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believe they are examining particles of some recently discovered antediluvian remains, which they contemplate submitting to the next meeting of the British Association. Dominoes amuse the ninny because they employ him, and some few men of mind, simply because they do not require their attention.

Chess meets with zealous partisans only amongst good old boys of from fifty to eighty years of age. It is the King of games, but, like most sovereigns, is far more majestic than amusing : hence the disciples of Phillidor's cunning art decrease in number daily. Who can wonder at the King of games losing his influence after the “Ruins of Empires ? ”


Draughts would have disappeared long ago from “this dim speck which men call earth ” were not it and Chess allied to each other like the Siamese twins

Back-gammon, which really has a very vulgar sound in these refined times, fortunately turned its back upon the "great metropolis" about the beginning of the present century. Since then it has never been heard of, except at village clubs, or seen, except behind a screen in the parlour of some old gouty Justice of the Peace, who plays sixpenny games with his prim hearty-looking dame.


Whist is the game à la mode in all good society. Speculation is John Bull's own dear game, but equally a favourite with holy-day masters and misses. Pope Joan is the only Pope acknowledged to be orthodox. Vingt-et-un, (pronounced Van tune !) which has a foreign air, is a favourite with fusby dowagers and old bachelors. Ecarté and Piquet belong to low gamblers ; All-Fours and Cribbage to tap-rooms, especially where there's a cab-stand close by. Beat-my-neighbour-out-of-doors, which, by the way, is anything but neighbourly, is the delight of school-boys ; whilst the antiquated game of Marriage finds admirers only in aspiring youths and despairing old maids.

Billiards is the passion of commercial travellers, students, clerks, shopmen, provincials, and, in fact, of such as are excluded from all society but that to be met with in cigar-divans and billiard-rooms. Unfortunately it is one of those charming games in which a gentleman can only indulge in the country.


The game of “Golden Goose” has still some few admirers, who are to be met with in old farm-houses, and at village shop-keepers' during merrie Christmas time.

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Done into Verse by a "second Daniel " (not) De foe.




Many years back, at a place called Hull,
A little boy lived, who was thought very dull,
Every one called him a shocking numskull;

For he would n't attend,

For relation or friend, To his tasks; but his time would invariably spend,

In amusement and play:

And keep loitering away From his school, on some silly pretence, the whole day, Spite of all that his father and mother could say. His father, indeed, would without hesitation, Have given him full many a sound flagellation ;

But was begged not to do so

By poor Mrs. Crusoe, Who loved little Robinson more than her trousseau ;

And called him her jewel,

And said it was cruel
To beat the poor boy, and that Mr. C. knew so.
So that Robinson, never once minding his lessons,
Of idleness grew up the very quintessence;

Had no Latin but bog.

As papa did n't flog, And for Greek, he knew no more of that than a dog ;

And Toby, in fact, the renowned learned pig,
Could have posed him in all things, except a ship's rig.

But that was a matter,

On which he used smatter, 'Till he'd set his poor father quite mad with his clatter. For both Mrs. Crusoe, poor woman, and he, Had a most insurmountable dread of the sea ;

And deep were the traces,

Of care on their faces,
When he talked about back-stays, and bob-stays, and braces,

Of main-truck and anchor,
And cro-jack, and spanker;
Of cleets and of brails,

Of shrouds and of sails,
Of cat-heads and main-chains, and ring-bolts and dead-eyes,
Till he made the tears flow from his poor

mother's red eyes. And then Mr. Crusoe would kick up a rumpus, And swear he'd his ears box, if he box'd the compass; And then Master Robinson Crusoe would find ’T was the best of his play to be “hauling his wind,”

And steer clear of all

Sea affairs, or he'd fall
In all likelihood very soon in for a squall.


Now as little Crusoe grew up, by degrees he
Read through the adventures of " Midshipman Easy,”
“Tom Cringle," "The Cruise of the Midge,” “The Red

Every sea story, in fact, he skimmed over,
And in them rejoiced as a cow does in clover :
And he knew well besides every nautical song,
Which he sang in a voice as melodious and strong

As a boatswain's hail,

In the midst of a gale,
When the ship under bare poles is scudding along.
Barry Cornwall's ballad “ The Sea, the Sea ;"
'The Rover's Bride,” with the music by Lee;
Campbell's "Mariners of England" too;
“ The Admiral," rather too long to go through ;
Dibdin's “Black-eyed Susan” and “ Harry Bluff,"
And his fifty others ne'er sung enough,
Worth reams of our twaddling modern stuff ;

'Till by singing these,

He began by degrees,
To think himself destined to dwell on the seas;
And determined to give his poor parents the slip,
The first moment he could, and embark aboard ship.

And which burst the first shot with a pleasant recoil,
All to exchange for gold-dust and palm oil ;
For the ship is bound to the Guinea coast,
Where the savages live who their enemies roast;
And much does the captain to Robinson boast

Of the wealth to be made,
In that African trade;

And tries to persuade
Him to join in the cruise,
Which Robinson don't feel inclined to refuse ;

And so he agrees

The occasion to seize, And gets stowed away with the other live-lumber, The day that the vessel sets sail down the Humber; His father and mother not having a notion, That their hopeful young man is gone cruising the ocean.


One day young Robinson chances to meet
A jolly sea captain out in the street ;

Who owns a ship,

On the patent slip, That is just preparing to take a trip, With a cargo of beautiful beads of glass, And chintzes, whose colours the rainbow surpass ;

And nails and hatchets,

And bolts and latchets ; And muskets, that look uncommonly nice, Of Birmingham make, four and sixpence the price,




Over the sea,

Merry and free,
Bounds the bark, with the land on her lee!

Every sail

Spread to the gale,
Still our friend Robinson looks rather pale ;
He's singing " The Sea,” though in spite of a qualm
In his stomach, he hopes that it will get more calm :

But looks rather blue,
When some of the crew
Advise him to stow

Himself quickly below,
And hint that 'tis likely to come on to blow ;
Which Robinson fancies 'tis doing already,
Not thinking the ship can be much more unsteady.

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Evening comes on with her mantle dun,
Down in the billowy wave sinks the sun ;

Down in the wave,

Like a chief to his grave, When he no longer the battle can brave ! Topsails are reefed, and top-gallant-masts struck ; Things do not seem in the very best luck. Twilight from over the waters is gone, Still the old vessel rides gallantly on.

The moon floats high

In the midnight sky, And the vapouring clouds skim hurriedly by. Under her double-reefed topsails now, Slowly her way does the gallant ship plough ; Slowly and heavily rolls she along, Crusoe don 't feel much inclined for a song ; Neither indeed does the captain or crew, All of them now have sufficient to do. All of them feel quite enough in the dumps, Working as hard as they can at the pumps.

Capsizes the ship and all those in it,
All in the space of a single minute ;
Puts an end to their moans,
Their sighs and their groans,
And sends the whole party to old Davy Jones.

Little had Robinson Crusoe conjectured,
When, day after day, by his poor mother lectured,
On keeping his feet well protected from wet,
That his life would depend on that circumstance yet;

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