stand. To witness the truth of this final assertion, I call you to witness the sticks at the door, Where they make it a daily, a 'manly' diversion, To ogle each woman, and sometimes do more, Who passes the hotel that's named by a saint, Where boorish bad manners give room for complaint. Where idlers and loafers, with gamblers a few, Make up for the nonce the St. Nicholas crew. The 'outside barbarians,' I freely confess, Who ogle our faces and ogle our dress, Who spit where we walk as dirty a puddle As bipeds can make when their brains are 'a muddle,'    Do not prove the inside is as dirty as they are, Or else the gods help all the ladies who stay there. Why any prefer in a hotel to stay, Instead of a house of their choosing to own, Is just to avoid all the trouble, they say, That servants to give us are certainly prone, I'm sure if a tyranny more terrible prevails, In Austria or other despotic domain, My memory where most certainly fails, That servants and milliners over us gain, Just here in New York, and the more is the pity, Where Wood is the Mogul that governs the city. 

  

  

       Mrs. Merdle, having “Nibbled a Little” for two Hours at Dinner, retireth       from the Table unsatisfied.     

    “Impatient—oh yes—just the way with you men! I never have time to half finish my eating Ere Merdle is done; such a fidget is then, He'd starve me I think rather 'n miss of a meeting Where brokers preside o'er the fate of the stocks, As Pales presided o'er shepherds and flocks. Now while you are smoking—what nonsense and folly—    I'll go to my room.—don't say No, for I must—    Put on a new dress, with assistance of Molly, And then with a little strong tea and a crust, My strength I may hope for a walk will be able As far as the gate, and a very short ride, To give me a relish again for the table—    What else do we live for in this world beside?”  

  

  

       The Poet Moralizeth—He Discourseth to those who Gorge and Complain.     

    Oh! Kitty Malone—Mrs. Merdle 'tis now—    Was there ever on earth than this, greater folly? Still gorging, while groaning, and swearing a vow, That yours is a case of most sad melancholy. With table that Croesus never had but might covet, You live but to eat and to eat 'cause you love it; And yet while you swallow great 

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