_ bust into a hoss larff--for these Upper Ten
folks, Samivel,--betwixt you and me and the pump, my boy,--ain't got
no more manners than hogs. The child was voted an _ongfong
terriblee_--but it wor a fack. I had went down into the sink room, as
a mere looker-on in Veneer, and I seen one of my _employees_ a making
such botchwork of openin', hagglin' up his hands, and misusin' the
oysters, than I off coat, tucked up sleeves, and went to work, and
rolled 'em off amazin'--I tell you. The past rushed back on me--the
familiar feel of the knife almost banished my dyspepsy--I lived--I
breathed--I vas a oysterman again. Did I ever show you them lines I
wrote into my darter's album? No. Vell, then, 'ere goes:--

TO AN UNOPENED OYSTER.

Thou liest fair within thy shell;
Thy charms no mortal eye can see;
And so, as Lamprey[A] says, of old
Was Wenus lodged--the fairest she.