“Oh, shameful! shameful!!” exclaimed the vicar: “but I can assure you, that this unfeeling conduct of the publisher had not escaped my notice and indignation; for I lately received a work against the slave-trade, in the fragment of a tract on ‘the Progress of Cant;’ and a Copy of Irving’s Orations, in an act of ‘Much Ado about Nothing;’ and what was still worse,” continued the reverend divine, “a little work on the art of Prognosticating the Weather, was forwarded to me in a chapter of _Daniel’s_ Prophecies.” “But let us quit these melancholy reflections for the present, and proceed with our occupation.” “If you compose the tail of your kite with these papers,” said the vicar, “it will certainly vie with that of Scriblerus himself; you will have a knot of divinity,--a knot of physic,--a knot of logic,--a knot of philosophy,--a knot of poetry,--and a knot of history.” “Never mind, my dear sir; I wager an edition of Virgil, that I shall be able to discover in each page, with which you may present me, some apposite allusion to the _tail_, of which it is to form a part.” “Apposite allusion! impossible; as well might you attempt to connect the scattered leaves of the Sibyl: for example, here is an Epitome of the Roman History.” “Very well,” said Mr. Seymour, “and pray is not that cur_tail_?” The vicar dropped the paper in dismay; the treacherous design of his friend now, for the first time, flashed across his brain with a painful conviction, and he hastily retreated to a distant corner of the library, or “_turned tail_,” as Mr. Seymour jocosely expressed it, in order that he might find shelter from the pelting of a pitiless storm of puns, which he saw, too clearly, was about to burst on his devoted head. On the vicar’s retiring from the table, Mrs. Seymour approached the fatal box, observing, “that it was now her turn to explore the Sibylline cave.” “Here,” said she, “is a list of the prices of some newly published works.” “That,” replied her husband, as he cast a sly glance at the vicar, “is re_tail_: pray, proceed.” “We have next, I perceive, a prospectus for publishing all the speeches in the late parliament.” “That is de_tail_.” Here a deep groan from Mr. Twaddleton arrested the progress of the proceedings, and threw the whole party into a fit of laughter. As soon as tranquillity was restored, Mrs. Seymour again dipped her hand into the box, and drew forth the fragments of a work on Real Property. “That,” said Mr. Seymour, “is en_tail_; pray, _cut it off_, and give it to me.” “We have here,” continued the lady, “the Memoirs of an Italian Bandit.” “Then prepare him for his fate; I have a noose quite ready for his reception.” “Here is a poem, entitled Waterloo.” “I will patronise it,” said her husband; “and I warrant you that, under my auspices, the muse will soar to a greater height than she ever could otherwise have attained.” “We have here, I declare, a part of * * * * [sic] pamphlet.”