But hark! a sound is stealing on my ear— A soft and silvery sound—I know it well. Its tinkling tells me that a time is near Precious to me—it is the Dinner Bell. O blessed Bell! Thou bringest beef and beer, Thou bringest good things more than tongue may tell: Seared is (of course) my heart—but unsubdued Is, and shall be, my appetite for food. I go. Untaught and feeble is my pen: But on one statement I may safely venture; That few of our most highly gifted men Have more appreciation of the trencher. I go. One pound of British beef, and then What Mr. Swiveller called a “modest quencher;” That home-returning, I may ‘soothly say,’ “Fate cannot touch me: I have dined to-day.” ODE TO TOBACCO. THOU who, when fears attack, Bid’st them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman’s back Perching, unseatest; Sweet when the morn is grey; Sweet, when they’ve cleared away Lunch; and at close of day Possibly sweetest: I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know, are told, Not to thy credit; How one (or two at most) Drops make a cat a ghost— Useless, except to roast— Doctors have said it: How they who use fusees All grow by slow degrees Brainless as chimpanzees, Meagre as lizards; Go mad, and beat their wives; Plunge (after shocking lives) Razors and carving knives Into their gizzards. Confound such knavish tricks! Yet know I five or six Smokers who freely mix Still with their neighbours; Jones—who, I’m glad to say, Asked leave of Mrs. J.)— Daily absorbs a clay After his labours. Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco-juice; Still why deny its use Thoughtfully taken? We’re not as tabbies are: Smith, take a fresh cigar! Jones, the tobacco-jar! Here’s to thee, Bacon! DOVER TO MUNICH. FAREWELL, farewell! Before our prow Leaps in white foam the noisy channel, A tourist’s cap is on my brow, My legs are cased in tourists’ flannel: Around me gasp the invalids— (The quantity to-night is fearful)— I take a brace or so of weeds, And feel (as yet) extremely cheerful. The night wears on:—my thirst I quench With one imperial pint of porter; Then drop upon a casual bench— (The bench is short, but I am shorter)— Place ’neath my head the _harve-sac_ Which I have stowed my little all in, And sleep, though moist about the back, Serenely in an old tarpaulin. * * * Bed at Ostend at 5 A.M. Breakfast at 6, and train 6.30. Tickets to Königswinter (mem. The seats objectionably dirty). And onward through those dreary flats We move, with scanty space to sit on, Flanked by stout girls with steeple hats, And waists that paralyse a Briton;—