Chapin, ordinarily, is of reticent habit; but when the company is congenial, a he is in exhilarant mood, his wonderful flow of language and quick perception make him a companion rarely equalled for wit and repartee. On one occasion, when King and Chapin, and a dozen other clergymen were at Tompkins's, as was their wont, Chapin began to rhyme upon the names of those present. Without a moment's hesitation, he ran off the name of each, rhyming it in verse, to the huge delight of the company. Finally, after exhausting that list, the names of absent clergymen were given to the ready poet, and there was not a single failure. At last a clergyman said:—

"I can give you a name, Brother Chapin, to which you cannot make a rhyme."

"Well, what is it?"

"Brother Brimblecomb."

Without a moment's pause, Chapin said:

"There was a man in our town,

His name they called it Brimblecomb;

He stole the tailor's needle and shears,

But couldn't make the thimble come."

Butler's facility in overcoming stubborn words is amusing. For instance:

There was an ancient sage philosopher,

Who had read Alexander Ross over.

Coleridge, on the eve of his departure from Göttingen, being requested by a student of the same class in the university to write in his Stammbuch, or album, complied as follows:We both attended the same college,

Where sheets of paper we did blur many;
And now we're going to sport our knowledge,
In England I, and you in Germany.

Father Prout, in his polyglot praise of rum punch, says:

Doth love, young chiel, one's bosom ruffle?

Would any feel ripe for a scuffle?

The simplest plan is just to take a

Well stiffened can of old Jamaica.

We parted by the gate in June,

That soft and balmy month,

Beneath the sweetly beaming moon,

And (wonth-hunth-sunth-bunth-I can't find a rhyme to month)

Years were to pass ere we should meet;

A wide and yawning gulf

Divides me from my love so sweet,

While (ulf-sulf-dulf-mulf-stuck again; I can't get any rhyme to

gulf. I'm in a gulf myself).

Oh, how I dreaded in my soul

To part from my sweet nymph,

While years should their long seasons roll

Before (nymph-dymph-ymph-I guess I'll have to let it go at that).

Beneath my fortune's stern decree

My lonely spirit sunk,

For a weary soul was mine to be

And (hunk-dunk-runk-sk-that will never do in the world).

She buried her dear, lovely face

Within her azure scarf,

She knew I'd take the wretchedness

As well as (parf-sarf-darf-half-and-half; that won't answer either).

O, I had loved her many years,

I loved her for herself;

I loved her for her tender fears,

And also for her (welf-nelf-helf-pelf; no, no; not for her pelf).

I took between my hands her head,
How sweet her lips did pouch!

I kissed her lovingly and said:

(Bouch-mouche-louche-ouch; not a bit of it did I say ouch!)

I sorrowfully wrung her hand.

My tears they did escape,

My sorrow I could not command,

And I was but a (sape -dape-fape-ape; well, perhaps I did feel like an ape).

I gave to her a fond adieu,

Sweet pupil of love's school;

I told her I would e'er be true,

And always be a (dool-sool-mool-fool; since I come to think of it, I was a fool, for she fell in love with another fellow before I was gone a month).

Hood's Nocturnal Sketch presents a remarkable example of la difficulté vaincue. Most bards find it sufficiently difficult to obtain one rhyming word at the end of a line; but Hood secures three, with an ease which is as graceful as it is surprising:

Even has come; and from the dark park, hark

The signal of the setting sun-one gun !
And six is sounding from the chime-prime time
To
go and see the Drury Lane Dane slain,
Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much such;

Or else to see Ducrow, with wide tide, stride
Four horses as no other man can span;

Or in the small Olympic pit, sit split,
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.

Anon night comes, and with her wings brings things
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung:
The gas up blazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,
About the streets, and take up Pall-Mall Sal,
Who, trusting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves do enter for your cash, smash, crash,
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,
But, frightened by policeman B 3, flee,
And while they're going, whisper low, "No go!""

Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads,
And sleepers grumble, Drat that cat!

Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill will.

Now bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charles, or Billy, willy nilly;

But nurse-maid, in a night-mare rest, chest-pressed,
Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Græmes,
And that she hears-what faith is man's-Ann's banns
And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice;
White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,

That upward goes, shows Rose knows those beaux' woes.

Valentines.

A STRATEGIC LOVE-LETTER.

THE following love-letter, dated in 1661, was sent by Philip, second Earl of Chesterfield, to Lady Russell:

Madam:

The dullness of this last cold season doth afford nothing that is new to divert you; only here is a report that I fain would know the truth of, which is, that I am extremely in love with you. Pray let me know if it be true or no, since I am certain that nothing but yourself can rightly inform me; for if you intend to use me favorably, and do think I am in love with you, I most certainly am so; but if you intend to receive me coldly, and do not believe that I am in love, I also am sure that I am not; therefore let me entreat you to put me out of a doubt which makes the greatest concern of,

Dear Madam, your most obedient faithful servant,

CHESTERFIELD.

(It is the part of a skillful general to secure a good retreat.)

WRITTEN IN SYMPATHETIC INK.

Dear girl, if thou hadst been less fair,

Or I had been more bold,

The burning words I now would write,
Ere this, my tongue had told.

True to its bashful instinct still,

My love erects this screen,

And writes the words it dare not speak

In ink that can't be seen.

CYPTOGRAPHIC CORRESPONDENCE.

A lady wrote to a gentleman thus:

"I shall be much obliged to you, as reading alone engages my attention at present, if you will lend me any one of the Eight volumes of the Spectator. I hope you will excuse this freedom, but for a winter's evening I don't know a better entertainment. If I fail to return it soon, never trust me for the time to come."

The words successively italicized convey the secret invitation.

MACAULAY'S VALENTINE.

The following valentine from Lord Macaulay to the Hon. Mary C. Stanhope, daughter of Lord and Lady Mahon, 1851, is worthy of being preserved for the sake as much of its author as of its own merits:

2 K

Hail, day of music, day of love!
On earth below, and air above.
In air the turtle fondly moans,
The linnet pipes in joyous tones:
On earth the postman toils along,
Bent double by huge bales of song.
Where, rich with many a gorgeous dye,
Blazes all Cupid's heraldry-

Myrtles and roses, doves and sparrows,
Love-knots and altars, lamps and arrows.

What nymph without wild hopes and fears
The double-rap this morning hears?
Unnumbered lasses, young and fair,

From Bethnel Green to Belgrave Square,

With cheeks high flushed, and hearts loud beating,

Await the tender annual greeting.

The loveliest lass of all is mine

Good morrow to my Valentine!

Good morrow, gentle child: and then,

Again good morrow, and again,

Good morrow following still good morrow,

Without one cloud of strife or sorrow.

And when the god to whom we pay

In jest our homages to-day

Shall come to claim no more in jest,
His rightful empire o'er thy breast,
Benignant may his aspect be,
His yoke the truest liberty:
And if a tear his power confess,

Be it a tear of happiness.

It shall be so. The Muse displays
The future to her votary's gaze:
Prophetic range my bosom swells-
I taste the cake-I hear the bells!
From Conduit street the close array
Of chariots barricades the way
46*