Sounding the depths of his capacious intellect, his cogitative faculties were “in cogibundity of cogitation.” He soon rallied with, “How's the generality of things in general?” It was now Uncle Timothy's and Mr. Bosky's turn to be posed! But the interrogator relieved them by suddenly recollecting the object of his mission--“I'm come, Mister Timviddy-” “If, sir, you mean to address me,” said the satirical-nosed gentleman, “my name is not Timwiddy, but-” “Timkins,” interrupted Mr. Muff. “Anything you please,” rejoined Uncle Timothy, with the most contemptuous acquiescence. “Call me Alexander, Wat Tyler, Abelard, Joe Grimaldi, Scipio Africanus, Martin Van Butchell.” “Ve vont quarrel about Christun names, Mister Timtiffin. Plain Timvig vill do for me. The Muffs and all that's a-skin to'em is not over-purtickler about names.” Here the poll parrot, that had been listening to and scrutinizing the intruder from head to foot, struck up the old song, “Don't you know the muffin man! Don't you know his name?” “A comical sort of a bird that is!” remarked the master mason. “I'm come, I say, Mister Tumvhim to fetch you to Mrs. Flumgarten; for she says it's werry mystified, but you gay-looking, dandyfied, middle-aged gentlemen, (Mrs. Flumgarten hates gay-looking, dandified, middle-aged gentlemen,) are awful loiterers by the vay. You can't see a smart bonnet or a pretty turn'd ankle, but you old galhant gay Lotharios must stop and look after'em; and that, she says, is werry low--and the Muffs, Fubsys, and Flumgartens hates vhat's low.” Uncle Timothy made a low bow. “Mrs. Flumgarten von't go to the Museum: she could abide the stuffed birds and monkeys; but she can't a-bear old war-ses, and old bronze-eyes. She hates, too, them Algerine (Elgin?) marbles.” The middle-aged gentleman inwardly rejoiced at Mrs. Flumgarten's antipathies. “And she von't go to the play, for Mrs. Flumgarten hates your acting nonsensical mock stuff; and she don't think she'll go to the Fancy Fair, for Mrs. Flumgarten--it's wery funny that--hates fun.” At this moment, Mr. Bosky's Louis Quatorze clock struck a musical quarter, and the parrot responded with two lines from one of the laureat's lyrics; “Quick! quick! be off in a crack; Cut your stick, or'twill be on your back!” and a tag (the schoolmaster had been abroad in Little Britain!) for which my Lord Mayor--the conservator of city morals and the Thames--would have fined him five shillings. “That Poll parrot swears like a Chrishtun!” Mr. Muff then took hold of Uncle Timothy's arm, adding, “If ye don't make haste, Mrs. Flumgarten vill look as bitter as a duck biled vith camomile-flowers.” Within my solitary bow'r I saw a quarter of an hour Fly heavily along! Mr. Bosky's quarter flew by the “fast flying waggon that flies on broad wheels!”