"'You know,' continued his lordship, 'the achievements of this horse. His deeds belong to history. Fame has taken charge of his glory. But it belongs to me, and to you, my lords and gentlemen, to do honor to his mortal remains! I wished that this lofty courser should have a burial worthy of his great, his immortal deservings. He has _had_ it, my lords and gentlemen, he has HAD it! My cook has fitly prepared him, and you have feasted upon him to-day! Yes, my lords and gentlemen, this repast which you have relished so keenly--these dishes which awakened the so frequent inquiry, 'What animal could be so delicious?'--that animal, my lords and gentlemen, was Tiberius! It is that noble courser whose mortal remains now repose in your stomachs! May your digestions be light!' "At these words the enthusiasm concentrated for a moment--possibly with some vague thought of an immediate resurrection--but with a sudden outburst of 'Hurrahs!' the sentiment took the turn of sublimity, and another glowing bumper was sent to join the departed courser in his metempsychosis." The English papers sometimes get off telling jokes against their neighbors across the Channel, but seldom any thing better than this. Besides, how thoroughly _French_ it is, both in the conception and execution! Its origin could never be mistaken. * * * * * We put on record, in these holiday-times of _imbibition_, these warning stanzas, to guard the reader alike against _cause_ and _effect_: "My head with ceaseless pain is torn, Fast flow the tear-drops from my eye I curse the day I e'er was born, And wish to lay me down and die; Bursts from my heart the frequent sigh, It checks the utterance of my tongue; But why complain of silence?--why, When all I speak is rash and wrong? "The untasted cup before me lies-- What care I for its sparkle now? Before me other objects rise, I know not why--I know not how. My weary limbs beneath me bow. All useless is my unstrung hand: Why does this weight o'ershade my brow? Why doth my every vein expand? "What rends my head with racking pain? Why through my heart do sorrows pass? Why flow my tears like scalding rain? Why look my eyes like molten brass? And why from yonder brimming glass Of wine untasted have I shrunk? 'Cause I can't lift it--for, alas! I'm so pre-pos-ter-ous-ly drunk!" * * * * *