There is a story of a tyrant, who, to add to the natural torments of starvation, caused a roast chicken to be suspended every day before the prison bars of his victim, until he expired. Just such a tormentor, unwittingly, was Uncle Timothy. For the _garçon_ again appeared, bearing a dish of broiled ham and poached eggs, the sight and aroma of which seared the eye-balls and tantalised the pinched nostrils of the lean man. At the same moment, “Another round for Lady Teaser!” tolled a twopenny knell in his ears. “My friend not arrived yet?” said Uncle Timothy. “No, sir,” replied the _garçon_ slyly, but respectfully. “Let him pay, then, for his want of punctuality. I wait for nobody. Will _you_, sir,” politely addressing the lean man, “do me the favour to be my guest? Though I have ordered supper for two, I cannot command appetite for two.” The lean man stared irresolutely at Uncle Timothy. Hunger and Pride were at fisticuffs; but Hunger hit pride such a blow in the stomach, that Pride gave up the contest. And how gracefully did the middle-aged gentleman play the host! inviting his guest (though little invitation was needed) with the kindest words, and helping him to the daintiest morsels. And it was not until this supper-out of the first lustre had fully indulged his eating propensities, and cleared the board, that he found leisure to look up from his plate, and contemplate the execution he had done. But when a cauliflower-wigged tankard of stout crowned the repast, he pressed it with ecstasy to his lips, and sang joyously-- Porter! drink for noble souls! Raise the foaming tankard high I Water drink, you water think-- So said Johnson--so say I! Let me take a Dutchman's draught-- Ha I--I breathe!--a glorious pull! Malt and hops are British drops-- _Froth for Frenchmen! Stout for Bull!_ If you ask why Britons fight Till they conquer or they die?-- Their stout is strong, their draughts are long-- Now you know the reason why. “Lady Teaser is quite ready, sir,” said the _garçon_, hurriedly. “Give my respectful compliments to Lady Teazle, and tell her ladyship that I'll kiss her superlative 'pickers and stealers' in 'the twinkling of a bed-post.'” The _garçon_ made another precipitate entry, with “The tea-kettle can't wait, sir!” “A fico for the tea-kettle! It must!--it shall! With three rounds of toast buttered on _both_ sides, and coffee _à discretion_, hath the Tumbletuzzy been magnificently regaled--['Marriage is chargeable!')--and shall I not take mine ease in mine inn? Your banquet, sir, hath warmed the cockles of my heart, and made my hair curl!-- When a gentleman's stomach lacks dainty fare, (Singing) And “Cupboard I Cupboard!” it croaks in his ear,