bination of the smoke and liquids, was beginning to feel extremely amiable and talkative, - made a reflective observation (addressed to the company generally) which sounded like the words "Nunc vino pellite curas, Cras ingens,"* - he was immediately interrupted by the voice of Mr. Bouncer, crying out, "Who's that talking shop about engines? Holloa, Giglamps!" - Mr. Bouncer, it must be observed, had facetiously adopted the ~sobriquet~ which had been bestowed on <VG073.JPG> Verdant and his spectacles on their first appearance outside the Oxford coach, - "Holloa, Giglamps, is that you ill-treating the dead languages? I'm ashamed of you! a venerable party like you ought to be above such things. There! don't blush, old feller, but give us a song! It's the punishment for talking shop, you know." There was an immediate hammering of tables and jingling of glasses, accompanied with loud cries of "Mr. Green for a song! Mr. Green! Mr. Giglamps' song!" cries which nearly brought our hero to the verge of idiotcy. Charles Larkyns saw this, and came to the rescue. "Gentlemen," he said, addressing the company, "I know that my friend Verdant ~can~ sing, and that, like a good bird, he ~will~ --- * Horace, car. i od. vii -=- [74 ADVENTURES OF MR. VERDANT GREEN] sing. But while he is mentally looking over his numerous stock of songs, and selecting one for our amusement, I beg to fill up our valuable time, by asking you to fill up a bumper to the health of our esteemed host Smalls (~vociferous cheers~) - a man whose private worth is only to be equalled by the purity of his milk-punch and the excellence of his weeds (~hear hear~). Bumpers, gentlemen, and no heel-taps! and though I am sorry to interfere with Mr. Fosbrooke's private enjoyments, yet I must beg to suggest to him that he has been so much engaged in drowning his personal cares in the bowl over which he is so skilfully presiding, that my glass has been allowed to sparkle on the board empty and useless." And as Charles Larkyns held out his glass towards Mr. Fosbrooke and the punch-bowl, he trolled out, in a rich, manly voice, old Cowley's anacreontic: "Fill up the bowl then, fill it high! Fill all the glasses there! For why Should every creature drink but I? Why, man of morals, tell me why?"