In this queer world of puff! The lawyer's gout is soon smok'd out;-- If in the parsons toe It ends in smoke, say simple folk, Just ends his sermon so! The tippler loves his swanky, swipe; The prince, the peer, the beau, A pipe of wine--give me my pipe Of Backy for to blow! No pinch or draught drive care abaft From folks a cup too low, Like the joys, my brave boys! When we a cloud do blow. A penny-postman-like rap at the caravan door was answered by the great Tragedian with “'Open locks whoever knocks!'” And, as the unexpected visitor became visible, he added, “Tom Titlepage! as thou art Tom, welcome; but as thou art Tom and a boon companion, ten times welcome!” The Publisher's compromised dignity looked a trifle offended. He did not half relish being treated so familiarly. “An infernal business this, Mr. Bigstick! The devil waits--the press stands still!” “And why Tom, don't you? Here's a joint stool; sit down and quaff out of Lady Macbeth's gilt goblet. Egad you and the devil are in the nick of time to listen to and carry away such a Chapter of--” Mr. Titlepage. Draw it mild! Mr. Bigstick. As the moonbeams!--Gentlemen, lend me your ears; which, perhaps, you would rather do than your purses! Who steals mine, steals--what he will not grow inconveniently corpulent upon! The Tragedian began to rummage an ancient hair-trunk that looked as raggedly bald as his own scalp; dislodging sceptres, daggers, crowns, spangled robes and stage wigs. In Dicky Gossip's bob * he discovered what he sought for; a dirty, torn, dog's-eared _disjecti membra_. * Suett boasted a recherché and extensive collection of stage wigs, comprising every variety, from the full-bottom, to the Tyburn bob; which unique assortment was unfortunately burned in a fire that happened at the Birmingham Theatre, on Friday, August 13, 1792. This loss gave rise to several smart epigrams, among which were the following. “'Twas sure some upstart Tory in his rigs, Who fir'd poor Suett's long-tail'd race of Wigs; Ah! cruel Tory, thus his all to take, Nor leave him one e'en for a hair-breadth 'scape.” “Raise your subscriptions, every free-born soul-- Stript of his wigs--behold a suffering Pole” Dicky answered the doggrel, in a jingle of his own. “Well--well may you joke, who perhaps have a wig, But my loss is severe tho', for all this here gig; For if spouse is dispos'd or to wrangle or box, Alas! what will keep her from combing my locks? My fortune's too ruin'd, as well as renown, For in losing my wigs--I am stripp'd to a crown!”