464 
Original Foetry, 
[Dec. I, 
While in America, the author conti¬ 
nues, and on the t’rontier of the savage 
country, I heard that amid the Indians 
I should find a compatriot. When I 
arrived among the Cayoogas, a tribe of 
the Cherokee nation, my guide led me 
into a forest. In the middle of this 
forest was a sort of barn, and within this 
barn I beheld a score savages, men and 
women, bedaubed like sorcerers, their 
bodies half-naked, their ears dipt, with 
crow-quills stuck in their hair, and rings 
in their noses. A little Frenchman, 
frizzed and powdered as of yore, in a 
pea-green coat, embroidered waistcoat, 
and ruffled shirt, was scraping a pocket 
violin, and making these savages dance 
Madelon Friquet. Monsieur Violet, 
this was his name, was dancing-master 
to the savages, and was paid for his 
lessons in beaver-skins and bear-hams. 
He had been scullion to general Ptocham- 
baud during the American war. After 
the departure of our army, he remained 
at New-York, resolved to teach the fine 
arts to the Americans. His views ex¬ 
panding with success, this second Or¬ 
pheus carried civilisation into the bosom 
of the wandering hordes of the New- 
world. 
In speaking to me «f the Indians he 
always said : Ces messieures Sauvages, et 
ces dames Sauvages. He praised liigldy 
the lightness of his scholais, and in lact 
I never saw such bounding. Monsieur 
Violet, holding his little fiddle between 
his chin and his breast, began to strum 
the magic instrument, and, calling out in 
Cherokese: To your places! the whole 
troop was marshalled in an instant, and 
began whirling and jumping aloft like a 
band of dremons. 
So much for national genius. 
CAKTEEM. 
Among the thousand-and-one words 
missed in our dictionaries, is the military 
term canteen, or cantine, which is used 
for (1) a tin flat bottle, in which soldiers 
carry liquor on their shoulders; and (2) 
a place in barracks where liquor is served 
out to the soldiery. 
The w'ord is'briginally Italian, cantina^ 
and is in that language used for (1) a cel¬ 
lar, cella vinariuy and (2) a cellaret, ar- 
cula divisa in cellulas. 
In tliis second sense the French bor- 
row'ed the term, applying it to those mi¬ 
litary wine-chests which have progress 
sively dwindled into a canteen. 
ORIGINAL POETRY. 
ON CHAUCER, 
Written In the Tabberdy nc’zv the Talbot Inn, in 
the Borough. 
Ey Dr. Walcott. 
LD jocund bard, I never pass 
The Tabberd, but I take a glass. 
To drink a requiem to thy ghost; 
Where once the pious pilgrims met. 
Companion's boon, a jovial set. 
And ’midst the band a jovial host. 
Well pleas'd I walk the rooms around. 
And think 1 tread on classic ground ; 
Rev’rence each rotten beam and rafter 5 
Fancy I hear your songs of mirth, 
And quips and cranks that once gave birth. 
To many a hearty peal of laughter. 
IVlethinks I see them on the road. 
To Becket’s miracle abode. 
That cleans from Satan’s soot the soul : 
Methinks 1 hear their comic tale. 
Delighting lanes, and hills, and dales. 
And bidding time more gaily roll. 
Shall Shakespeare boast his jubilee; 
And, Chaucer, nought be done for Thee, 
The father of our British Lays ! 
Oh, Bards and Bardliiigs, he, O fie ! 
And Southwark folks, to you I cry, 
Kow are,ye mute in Geofl'ry’s praise? 
Is It reserv’d for me alone. 
To boast how Chaucer’s luerits shone. 
On oark unciassic ground j 
HoW well he touch’d the British lyre. 
And kindled high the Muse’s fire, 
When not a sparkle gleam’d around, 
Oh! let us form a club of fame. 
To hail thy venerable name, 
And let me join the choral throng : 
For Stanzas I’ll invoke the Muse, 
And, consequently, she will chuse, 
My old friend Shield to set the song.* 
Ah ! what tho’ obsolete thy phrase 
Delights no more cur moaern days, 
I love thy genius in each line; 
Like thee 1 strive to please our isle, 
Like thee I court the Muse of smile. 
And wish to leave a name like thine. 
FIRE OF LONDON. 1666. 
The folloTvitig Lines ‘zverc found ^written on a 
blank Leaf in an early Eaition of one of the 
Classics. 
ON THE UNHAPPY CONFLAGRATION OF 
ENGLAND’S METROPOLIS. 
LET teares distill to quenche those fiery 
flames, 
Let eyes be engines to extoll the names 
* We should like to see this idea realised, 
and the Father ot living Poets presiding at 
the Banquet.—EJi/dr, 
Of 
