Our host, Uncle Tim, does the banquet prepare, An Olla Podrida of Bartlemy Fair! Ye lovers of mirth, eccentricity, whim, Fill a glass to the health of our host, Uncle Tim. And when you have fill'd, O! dismiss from your mind Whatever is selfish, ungrateful, unkind; Let gentle humanity rise to the brim, And then, if you please, you may toast Uncle Tim! You need not be told that the wine must be old, As sparkling and bright as his wit and his whim; Of clear rosy hue, and generous too, Like the cheek and the heart of our friend, Uncle Tim! So now stir the fire, let business retire, The door shut on Mammon, we'll have none of him! But tell the sly fox, when he quietly knocks, We are only at home to thy Tome, Uncle Tim! Mr. Bosky trimmed the lamp, drew the curtains, wheeled round the sofa, opened the morocco-bound manuscript, and began. But Mr. Bosky's beginning must stand at the head of our next chapter. CHAPTER XIV. |Garrick never introduced a hero upon the scene without a flourish of trumpets,--nor shall we. “Bid Harlequino decorate the stage With all magnificence of decoration-- Giants and giantesses, dwarfs and pigmies, Songs, dances, music, in their amplest order. Mimes, pantomimes, and all the mimic motion Of scene deceptiovisive and sublime!” For St. Bartholomew makes his first bow in _The Ancient Records of the Rounds_.