An Extract of an overland, Dispatch.

I stare at it from out my casement,

And ask for what is such a place meant.

Byron.

July 29, 1820.

—The queerest of all the queer sights

I've set sight on;—

Is, the what d'ye-call-t thing, here,

THE FOLLY at Brighton

The outside—huge teapots,
all drill'd round with holes,
Relieved by extinguishers,
sticking on poles:
The inside—all tea-things,
and dragons, and bells, t
The show rooms—all show,
the sleeping rooms—cells.

But the grand Curiosity
's not to be seen—
The owner himself—
an old fat Mandarin;
A patron of painters
who copy designs,
That grocers and tea-dealers
hang up for signs:
Hence teaboard-taste artists
gain rewards and distinction,
Hence his title of 'Teapot'
shall last to extinction.

I saw his great chair
into which he falls—soss—
And sits, in his China Shop,
like a large Joss;
His mannikins round him,
in tea-tray array,
His pea-hens beside him,
to make him seem gay.

It is said when he sleeps
on his state Eider-down,
And thinks on his Wife,
and about half a Crown;
That he wakes from these horrible dreams
in a stew;
And that, stretching his arms out,
he screams, Mrs. Q!

He's cool'd on the M—ch-ss,
but I'm your debtor
For further particulars—
in a C letter.

You must know that he hates his own wife,
to a failing;—

And it 's thought, it's to shun her,
he's now gone out

SAILING.