enjoyed, in transitu, by an exquisite anticipation,
and then forced by a sort of mechanical
action in the thorax down to its long home
below.

There is a frightful panorama, imagined
by Mr. Cruikshank, embodying the descending
stages of degradation induced among the lower
classes by a fatal excess in drink: it is called
The Bottle. I would invite that inimitable
artist to illustrate in a corresponding series the
no less fatal consequences of an immoderate
indulgence in the cheering and inebriating
fluid, the subject of this paper. Let the
inimitable artist style it THE TEAPOT. Let
him deal with his matter progressively. Let
his first plate be The Happy Home— the
abode of peace and innocence, and crochet,
and slipper working, and smoking-cap embroidering,
and quiet enlightenment by that stray
lord of creation, the instructive lay preacher, who
wanders ere yet the tocsin has sounded for
dinner-dressing, tells his simple story, and goes his
way. That is their present stimulant. They
shall look back hereafter, with a pang, to those
hours of easy converse. Second plate: The
Tempter. Miss Jenkinwaters has dropped in—
who has spirits (mark the prophetic significance of
the word)— such lively spirits— and who has been
yesterday— only yesterday, my dears— with Lady
Mary Greymalkin— who (the funniest notion in
the world— 'twill kill her with laughing!) had in
Tea— absolutely Tea! It was the nicest,
prettiest, most comical and diverting idea in the
world! So out of the way— so odd! But these
innocent girls, not yet wholly vitiated by that
corruption in which Miss Jenkinwaters may
be said to be steeped, pause and check
themselves on the brink of a precipice. Yet, soon
follows the playful suggestion of Tempter
Jenkinwaters, to follow in an humble way the
exemplar of the illustrious Lady Mary, and have in
by way of pure joke the vessels and materials
and compound, just for the sake of trying the
thing; the innocent eyes are downcast, the
voice falters; Mephistopheles Jenkinwaters
presses them noisily, laughs away their idle
scruples, goes herself to ring the bell, and the
fatal materials are had in. Third Tableau: The
Gentle Sisters have become Habitual Topers.
Fearing lest the unusual swelling of the grocer's
account should betray their secret practice,
they have recourse to denying themselves small
articles of wearing apparel and ornament,
and devoting the proceeds to the purchase of
the horrid stimulant. A sort of moral
Pawnbroking goes on. The own maid goes out
surreptitiously to establishments which have a
reputation, and brings home choice and costly
growths— green and otherwise. The strength
of the drams is daily intensified. They begin
to laugh at the early indiscretion. The number
of glasses— cups, I mean— is increased daily.
They become seasoned casks— I mean teapots
— no, vessels. The youngest has become
a notorious tea drunkard. She takes her
"morning" before rising, besides numerous
glasses— no, cups— up and down, at
uncertain intervals during the day. She has
already a decayed green-tea look. Her eye is
restless. Public works are suspended: no more
slippers or smoking-caps. She is restless and
unsettled. Last Tableau of all: should portray
the drawing-room after one of these orgies, with
female Bacchantes in possession, and broken-spirited
grey-haired parent with hands uplifted
to heaven, bemoaning the degradation of his
children, as, hardened in guilt, they say,
with brazen effrontery, to their boon sisters,
"Don't mind, it's only papa!" One will
presently thrust a glass— cup, I mean— into his
trembling fingers, and offer to fill him out
drink. They have no shame of the servants;
and those familiars come to and fro with kettles
and urns. Servants! Nay, little infants at the
mother's knee have seething jorums placed in
their tiny fingers, and have a taste for vice
implanted in them at their early age.

To this affecting series (greatly needed) Mr.
Singleman will, with a sad joy, subscribe. On
the principle of the charitable offers occasionally
advertised in the newspapers, he hereby
announces that he will take fifty thousand copies
if anybody else will.

THE SACRED CITY.

THE northern winter was over and gone
From the stormy Scandinavian shore,
And the brief bright summer all brilliantly shone,
And the voice of the tempest was heard no more,
When a galley was launched on the northern seas.
A gallant company she bore,
Sturdy warriors, women meek;
A shout went after them from the shore,
For they were pilgrims bound to seek
                                    The holy city of Asgard.

The holy city of Asgard stands
(So the northern legends tell),
Built by other than mortal hands,
For the Scandinavian gods to dwell
In its mighty palaces.
In the very centre of all the world,
In the eye of the earth it stands alone,
And from thence o'er the trembling nations are hurled
The thunders that issue from Odin's throne
                                       In the holy city of Asgard.

The mightiest mountain the round world owns
Is but a hillock beside that throne,
And thence great Odin's terrible ken
Watches the thoughts and deeds of men,
To him nothing is left unknown.
Around him is gathered his court divine,
The Ases, all gods and goddesses,
In immortal strength and beauty they shine,
Dwelling in endless blessedness,
                                      In the holy city of Asgard.

Thor is there, and Balder, and Tyr,
Freir, Niorder, and Braga, and Loke—
Thirteen gods (so the legends aver)—
Whose aid and protection men should invoke.
And there are goddesses, fair as day,
Frigga, Lara, Eira, Var,
Vora and Sinia, Gefionia and Linia—
Eighteen in all round great Odin's car,
                                     In the holy city of Asgard.

Furthermore, the legend declares
That Odin has not forbidden to men