But her favourite warden, could he but sing, He not unlistened, would touch the string, Tho' he was a man with unchisseled face; From eye to eye too little a space; A jester withouten one attic joke, And the greatest liar that ever spoke. 'Bad luck to you, what do you mean by that?' cried Jerry, running towards him. 'I will box you for a shilling!' 'You are not worth one,' exclaimed the minstrel, starting up. 'I will leave your carcase not worth one,' cried Jerry. 'That would be more than your's is worth now,' returned the minstrel. 'For shame, my friends!' cried I. 'Mr. Higginson, I declare your conduct is that of a child.' 'Because you treat me like one,' said he. 'And you treat him like a man.' 'But you should treat him like a gentleman,' said I. 'Well, well, well,' cried the minstrel; 'there is my hand for you, Mr. Sullivan.' 'And there is mine for you,' said Jerry. 'Hand in hand is better than fist to fist at any time.' 'I will defer hearing the remainder of your poem,' said I, 'till you have altered it. But my good friend, do not forget to tell that I inhabit the _eastern_ turret, and to give a full description of it. You might begin thus: He who would view that east turret aright, Must go at rosy-finger'd morning bright.' 'Rosy-fingered morning!' cried Jerry. 'Why, how can the morning have rosy fingers?' 'It has not,' answered I. 'The poets only say so by way of ornament.' 'And yet,' cried Jerry, 'if I had said, when I was telling you my history, that I saw a set of red fingers and thumbs rising in the east every morning, I warrant you would have called me a liar, just as you did about that business of the Pacific Ocean.' 'Why,' said the minstrel, 'we poets are permitted a peculiar latitude of language, which enables us to tell Homeric falsehoods, without fear of the society for discountenancing vice. Thus, when we speak of The lightning of her angel smile, we do not expect one to believe that fire comes out of her mouth, whenever it laughs.' 'Not unless her teeth were flints,' said Jerry. 'But if you said that fire came out of her eyes, one would believe you sooner; for this I know, that many and many a time Molly has struck fire out of mine.' 'A heroine's eye,' said I, 'gives a greater scope to the poet than any thing in the world. It is all fire and water. If it is not beaming, or sparkling, it is sure to be drowned or swimming----' 'In the Pacific Ocean, I hope,' cried Jerry. 'No, but in tears,' said the minstrel. 'And of these there is an infinite variety. There is the big tear, and the bitter tear, and the salt tear, and the scalding tear.' 'And, ah!' cried I, 'how delightful, when two lovers lay cheek to cheek, and mingle these tears; or when the tender youth kisses them from his mistress's cheek!'