Ah ! poor Litchfield the Fruiterer. You little knew, Mr North, the sweets
of his delightful shop, or your Magazine would long since have resounded
with “ Luctus” far more lugubrious than those which you have so eloquently
poured over the defunct Sir Daniel. Litchfield’s fate was worse than death.
He was smashed to a jelly by the tutors for what is elegantly termed, “ helping
a lame dog over a stile,” a most charitable act ! The following “ Coronach”
was sung before his door on the night of his transformation by a chorus of
young men and maids, dressed in full mourning, with garlands on their


He is gone from the counter ;1
He is gone from the store-chest, 2
Like his ‡ brother’s prime fount, ere3
Our need was the sorest.4
The fount, re-ap pearing, 5
From the rain-drops shall borrow,6
But to us comes no cheering,7
To Litchfield no morrow !8

‡ This water-spout left off playing, one fine morning, and began, I suppose, to work,
—under ground.
The hand of the suitor9
Takes the girl that is fairest,10
But the voice of the tutor11
Damns sweetmeats the rarest ;12
Each gownsman will pop in13
The shop that is nearest,14
But they sent Jack a trotting,15
When ices were dearest.16
Firm foot on the causeway,17
Sage council within-door,18
Tight hand at a nosegay,*19
How dark is thy windor !20
Like Gog† from the mountain,21
Like the scraps‡ on the river,22
Like the bubble on Ned’s§ fountain,23
Thou art gone, and for ever !24
Wishing health to our circle of acquaintance in the Square,
I am,
Dear North,
Your’s ad infinitum,

* This stave was given out by a maiden from the Land of Cockaigne, whose name is
Miss Georgiana Matilda Hunt.
† The Giants, Gog and Magog, formerly lived on two hills in the neighbourhood,
(which still retain those denominations) each under the shade of an oak tree. They are
not dwelling there at present, and the only memorial of their local habitation is the name,
and some agates found there, about six inches in diameter, which Dr Clarke, with great
plausibility, conjectures to have been worn by them as jewels to their thumb-rings.
‡ I don’t quite understand this wipe.
§ Ned will perhaps say to me, in the words of mine hostess, (for Ned sucks the sweets
of literature) “ which bubble, which bubble, thou knave, thou ? ” Why, sweet Ned, the
whole was a bubble.