Athens has since then grown to be some town, with an aristocracy composed of a few old maids, who attain the distinction from being the oldest inhabitants, and a poet of its own. The latter has immortalized himself by a poem in the Chatterton obsolete style, on 'Ye Cobwebs in my Attick,' supposed to be an 'Allegory on my Brain,' and from having once astonished one of the very _élite_ of the aristocracy by requesting her to lend him her book, 'On the Dogs of Venice.' Her ladyship assured him that she was not in possession of the volume; but, on his insisting, conducted him to her library, (six shelves, one and a half by four,) where he seized upon a moth-eaten volume, illustrated on the front page by a man of obesity, clad in very flowing robes, and an immense crown, in the act of casting a ring into a black little stream ornamented by six rushes and two swans, with this inscription beneath: 'Venice wedding the Adriatic through the person of her Doge.' A wit having suggested to this votary of the muse that he should compose an epic on the royal canine of Venice, he is now zealously devoting himself to the task, as the literary public are respectfully invited to observe. The Athenians were not long since electrified by the patriotic eloquence of an itinerant Methodist evangelist, who wound up a burst of rhapsodical patriotism with this, climax: 'If this glorious Union is dissolved, what will become of the American Eagle, that splendid bird with 'E Pluribus Unum' in his bill, the shafts of Peace in his talons, and 'Yankee Doodle' tied to his tail?' One more _bon mot_, and I leave Athens to the plaudits of an appreciative public. The Presbyterian divine, running his thin fingers through his thin hair, exclaimed, in a thin voice: 'Brethren! ye are the salts of the earth.' 'The salts,' though as old as the Gospel, have not yet lost their _freshness_.' Exit Athens and fresh salt. * * * * * YE KNIGHT OF YE GOLDEN CYRCLE. A veray parfit gentil knight, Thatte of ye Golden Cyrcle hight, One day yridden forth; But ne to finde a fayre mayde, He went on errants of his trade, To fight or filch ye North. He was a wight of grisly fronte, And muckle berd ther was upon 't, His lockes farre down did laye: Ful wel he setten on his hors, Thatte fony felaws calléd Mors, For len it was and grai. Ilk knight he hadde ne vizor on, His busynes were then undone, All time was for attack; More than, he hadde ne mail, either, But arméd with a revolvér, He like-_Wise_ chawed toback. He sayde his was a mightie hond, Ne better in ye Southron lond To yearn anly battail: Mony a dewel hadde he fought, And put his foe alway to rout, Withouten ony fail.