“Cousin Caddy,” replied Cuddle, rising from his seat, and approaching his host, whose hand he took between both his own; “I rejoice to find so worthy a successor of poor Caddy Caddy, master of Caddy Castle. It would be most pleasing to me, if it were possible, to remain; and, I do protest, that I positively would, were it not for the feelings of Mrs. Watermark,--a most worthy and valuable woman,--who is now, perhaps, sitting on thorns on my account But I feel so grateful to you,--so happy in your society, that I will actually quaff another bumper, previously to taking my stirrup-cup; yea, and truly, were honest Jack Cole--old king Cole, as we used to cadi him, in Caddy Caddy's days,--were Jack here, with his fine bass voice, I would actually proffer a stave or so,--say, for instance, the Dialogue between Time and the Drinkers,--if Tom Horner would chime in, as he used to do when a boy, here, in this very room, with honest Jack, poor Caddy Caddy, and my-self, in times past--Honest Jack! most excellent Jack! rare king Cole! would he were here!” “I should be sorry, cousin,” said the Honourable Charles Caddy, “to have omitted, in my invitation-list, the name of so respectable and staunch a friend of our family, as Mr. Cole, of Colebrook. If I do not mistake, he sits immediately below my friend Wilmot, at the next table; I regret that I have not had an opportunity of making myself more known to him.” “Jack! honest Jack!” exclaimed Cuddle; “old king Cole, here, and I not know it?--Little Jack, that's silent as the grave, except when he thunders in a glee!--Where, cousin? Oddsbird! eh?--Jack, where are you?” “Here am I, Caddy,” replied a diminutive old gentleman, with a remarkably drowsy-looking eye; “I thought you were not going to accost me.” The deep and sonorous tone in which these words were spoken, startled those who sat near old Cole: they gazed at him, and seemed to doubt if the sounds they had heard really emanated from the lungs of so spare and puny a personage. Cuddle crossed his arms on his breast, and exclaimed, “And is it, indeed, my friend Jack Cole?” “Don't you know me, when I speak even?” growled old Cole, “or d'ye think somebody has borrowed my voice?” “'Tis Jack, himself!” cried Cuddle; “honest Jack! and I did not see him!--These glasses I cannot help stigmatizing as an egregious nuisance.” “Well, Mr. Cole, what say you, will you join us?” inquired Homer. “No, sir,” replied Cole; “sing by yourself; one ass at a time is bad enough; but three braying together, are insupportable.” “The same man,--the same man as ever;” exclaimed Cuddle, apparently very much pleased;--“begin, Homer;--you know his way;--he can't resist, when his bar comes. He had always these crotchets;--begin, my boy; I will pledge myself that he falls in with the stream of the tune.”