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OUT OF DATE us a few tickets for the Masquerade, or will you take some for the benefit Concert?" Such was the order of the day, and my round of amusements. Angelo, with a good cook, and a full cellar, was almost an Angelo indeed to youths with keen appetites and trencher friends; but, when out of date, might go al Diavolo, and shake himself. How often have I sauntered down Bond Street, St. James's Street, and Pall Mall, in search of side dishes at my table, id est, for stray friends, and those to whom roast beef and bright port might be an object, to edge in round my dinner table. That was the time of day; but now "You have really the advantage of me, when had I the pleasure of seeing you? My memory really betrays me as to your name" (and well it is, if not betrayed for thee). “I quite forget your face." This is the language of the almanack of other years, of the Angelo out of date; but it is more the altered features of the case than of the face which produce this species of oblivion, of "friend remembering not.' But I am not going to turn old proser, or quarrel with the world. No! I shall rather tell a short story of an impudent guest of mine in bygone years, and with it conclude my philosophic reflections, grateful that some patrons have still stuck to me, and anxious that my Pic-Nic, made up as it is by abler hands than mine, and furnishing better fare than my poor brains can afford, may be both in time and in good odour with my indulgent customers, and that my old stories may serve as a foil (this savours of the shop) to more valuable modern ones, and that poor Angelo may not, like the fallen Angelos of old, be consigned to utter social darkness and oblivion. In my usual court-end of the town, my Sunday's lounge