To those who like to indulge in fanciful comparisons, the festive table, covered with well-freighted decanters, shows itself like a calm sea on which stately ships and rich argosies are sailing along in gallant trim, fearing neither storms, nor shoals, nor rocks; but steer their way among goodly dishes laden with luscious fruits, that stud the bright expanse like so many fertile islands, and form an archipelago of sweets. And, to continue the simile, how many goodly promontories and capes do we discern around! Yonder is a fiery proboscis that serves as a flaming beacon-a moral light-house to warn the inexperienced: not far from this, a mouth that expands itself like some capacious haven. Continuing our course, we come to a nose, a jutting promontory with a mole at its extremity rivalling that of Genoa. There a snowy head meats the eye, reminding us of Etna;-there a face with an eruption that marks it at once, by its fiery appearance, as Vesuvius: yet as men are not deterred from approaching that mountain, so neither is our bon-vivant scared from his crater-in plain prose, his glass-by the fiery glare of his own countenance; or perhaps its reflection serves only to lend a deeper ruby tint to his wine. Let us not be accused of being too

and

Life itself has been compared to a voyage, hence many, interpreting the expression somewhat too literally, have actually steered their course through a Red Sea of port and claret; sailed across a Pacific Ocean of burgundy and champagne; navigated a Rhine whose stream has been genuine Rhenish; and cruized up and down a gulf of choice Malaga; visiting alternately Madeira and the Cape; now touching at the Canaries and now at Oporto or Lisbon;-in short, circumnavigating the whole globe, and studying the geography of different regions, while their bottles circulated round the polished expanse of the mahogany dining-table, that reflected their sunny faces on its countenance. In wine they fancied they had discovered the nectar of the immortals-a Lethe for all the cares and anxieties of human existence. And most assuredly the liquor with which they deluged themselves was often not very dissimilar in its effect from that attributed to that fabled stream; for many have drank till they have forgotton their creditors, their families, and even themselves. It is not, therefore, surprising that they should not have recollected, that, let them

steer with what skill they might,-however they might be favoured with fair breezes and prosperous gales, and escape tempests and squalls, they must finish their voyage in the Dead Sea.

When Death officiates as Butler, as we here see him, and draws the cork, it is from the waters of that horrid lake he pours out the nauseous beverage that all are compelled to drain from his hand. At his bidding the wine-bibber must visit other SHADES than those whither he has often so willingly repaired to partake of the inspiring glass, heedless of the ominous name. The Shades!-what a memento mori in that awfully-sounding word, which is nevertheless daily uttered by so many with so much gaiety! Hardly do they seem to reflect that the grisly spectre will ere long summon them from the wine-vault to that narrow vault where, instead of finding a banquet for their thirsty palates, they must themselves afford a banquet to the worm; to those shades where they themselves will be as shadows, where their glass will be broken, their bottle emptied, no more to be replenished; and their revelry silenced for

ever.

W. H. L.

THE SHADES.

[Allusion having been made in the foregoing article to the well-known "SHADES" at the foot of old London Bridge, but which shady retreat will, ere long, be swept away, that its site may form a part of the entrance to the new one, we take the opportunity of inserting the following trifle, as a memento of that favourite resort, where, like good citizens, we have often paid our devoirs to Bacchus and at the same time admired, with feelings natural to an Englishman, the wealth and commerce of the world borne majestically along on the bosom of " Old Father Thames."]

I SING not of SHADES which they tell of below,
Where Pluto and Proserpine reign;

But I sing of the SHADES Whither wine-bibbers go,
Where a stream of Oporto doth constantly flow-
A Lethe to wash away pain.

The Lethe of Tartarus, poets declare,
Oblivious virtues possess'd;

But the Lethe we mean, metamorphoses care,-
It inspires us to love and to cherish the Fair,
And warms e'en the Anchoret's breast.

The sons of gay Bacchus their nectar here quaff-
And Sorrow, that "thirsty old soul,”

With the children of Momus, delighted, will laugh,
And swear that he ne'er was so happy by half
As when up to his chin in the bowl.

Wine, wine is the balm that assuages our pains;
Come, fill-and the glasses push round;
It cherishes love-so, take courage, ye swains,
And drink while a drop of the cordial remains-
For without it no bliss can be found.

Grim Death for a while shall his dart lay aside, And even old Time shall stand still,

While mortals, enjoying the rich rosy tide,

Shall laugh at " dull Care,”—and, with true civic pride,

Of wine, like the gods, take their fill.

Oh, haste to the SHADES, then, where wine-bibbers

meet,

Oh, haste to that fav'rite resort,

Where, in wet or dry weather, in cold or in heat, All care is forgot in a snug elbow seat,

When of port you have drank a full quart.

M.