Such _would_ have been my reflections; but the accumulated roar of the laughing throng awoke me--when I found that the waiter was snoring very loud in the lobby of the coffee-room. The house had long been shut for the night; and having violated the law, I was obliged to content myself with a broiled bone and a bed at the British--with an extra tumbler of _punch_! [Illustration: COMMENTARY upon the "New Police Act" (N^o.2.) Designed Etched & Published by George Cruikshank June 1st 1841] "ORIGINAL POETRY:" BY THE LATE SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY, KNIGHT, MEMBER OF THE DRAMATIC AUTHORS' ASSOCIATION, FELLOW OF THE PARNASSIAN SOCIETY, &C. * * * * * _Now first printed from the original copies in the handwriting of that popular Author._ EDITED BY LAMAN BLANCHARD. We have considerable pleasure in discharging the duty imposed upon us, of transcribing the MSS. which one of Sir Fretful Plagiary's numerous living descendants has placed in our hands, and of submitting to the public the following specimens of "something new." Whatever may be thought in other respects of these, the latest emanations--or, as some with equal correctness perhaps would say, effusions--of an immortal genius, we unhesitatingly pronounce them to be original. _These poems bear no resemblance to anything ever before offered to the public._ Now this is a declaration which cannot fail to awaken in the reader's mind a strong suspicion that the ideas are mere imitations, and the language a mere echo, of the thoughts and expressions of other poets. In this solitary instance the acute reader will be mistaken in his supposition. There is no one line that can be called an _imitation_--no phrase that can be pronounced an _echo_. Line after line is equally emphatic, interesting, melodious, and--original. This fact we might establish by citing at full length a remarkably novel and curious production of Sir Fretful's, which, with the fineness of Shakspeare and Dryden united, opens thus:-- "Farewell! thou canst not teach me to forget; The power of beauty I remember yet." But we prefer proceeding at once to a strikingly harmonious, and singularly analytical composition, bearing the designation of an ODE TO THE HUMAN HEART. BLIND Thamyris, and blind Mæonides, Pursue the triumph and partake the gale! Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees, To point a moral or adorn a tale[2]. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears, Like angels' visits, few and far between, Deck the long vista of departed years. Man never is, but always to be bless'd; The tenth transmitter of a foolish face, Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest, And makes a sunshine in the shady place.