Part IV (part 1 of 2)

Part IV (part 1 of 2)

And now, my little listening dears With open mouths and open ears, Like a rhymer whose only art is That of telling a plain unvarnish'd tale, To let you know I must not fail, What became of all the parties.

Pierre went on to Compostella To finish his pilgrimage, His parents went back with him joyfully, After which they returned to their own country, And there, I believe, that all the three Lived to a good old age.

For the gallows on which Pierre So happily had swung, It was resolved that never more On it should man be hung.

To the Church it was transplanted, As ancient books declare. And the people in commotion, With an uproar of devotion, Set it up for a relic there.

What became of the halter I know not, Because the old books show not, But we may suppose and hope, That the city presented Pierre With that interesting rope.

For in his family, and this The Corporation knew, It rightly would be valued more Than any cordon bleu.

The Innkeeper's wicked daughter Confess'd what she had done, So they put her in a Convent, And she was made a Nun.

The Alcayde had been so frighten'd That he never ate fowls again; And he always pulled off his hat When he saw a Cock and Hen. Wherever he sat at table Not an egg might there be placed; And he never even muster'd courage for a custard, Though garlic tempted him to taste Of an omelet now and then.

But always after such a transgression He hastened away to make confession; And not till he had confess'd, And the Priest had absolved him, did he feel His conscience and stomach at rest.

The twice-born Birds to the Pilgrim's Church As by miracle consecrated, Were given, and there unto the Saint They were publicly dedicated.

At their dedication the Corporation A fund for their keep supplied; And after following the Saint and his banners, This Cock and Hen were so changed in their manners, That the Priests were edified.

Gentle as any turtle-dove, Saint Cock became all meekness and love; Most dutiful of wives, Saint Hen she never peck'd again, So they led happy lives.

The ways of ordinary fowls You must know they had clean forsaken; And if every Cock and Hen in Spain Had their example taken, Why then--the Spaniards would have had No eggs to eat with bacon.

These blessed Fowls, at seven years end, In the odor of sanctity died: They were carefully pluck'd and then They were buried, side by side.

And lest the fact should be forgotten (Which would have been a pity), 'Twas decreed, in honor of their worth, That a Cock and Hen should be borne thenceforth, In the arms of that ancient City.

Two eggs Saint Hen had laid--no more-- The chickens were her delight; A Cock and Hen they proved, And both, like their parents, were virtuous and white.

The last act of the Holy Hen Was to rear this precious brood; and when Saint Cock and she were dead, This couple, as the lawful heirs, Succeeded in their stead.

They also lived seven years, And they laid eggs but two, From which two milk-white chickens To Cock and Henhood grew; And always their posterity The self-same course pursue.

Not one of these eggs ever addled, (With wonder be it spoken!) Not one of them ever was lost, Not one of them ever was broken.

Sacred they are; neither magpie nor rat, Snake, weasel, nor marten approaching them: And woe to the irreverent wretch Who should even dream of poaching them!

Thus then is this great miracle Continued to this day; And to their Church all Pilgrims go, When they are on the way; And some of the feathers are given them; For which they always pay.

No price is set upon them, And this leaves all persons at ease; The Poor give as much as they can, The Rich as much as they please.

But that the more they give the better, Is very well understood; Seeing whatever is thus disposed of, Is for their own souls' good;

For Santiago will always Befriend his true believers; And the money is for him, the Priests Being only his receivers.

To make the miracle the more, Of these feathers there is always store, And all are genuine too; All of the original Cock and Hen, Which the Priests will swear is true.

Thousands a thousand times told have bought them, And if myriads and tens of myriads sought them, They would still find some to buy; For however great were the demand, So great would be the supply.

And if any of you, my small friends, Should visit those parts, I dare say You will bring away some of the feathers, And think of old Robin Gray.

THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS; OR, THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN. SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Oh, for a glance of that gay Muse's eye, That lighten'd on Bandello's laughing tale, And twinkled with a luster shrewd and sly, When Giam Batttista bade her vision hail!-- Yet fear not, ladies, the naive detail Given by the natives of that land canorous; Italian license loves to leap the pale, We Britons have the fear of shame before us, And, if not wise in mirth, at least must be decorous.

In the far eastern clime, no great while since, Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince, Whose eyes, as oft as they perform'd their round, Beheld all others fix'd upon the ground; Whose ears received the same unvaried phrase, "Sultaun! thy vassal hears, and he obeys!" All have their tastes--this may the fancy strike Of such grave folks as pomp and grandeur like; For me, I love the honest heart and warm Of monarch who can amble round his farm, Or when the toil of state no more annoys, In chimney corner seek domestic joys-- I love a prince will bid the bottle pass, Exchanging with his subjects glance and glass; In fitting time, can, gayest of the gay, Keep up the jest, and mingle in the lay-- Such Monarchs best our free-born humors suit, But Despots must be stately, stern, and mute.

This Solimaun, Serendib had in sway-- And where's Serendib? may some critic say-- Good lack, mine honest friend, consult the chart, Scare not my Pegasus before I start! If Rennell has it not, you'll find, mayhap, The isle laid down in Captain Sinbad's map-- Famed mariner! whose merciless narrations Drove every friend and kinsman out of patience, Till, fain to find a guest who thought them shorter, He deign'd to tell them over to a porter-- The last edition see, by Long and Co., Rees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in the Row.

Serendib found, deem not my tale a fiction-- This Sultaun, whether lacking contradiction-- (A sort of stimulant which hath its uses, To raise the spirits and reform the juices, --Sovereign specific for all sorts of cures In my wife's practice, and perhaps in yours), The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome bitter, Of cordial smooth for prince's palate fitter-- Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild themes Belonging to the Mollah's subtle craft, I wot not--but the Sultaun never laugh'd, Scarce ate or drank, and took a melancholy That scorn'd all remedy profane or holy; In his long list of melancholies, mad, Or mazed, or dumb, hath Burton none so had.

Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and tried, As e'er scrawl'd jargon in a darken'd room; With heedful glance the Sultaun's tongue they eyed, Peep'd in his bath, and God knows where beside, And then in solemn accent spoke their doom, "His majesty is very far from well." Then each to work with his specific fell; The Hakim Ibrahim INSTANTER brought His unguent Mahazzim al Zerdukkaut, While Roompot, a practitioner more wily, Relied on Ms Munaskif all fillfily. More and yet more in deep array appear, And some the front assail, and some the rear; Their remedies to reinforce and vary, Came surgeon eke, and eke apothecary; Till the tired Monarch, though of words grown chary, Yet dropt, to recompense their fruitless labor, Some hint about a bowstring or a saber. There lack'd, I promise you, no longer speeches, To rid the palace of those learned leeches.

Then was the council call'd--by their advice (They deem'd the matter ticklish all, and nice, And sought to shift it off from their own shoulders) Tartars and couriers in all speed were sent, To call a sort of Eastern Parliament Of feudatory chieftains and freeholders-- Such have the Persians at this very day, My gallant Malcolm calls them couroultai;-- I'm not prepared to show in this slight song That to Serendib the same forms belong-- E'en let the learn'd go search, and tell me if I'm wrong.

The Omrahs, each with hand on scimitar, Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice for war-- "The saber of the Sultaun in its sheath Too long has slept, nor own'd the work of death, Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle, Bang the loud gong, and raise the shout of battle! This dreary cloud that dims our sovereign's day, Shall from his kindled bosom flit away, When the bold Lootie wheels his courser round, And the arm'd elephant shall shake the ground. Each noble pants to own the glorious summons-- And for the charges--Lo! your faithful Commons!"

The Riots who attended in their places (Serendib language calls a farmer Riot) Look'd ruefully in one another's faces, From this oration auguring much disquiet, Double assessment, forage, and free quarters; And fearing these as China-men the Tartars, Or as the whisker'd vermin fear the mousers, Each fumbled in the pockets of his trowsers.

And next came forth the reverend Convocation, Bald heads, white beards, and many a turban green, Imaum and Mollah there of every station, Santon, Fakir, and Calendar were seen. Their votes were various--some advised a Mosque With fitting revenues should be erected, With seemly gardens and with gay Kiosque, To create a band of priests selected; Others opined that through the realms a dole Be made to holy men, whose prayers might profit The Sultaun's weal in body and in soul. But their long-headed chief, the Sheik Ul-Sofit, More closely touch'd the point;--"Thy studious mood," Quoth he, "O Prince! hath thicken'd all thy blood, And dull'd thy brain with labor beyond measure; Wherefore relax a space and take thy pleasure, And toy with beauty, or tell o'er thy treasure; From all the cares of state, my Liege, enlarge thee, And leave the burden to thy faithful clergy."

These counsels sage availed not a whit, And so the patient (as is not uncommon Where grave physicians lose their time and wit) Resolved to take advice of an old woman; His mother she, a dame who once was beauteous, And still was called so by each subject duteous. Now whether Fatima was witch in earnest, Or only made believe, I can not say-- But she profess'd to cure disease the sternest, By dint of magic amulet or lay; And, when all other skill in vain was shown, She deem'd it fitting time to use her own.

"Sympathia magica hath wonders done" (Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son), "It works upon the fibers and the pores, And thus, insensibly, our health restores, And it must help us here.--Thou must endure The ill, my son, or travel for the cure. Search land and sea, and get, where'er you can, The inmost vesture of a happy man: I mean his SHIRT, my son; which, taken warm And fresh from off his back, shall chase your harm, Bid every current of your veins rejoice, And your dull heart leap light as shepherd-boy's." Such was the counsel from his mother came;-- I know not if she had some under-game, As doctors have, who bid their patients roam And live abroad, when sure to die at home; Or if she thought, that, somehow or another, Queen-Regent sounded better than Queen-Mother; But, says the Chronicle (who will go look it?) That such was her advice--the Sultaun took it.

All are on board--the Sultaun and his train, In gilded galley prompt to plow the main. The old Rais was the first who question'd, "Whither?" They paused--"Arabia," thought the pensive Prince, "Was call'd The Happy many ages since-- For Mokha, Rais."--And they came safely thither. But not in Araby, with all her balm, Not where Judea weeps beneath her palm, Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste, Could there the step of Happiness be traced. One Copt alone profess'd to have seen her smile When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant Nile: She bless'd the dauntless traveler as he quaff'd But vanish'd from him with the ended draught. "Enough of turbans," said the weary King. "These dolimans of ours are not the thing; Try we the Giaours, these men of coat, and cap, I Incline to think some of them must be happy; At least they have as fair a cause as any can, They drink good wine and keep no Ramazan. Then northward, ho!"--The vessel cuts the sea, And fair Italia lies upon her lee.-- But fair Italia, she who once unfurl'd Her eagle-banners o'er a conquer'd world, Long from her throne of domination tumbled, Lay, by her quondam vassals, sorely humbled, The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale, and lean, And was not half the man he once had been. "While these the priest and those the noble fleeces, Our poor old boot," they said, "is torn to pieces. Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel, And the Great Devil is rending toe and heel. If happiness you seek, to tell you truly, We think she dwells with one Giovanni Bulli; A tramontane, a heretic--the buck, Poffaredio! still has all the luck; By land or ocean never strikes his flag-- And then--a perfect walking money-bag." Off set our Prince to seek John Bull's abode, But first took France--it lay upon the road.

Monsieur Baboon, after much late commotion, Was agitated like a settling ocean, Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what ail'd him, Only the glory of his house had fail'd him; Besides, some tumors on his noddle biding, Gave indication of a recent hiding. Our Prince, though Sultauns of such things are heedless, Thought it a thing indelicate and needless To ask, if at that moment he was happy. And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il faut, a Loud voice muster'd up, for "Vive le Roi!" Then whisper'd, "'Ave you any news of Nappy?" The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross question-- "Pray, can you tell me aught of one John Bull, That dwells somewhere beyond your herring-pool?" The query seem'd of difficult digestion, The party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and took his snuff, And found his whole good-breeding scarce enough.

Twitching his visage into as many puckers As damsels wont to put into their tuckers (Ere liberal Fashion damn'd both lace and lawn, And bade the vail of modesty be drawn), Replied the Frenchman, after a brief pause, "Jean Bool!--I vas not know him--yes, I vas-- I vas remember dat, von year or two, I saw him at von place call'd Vaterloo-- Ma foi! il s'est tres joliment battu, Dat is for Englishman--m'entendez-vous? But den he had wit him one damn son-gun, Rogue I no like--dey call him Vellington." Monsieur's politeness could not hide his fret, So Solimaun took leave, and cross'd the strait.

John Bull was in his very worst of moods, Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods; His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw, And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo. His wars were ended, and the victory won, But then, 'twas reckoning-day with honest John; And authors vouch, 'twas still this Worthy's way, "Never to grumble till he came to pay; And then he always thinks, his temper's such, The work too little, and the pay too much." Yet grumbler as he is, so kind and hearty, That when his mortal foe was on the floor, And past the power to harm his quiet more, Poor John had well-nigh wept for Bonaparte! Such was the wight whom Solimaun salam'd-- "And who are you," John answer'd, "and be d--d?"

'A stranger come to see the happiest man-- So, signior, all avouch--in Frangistan.'-- "Happy? my tenants breaking on my hand; Unstock'd my pastures, and untill'd my land; Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and moths The sole consumers of my good broadcloths-- Happy?---why, cursed war and racking tax Have left us scarcely raiment to our backs."-- "In that case, signior, I may take my leave; I came to ask a favor--but I grieve."-- "Favor?" said John, and eyed the Sultaun hard, "It's my belief you came to break the yard!-- But, stay, you look like some poor foreign sinner-- Take that to buy yourself a shirt and dinner."-- With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head; But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said, "Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline; A SHIRT indeed I seek, but none of thine. Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you well,"-- "Kiss and be d--d," quoth John, "and go to hell!"

Next door to John there dwelt his sister Peg, Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg When the blithe bagpipe blew--but, soberer now, She DOUCELY span her flax and milk'd her cow. And whereas erst she was a needy slattern, Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern, Yet once a month her house was partly swept, And once a week a plenteous board she kept. And, whereas, eke, the vixen used her claws And teeth of yore, on slender provocation. She now was grown amenable to laws, A quiet soul as any in the nation; The sole remembrance of her warlike joys Was in old songs she sang to please her boys. John Bull, whom, in their years of early strife, She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life, Now found the woman, as he said, a neighbor, Who look'd to the main chance, declined no labor, Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern jargon. And was d--d close in making of a bargain.

The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg, And with decorum courtesy'd sister Peg; (She loved a book, and knew a thing or two, And guess'd at once with whom she had to do). She bade him "Sit into the fire," and took Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from the nook; Ask'd him "About the news from Eastern parts: And of her absent bairns, puir Highland hearts! If peace brought down the price of tea and pepper, And if the NITMUGS were grown ONY cheaper;-- Were there nae SPEERINGS of our Mungo Park-- Ye'll be the gentleman that wants the sark? If ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spinning I'll warrant ye it's a weel-wearing linen."

Then up got Peg, and round the house 'gan scuttle In search of goods her customer to nail, Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely throttle And hallo'd--"Ma'am, that is not what I ail. Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug glen?"-- "Happy?" said Peg; "What for d'ye want to ken? Besides, just think upon this by-gane year, Grain wadna pay the yoking of the pleugh."-- "What say you to the present?"--"Meal's sae dear, To make their brose my bairns have scarce aneugh."-- "The devil take the shirt," said Solimaun, "I think my quest will end as it began.-- Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I beg"-- "Ye'll no be for the linen then?" said Peg.

Now, for the land of verdant Erin, The Sultaun's royal bark is steering, The Emerald Isle, where honest Paddy dwells, The cousin of John Bull, as story tells. For a long space had John, with words of thunder Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy under, Till the poor lad, like boy that's flogg'd unduly, Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly. Hard was his lot and lodging, you'll allow, A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow; His landlord, and of middle men two brace, Had screw'd his rent up to the starving-place; His garment was a top-coat, and an old one, His meal was a potato, and a cold one; But still for fun or frolic, and all that, In the round world was not the match of Pat. The Sultaun saw him on a holiday, Which is with Paddy still a jolly day; When mass is ended, and his load of sins Confess'd, and Mother Church hath from her binns Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit, Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and spirit! To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free, And dance as light as leaf upon the tree.

"By Mahomet," said Sultaun Solimaun, "That ragged fellow is our very man! Rush in and seize him--do not do him hurt, But, will he nill he, let me have his SHIRT."

Shilela their plan was well-nigh after baulking (Much less provocation will set it a-walking), But the odds that foil'd Hercules foil'd Paddy Whack; They seized, and they floor'd, and they stripp'd him--Alack Up-bubboo! Paddy had not--a shirt to his back!!! And the King, disappointed, with sorrow and shame Went back to Serendib as sad as he came.

THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS. THOMAS MOORE.

A donkey whose talent for burden was wondrous, So much that you'd swear he rejoiced in a load, One day had to jog under panniers so pond'rous, That--down the poor donkey fell, smack on the road.

His owners and drivers stood round in amaze-- What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy So easy to drive through the dirtiest ways, For every description of job-work so ready!

One driver (whom Ned might have "hail'd" as a "brother") Had just been proclaiming his donkey's renown, For vigor, for spirit, for one thing or other-- When, lo! 'mid his praises, the donkey came down.

But, how to upraise him?--one shouts, T'OTHER whistles, While Jenky, the conjurer, wisest of all, Declared that an "over-production" of thistles-- (Here Ned gave a stare)--was the cause of his fall.

Another wise Solomon cries, as he passes-- "There, let him alone, and the fit will soon cease, The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses, And this is his mode of 'TRANSITION TO PEACE'"

Some look'd at his hoofs, and, with learned grimaces, Pronounced that too long without shoes he had gone-- "Let the blacksmith provide him a sound metal basis (The wiseacres said), and he's sure to jog on."

But others who gabbled a jargon half Gaelic, Exclaim'd, "Hoot awa, mon, you're a' gane astray"-- And declared that "whoe'er might prefer the METALLIC, They'd shoe their OWN donkeys with papier mache."

Meanwhile the poor Neddy, in torture and fear, Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan, And, what was still dolefuler--lending an ear To advisers whose ears were a match for his own.

At length, a plain rustic, whose wit went so far As to see others' folly, roar'd out as he pass'd-- "Quick--off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are, Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last."

MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE. A LEGEND OF JARVIS'S JETTY. B. HARRIS BABHAM.

MR. SIMPKINSON (loquitur). I was in Margate last July, I walk'd upon the pier, I saw a little vulgar Boy--I said "What make you here?-- The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks any thing but joy;" Again I said, "What make you here, you little vulgar Boy?"

He frown'd, that little vulgar Boy--he deem'd I meant to scoff-- And when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off;" He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose,-- He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose!

"Hark! don't you hear, my little man?--it's striking nine," I said, "An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed. Run home and get your supper, else your Ma' will scold--Oh fie!-- It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!"

The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring, His bosom throbb'd with agony--he cried like any thing! I stoop'd, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur--"Ah I haven't got no supper! and I haven't got no Ma'!--

"My father, he is on the seas,--my mother's dead and gone! And I am here on this here pier, to roam the world alone; I have not had, this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart, Nor 'BROWN' to buy a bit of bread with,--let alone a tart.

"If there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ, By day or night, then blow me tight!" (he was a vulgar Boy;) "And now I'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent To jump, as Mr. Levi did from off the Monu-ment!"

"Cheer up! cheer up! my little man--cheer up!" I kindly said. You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head: If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your legs, Perhaps your neck--then Bogey'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs!

"Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup; My landlady is Mrs. Jones--we must not keep her up-- There's roast potatoes on the fire,--enough for me and you-- Come home,--you little vulgar Boy--I lodge at Number 2."

I took him home to Number 2, the house beside "The Foy" I bade him wipe his dirty shoes,--that little vulgar Boy,-- And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex, "Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X!"

But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise, She said she "did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys." She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubb'd the delft Said I might "go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself!"

I did not go to Jericho--I went to Mr. Cobb-- I changed a shilling--(which in town the people call "a Bob")-- It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child-- And I said, "A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild!"

When I came back I gazed about--I gazed on stool and chair-- I could not see my little friend--because he was not there! I peep'd beneath the table-cloth--beneath the sofa too-- I said "You little vulgar Boy! why what's become of you?"

I could not see my table-spoons--I look'd, but could not see The little fiddle-pattern'd ones I use when I'm at tea; --I could not see my sugar-tongs--my silver watch--oh, dear! I know 'twas on the mantle-piece when I went out for beer.

I could not see my Mackintosh!--it was not to be seen! Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimm'd and lined with green; My carpet-bag--my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,-- My roast potatoes!--all are gone!--and so's that vulgar Boy!

I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below, "--Oh, Mrs. Jones! what do you think?--ain't this a pretty go? --That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night, --He's stolen my things and run away!!"--Says she, "And sarve you right!!"

* * * * * *

Next morning I was up betimes--I sent the Crier round, All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a pound To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so; But when the Crier cried "O Yes!" the people cried, "O No!"

I went to "Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town, There was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down; I told my tale--he seem'd to think I'd not been treated well, And called me "Poor old Buffer!" what that means I cannot tell.

That sailor-man, he said he'd seen that morning on the shore, A son of--something--'twas a name I'd never heard before, A little "gallows-looking chap"--dear me; what could he mean? With a "carpet-swab" and "muckingtogs," and a hat turned up with green.

He spoke about his "precious eyes," and said he'd seen him "sheer," --It's very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer-- And then he hitch'd his trowsers up, as is, I'm told, their use, --It's very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose.

I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say He'd seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning swim away In Captain Large's Royal George about an hour before, And they were now, as he supposed, "someWHERES" about the Nore.

A landsman said, "I TWIG the chap--he's been upon the Mill-- And 'cause he GAMMONS so the FLATS, ve calls him Veeping Bill!" He said "he'd done me wery brown," and "nicely STOW'D the SWAG." --That's French, I fancy, for a hat--or else a carpet-bag.

I went and told the constable my property to track; He asked me if "I did not wish that I might get it back?" I answered, "To be sure I do!--it's what I come about." He smiled and said, "Sir, does your mother know that you are out?"

Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to town, And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who'd "done me brown." His Lordship very kindly said he'd try and find him out, But he "rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about."

He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described "the swag," My Mackintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag; He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ; But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy!

MORAL. Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard my Grandma' tell, "BE WARN'D IN TIME BY OTHERS' HARM, AND YOU SHALL DO FULL WELL!" Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who've got no fix'd abode, Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they "wish they may be blow'd!" Don't take too much of double X!--and don't at night go out To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring you stout! And when you go to Margate next, just stop and ring the bell, Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I 'm pretty well!

THE GHOST. R. HARRIS BARHAM.

There stands a City,--neither large nor small, Its air and situation sweet and pretty; It matters very little--if at all-- Whether its denizens are dull or witty, Whether the ladies there are short or tall, Brunettes or blondes, only, there stands a city!-- Perhaps 'tis also requisite to minute That there's a Castle, and a Cobbler in it.

A fair Cathedral, too, the story goes, And kings and heroes lie entombed within her; There pious Saints, in marble pomp repose, Whose shrines are worn by knees of many a Sinner; There, too, full many an Aldermanic nose Roll'd its loud diapason after dinner; And there stood high the holy sconce of Becket, --Till four assassins came from France to crack it.

The Castle was a huge and antique mound, Proof against all th' artillery of the quiver, Ere those abominable guns were found, To send cold lead through gallant warrior's liver It stands upon a gently rising ground, Sloping down gradually to the river, Resembling (to compare great things with smaller) A well-scooped, moldy Stilton cheese--but taller.

The Keep, I find, 's been sadly alter'd lately, And 'stead of mail-clad knights, of honor jealous, In martial panoply so grand and stately, Its walls are rilled with money-making fellows, And stuff'd, unless I'm misinformed greatly, With leaden pipes, and coke, and coal, and bellows In short, so great a change has come to pass, Tis now a manufactory of Gas.

But to my tale.--Before this profanation, And ere its ancient glories were out short all, A poor hard-working Cobbler took his station In a small house, just opposite the portal; His birth, his parentage, and education, I know but little of--a strange, odd mortal; His aspect, air, and gait, were all ridiculous; His name was Mason--he'd been christened Nicholas.

Nick had a wife possessed of many a charm, And of the Lady Huntingdon persuasion; But, spite of all her piety, her arm She'd sometimes exercise when in a passion; And, being of a temper somewhat warm, Would now and then seize, upon small occasion, A stick, or stool, or any thing that round did lie, And baste her lord and master most confoundedly.

No matter;--'tis a thing that's not uncommon, 'Tis what we all have heard, and most have read of,-- I mean, a bruising, pugilistic woman, Such as I own I entertain a dread of, --And so did Nick,--whom sometimes there would come on A sort of fear his Spouse might knock his head off, Demolish half his teeth, or drive a rib in, She shone so much in "facers" and in "fibbing."

"There's time and place for all things," said a sage (King Solomon, I think), and this I can say, Within a well-roped ring, or on a stage, Boxing may be a very pretty FANCY, When Messrs. Burke or Bendigo engage; --'Tis not so well in Susan or in Nancy:-- To get well mill'd by any one's an evil, But by a lady--'tis the very Devil.

And so thought Nicholas, whose only trouble (At least his worst) was this, his rib's propensity; For sometimes from the ale-house he would hobble, His senses lost in a sublime immensity Of cogitation--then he couldn't cobble-- And then his wife would often try the density Of his poor skull, and strike with all her might, As fast as kitchen wenches strike a light.

Mason, meek soul, who ever hated strife, Of this same striking had a morbid dread, He hated it like poison--or his wife-- A vast antipathy!--but so he said-- And very often, for a quiet life, On these occasions he'd sneak up to bed, Grope darkling in, and soon as at the door He heard his lady--he'd pretend to snore.

One night, then, ever partial to society, Nick, with a friend (another jovial fellow), Went to a Club--I should have said Society-- At the "City Arms," once call'd the "Porto Bello" A Spouting party, which, though some decry it, I Consider no bad lounge when one is mellow; There they discuss the tax on salt, and leather, And change of ministers and change of weather.

In short, it was a kind of British Forum, Like John Gale Jones', erst in Piccadilly, Only they managed things with more decorum, And the Orations were not QUITE so silly; Far different questions, too, would come before 'em Not always politics, which, will ye nill ye, Their London prototypes were always willing, To give one QUANTUM SUFF. of--for a shilling.

It more resembled one of later date, And tenfold talent, as I'm told, in Bow-street, Where kindlier nurtured souls do congregate, And, though there are who deem that same a low street Yet, I'm assured, for frolicsome debate And genuine humor it's surpassed by no street, When the "Chief Baron" enters, and assumes To "rule" o'er mimic "Thesigers" and "Broughams."

Here they would oft forget their Rulers' faults, And waste in ancient lore the midnight taper, Inquire if Orpheus first produced the Waltz, How Gas-lights differ from the Delphic Vapor. Whether Hippocrates gave Glauber's Salts, And what the Romans wrote on ere obey'd paper,-- This night the subject of their disquisitions Was Ghosts, Hobgoblins, Sprues, and Apparitions.

One learned gentleman, "a sage grave man," Talk'd of the Ghost in Hamlet, "sheath'd in steel:"-- His well-read friend, who next to speak began, Said, "That was Poetry, and nothing real;" A third, of more extensive learning, ran To Sir George Villiers' Ghost, and Mrs. Veal; Of sheeted Specters spoke with shorten'd breath, And thrice he quoted "Drelincourt on Death."

Nick, smoked, and smoked, and trembled as he heard The point discuss'd, and all they said upon it, How frequently some murder'd man appear'd, To tell his wife and children who had done it; Or how a Miser's Ghost, with grisly beard, And pale lean visage, in an old Scotch bonnet, Wander'd about to watch his buried money! When all at once Nick heard the clock strike One--he

Sprang from his seat, not doubting but a lecture Impended from his fond and faithful She; Nor could he well to pardon him expect her, For he had promised to "be home to tea;" But having luckily the key o' the back door, He fondly hoped that, unperceived, he Might creep up stairs again, pretend to doze, And hoax his spouse with music from his nose.

Vain fruitless hope!--The wearied sentinel At eve may overlook the crouching foe, Till, ere his hand can sound the alarum-bell, He sinks beneath the unexpected blow; Before the whiskers of Grimalkin fell, When slumb'ring on her post, the mouse may go,-- But woman, wakeful woman, 's never weary, --Above all, when she waits to thump her deary.

Soon Mrs. Mason heard the well-known tread; She heard the key slow creaking in the door, Spied through the gloom obscure, toward the bed Nick creeping soft, as oft he had crept before; When, bang, she threw a something at his head, And Nick at once lay prostrate on the floor; While she exclaim'd with her indignant face on,-- "How dare you use your wife so, Mr. Mason?"

Spare we to tell how fiercely she debated, Especially the length of her oration,-- Spare we to tell how Nick expostulated, Roused by the bump into a good set passion, So great, that more than once he execrated, Ere he crawl'd into bed in his usual fashion; --The Muses hate brawls; suffice it then to say, He duck'd below the clothes--and there he lay:

'Twas now the very witching time of night, When church-yards groan, and graves give up their dead, And many a mischievous, enfranchised Sprite Had long since burst his bonds of stone or lead, And hurried off, with schoolboy-like delight, To play his pranks near some poor wretch's bed, Sleeping, perhaps, serenely as a porpoise, Nor dreaming of this fiendish Habeas Corpus.

Not so our Nicholas, his meditations Still to the same tremendous theme recurred, The same dread subject of the dark narrations, Which, back'd with such authority, he'd heard; Lost in his own horrific contemplations, He pondered o'er each well-remembered word; When at the bed's foot, close beside the post, He verily believed he saw--a Ghost!

Plain and more plain the unsubstantial Sprite To his astonish'd gaze each moment grew; Ghastly and gaunt, it rear'd its shadowy height, Of more than mortal seeming to the view, And round its long, thin, bony fingers drew A tatter'd winding-sheet, of course ALL WHITE;-- The moon that moment peeping through a cloud, Nick very plainly saw it THROUGH THE SHROUD!

And now those matted locks, which never yet Had yielded to the comb's unkind divorce, Their long-contracted amity forget, And spring asunder with elastic force; Nay, e'en the very cap, of texture coarse, Whose ruby cincture crown'd that brow of jet, Uprose in agony--the Gorgon's head Was but a type of Nick's up-squatting in the bed.

From every pore distill'd a clammy dew. Quaked every limb,--the candle too no doubt, En regle, WOULD have burnt extremely blue, But Nick unluckily had put it out; And he, though naturally bold and stout, In short, was in a most tremendous stew;-- The room was fill'd with a sulphureous smell, But where that came from Mason could not tell.

All motionless the Specter stood,--and now Its reverend form more clearly shone confest, From the pale cheek a beard of purest snow Descended o'er its venerable breast; The thin gray hairs, that crown'd its furrow'd brow, Told of years long gone by.--An awful guest It stood, and with an action of command, Beckon'd the Cobbler with its wan right hand.

"Whence, and what art thou, Execrable Shape?" Nick MIGHT have cried, could he have found a tongue, But his distended jaws could only gape, And not a sound upon the welkin rung, His gooseberry orbs seem'd as they would have sprung Forth from their sockets,--like a frightened Ape He sat upon his haunches, bolt upright, And shook, and grinn'd, and chatter'd with affright.

And still the shadowy finger, long and lean, Now beckon'd Nick, now pointed to the door; And many an ireful glance, and frown, between, The angry visage of the Phantom wore, As if quite vexed that Nick would do no more Than stare, without e'en asking, "What d' ye mean?" Because, as we are told,--a sad old joke too,-- Ghosts, like the ladies, "never speak till spoke to."

Cowards, 'tis said, in certain situations, Derive a sort of courage from despair, And then perform, from downright desperation, Much more than many a bolder man would dare. Nick saw the Ghost was getting in a passion, And therefore, groping till he found the chair, Seized on his awl, crept softly out of bed, And follow'd quaking where the Specter led.

And down the winding stair, with noiseless tread, The tenant of the tomb pass'd slowly on, Each mazy turning of the humble shed Seem'd to his step at once familiar grown, So safe and sure the labyrinth did he tread As though the domicile had been his own, Though Nick himself, in passing through the shop, Had almost broke his nose against the mop.

Despite its wooden bolt, with jarring sound, The door upon its hinges open flew; And forth the Spirit issued,--yet around It turn'd as if its follower's fears it knew, And once more beckoning, pointed to the mound, The antique Keep, on which the bright moon threw With such effulgence her mild silvery gleam, The visionary form seem'd melting in her beam.

Beneath a pond'rous archway's somber shade, Where once the huge portcullis swung sublime, 'Mid ivied battlements in ruin laid, Sole, sad memorials of the olden time, The Phantom held its way,--and though afraid Even of the owls that sung their vesper chime, Pale Nicholas pursued, its steps attending, And wondering what on earth it all would end in.

Within the moldering fabric's deep recess At length they reach a court obscure and lone; It seemed a drear and desolate wilderness, The blackened walls with ivy all o'ergrown; The night-bird shrieked her note of wild distress, Disturb'd upon her solitary throne, As though indignant mortal step should dare, So led, at such an hour, should venture there!

--The Apparition paused, and would have spoke Pointing to what Nick thought an iron ring, But then a neighboring chanticleer awoke, And loudly 'gan his early matins sing And then "it started like a guilty thing," As that shrill clarion the silence broke. --We know how much dead gentlefolks eschew The appalling sound of "Cock-a-doodle-do!"

The vision was no more--and Nick alone-- "His streamer's waving" in the midnight wind, Which through the ruins ceased not to groan; --His garment, too, was somewhat short behind,-- And, worst of all, he knew not where to find The ring,--which made him most his fate bemoan-- The iron ring,--no doubt of some trap door, 'Neath which the old dead Miser kept his store.

"What's to be done?" he cried, "'t were vain to stay Here in the dark without a single clew-- Oh, for a candle now, or moonlight ray! 'Fore George, I'm sadly puzzled what to do." (Then clapped his hand behind)--"'Tis chilly too-- I'll mark the spot, and come again by day. What can I mark it by?--Oh, here's the wall-- The mortar's yielding--here I'll stick my awl!"

Then rose from earth to sky a withering shriek, A loud, a long-protracted note of woe, Such as when tempests roar, and timbers creak, And o'er the side the masts in thunder go; While on the deck resistless billows break, And drag their victims to the gulfs below;-- Such was the scream when, for the want of candle, Nick Mason drove his awl in up to the handle.

Scared by his Lady's heart-appalling cry, Vanished at once poor Mason's golden dream-- For dream it was;--and all his visions high, Of wealth and grandeur, fled before that scream-- And still he listens, with averted eye, When gibing neighbors make "the Ghost" their theme While ever from that hour they all declare That Mrs. Mason used a cushion in her chair!

A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS. R. HARRIS BARHAM

Gengulphus comes from the Holy Land, With his scrip, and his bottle, and sandal shoon; Full many a day hath he been away, Yet his lady deems him return'd full soon.

Full many a day hath he been away, Yet scarce had he crossed ayont the sea, Ere a spruce young spark of a Learned Clerk Had called on his Lady, and stopp'd to tea.

This spruce young guest, so trimly drest, Stay'd with that Lady, her revels to crown; They laugh'd, and they ate, and they drank of the best And they turn'd the old castle quite upside down.

They would walk in the park, that spruce young Clerk, With that frolicsome Lady so frank and free, Trying balls and plays, and all manner of ways, To get rid of what French people call Ennui.

* * * * * *

Now the festive board with viands is stored, Savory dishes be there, I ween, Rich puddings and big, and a barbacued pig, And ox-tail soup in a China tureen.

There's a flagon of ale as large as a pail-- When, cockle on hat, and staff in hand, While on naught they are thinking save eating and drinking, Gengulphus walks in from the Holy Land!

"You must be pretty deep to catch weasels asleep," Says the proverb: that is "take the Fair unawares." A maid o'er the banisters chancing to peep, Whispers, "Ma'am, here's Gengulphus a-coming up-stairs."

Pig, pudding, and soup, the electrified group, With the flagon pop under the sofa in haste, And contrive to deposit the Clerk in the closet, As the dish least of all to Gengulphus's taste.

Then oh! what rapture, what joy was exprest, When "poor dear Gengulphus" at last appear'd! She kiss'd and she press'd "the dear man" to her breast, In spite of his "great, long, frizzly beard."

Such hugging and squeezing! 'twas almost unpleasing, A smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye; She was so very glad, that she seem'd half mad, And did not know whether to laugh or to cry.

Then she calls up the maid and the table-cloth's laid, And she sends for a pint of the best Brown Stout; On the fire, too, she pops some nice mutton-chops, And she mixes a stiff glass of "Cold Without."

Then again she began at the "poor dear" man; She press'd him to drink, and she press'd him to eat, And she brought a foot-pan, with hot water and bran, To comfort his "poor dear" travel-worn feet.

"Nor night nor day since he'd been away, Had she had any rest," she "vow'd and declared." She "never could eat one morsel of meat, For thinking how 'poor dear' Gengulphus fared."

She "really did think she had not slept a wink Since he left her, although he'd been absent so long," Here he shook his head,--right little he said, But he thought she was "coming it rather too strong." Now his palate she tickles with the chops and the pickles Till, so great the effect of that stiff gin grog, His weaken'd body, subdued by the toddy, Falls out of the chair, and he lies like a log.

Then out comes the Clerk from his secret lair; He lifts up the legs, and she lifts up the head, And, between them, this most reprehensible pair Undress poor Gengulphus and put him to bed.

Then the bolster they place athwart his face, And his night-cap into his mouth they cram; And she pinches his nose underneath the clothes, Till the "poor dear soul" goes off like a lamb.

* * * * *

And now they tried the deed to hide; For a little bird whisper'd "Perchance you may swing; Here's a corpse in the case, with a sad swell'd face, And a Medical Crowner's a queer sort of thing!"

So the Clerk and the wife, they each took a knife, And the nippers that nipp'd the loaf-sugar for tea; With the edges and points they sever'd the joints At the clavicle, elbow, hip, ankle, and knee.

Thus, limb from limb, they dismember'd him So entirely, that e'en when they came to his wrists, With those great sugar-nippers they nipped off his "flippers," As the Clerk, very flippantly, termed his fists.

When they cut off his head, entertaining a dread Lest the folks should remember Gengulphus's face, They determined to throw it where no one could know it, Down the well,--and the limbs in some different place.

But first the long beard from the chin they shear'd, And managed to stuff that sanctified hair, With a good deal of pushing, all into the cushion That filled up the seat of a large arm-chair.

They contriv'd to pack up the trunk in a sack, Which they hid in an osier-bed outside the town, The Clerk bearing arms, legs, and all on his back, As that vile Mr. Greenacre served Mrs. Brown.

But to see now how strangely things sometimes turn out, And that in a manner the least expected! Who could surmise a man ever could rise Who'd been thus carbonado'd, out up, and dissected?

No doubt 't would surprise the pupils at Guy's; I am no unbeliever--no man can say that o' me-- But St. Thomas himself would scarce trust his own eyes If he saw such a thing in his School of Anatomy.

You may deal as you please with Hindoos and Chinese, Or a Mussulman making his heathen salaam, or A Jew or a Turk, but it's rather guess work When a man has to do with a Pilgrim or Palmer.

* * * * *

By chance the Prince Bishop, a Royal Divine, Sends his cards round the neighborhood next day, and urges his Wish to receive a snug party to dine, Of the resident clergy, the gentry, and burgesses.

At a quarter past five they are all alive, At the palace, for coaches are fast rolling in, And to every guest his card had express'd "Half-past" as the hour for "a greasy chin."

Some thirty are seated, and handsomely treated With the choicest Rhine wine in his Highness's stock When a Count of the Empire, who felt himself heated, Requested some water to mix with his Hock.

The Butler, who saw it, sent a maid out to draw it, But scarce had she given the windlass a twirl, Ere Gengulphus's head, from the well's bottom, said In mild accents, "Do help us out, that's a good girl!"

Only fancy her dread when she saw a great head In her bucket;--with fright she was ready to drop:-- Conceive, if you can, how she roar'd and she ran, With the head rolling after her, bawling out "Stop!"

She ran and she roar'd, till she came to the board Where the Prince Bishop sat with his party around, When Gengulphus's poll, which continued to roll At her heels, on the table bounced up with a bound.

Never touching the cates, or the dishes or plates, The decanters or glasses, the sweetmeats or fruits, The head smiles, and begs them to bring his legs, As a well-spoken gentleman asks for his boots.

Kicking open the casement, to each one's amazement Straight a right leg steps in, all impediment scorns, And near the head stopping, a left follows hopping Behind,--for the left leg was troubled with corns.

Next, before the beholders, two great brawny shoulders, And arms on their bent elbows dance through the throng; While two hands assist, though nipped off at the wrist, The said shoulders in bearing the body along.

They march up to the head, not one syllable said, For the thirty guests all stare in wonder and doubt, As the limbs in their sight arrange and unite, Till Gengulphus, though dead, looks as sound as a trout.

I will venture to say, from that hour to this day, Ne'er did such an assembly behold such a scene; Or a table divide fifteen guests of a side With a dead body placed in the center between. Yes, they stared--well they might at so novel a sight No one utter'd a whisper, a sneeze, or a hem, But sat all bolt upright, and pale with affright; And they gazed at the dead man, the dead man at them.

The Prince Bishop's Jester, on punning intent, As he view'd the whole thirty, in jocular terms Said "They put him in mind of a Council of Trente Engaged in reviewing the Diet of Worms."

But what should they do?--Oh! nobody knew What was best to be done, either stranger or resident; The Chancellor's self read his Puffendorf through In vain, for his book could not furnish a precedent.

The Prince Bishop mutter'd a curse, and a prayer, Which his double capacity hit to a nicety; His Princely, or Lay, half induced him to swear, His Episcopal moiety said "Benedicite!"

The Coroner sat on the body that night, And the jury agreed,--not a doubt could they harbor,-- "That the chin of the corpse--the sole thing brought to light-- Had been recently shav'd by a very bad barber."

They sent out Van Taunsend, Von Burnie, Von Roe, Von Maine, and Von Rowantz--through chalets and chateaux, Towns, villages, hamlets, they told them to go, And they stuck up placards on the walls of the Stadthaus.

"MURDER!!

"WHEREAS, a dead gentleman, surname unknown, Has been recently found at his Highness's banquet, Rather shabbily dressed in an Amice, or gown In appearance resembling a second-hand blanket;

"And WHEREAS, there's great reason indeed to suspect That some ill-disposed person, or persons, with malice Aforethought, have kill'd, and begun to dissect The said Gentleman, not far from this palace.

"THIS IS TO GIVE NOTICE!--Whoever shall seize; And such person or persons, to justice surrender, Shall receive--such REWARD--as his Highness shall please, On conviction of him, the aforesaid offender.

"And, in order the matter more clearly to trace To the bottom, his Highness, the Prince Bishop, further, Of his clemency, offers free PARDON and Grace To all such as have NOT been concern'd in the murther.

"Done this day, at onr palace,--July twenty-five-- By command, (Signed) Johann Von Russell,

N.B. Deceased rather in years--had a squint when alive; And smells slightly of gin--linen marked with a G."

The Newspapers, too, made no little ado, Though a different version each managed to dish up; Some said "The Prince Bishop had run a man through," Others said "an assassin had kill'd the Prince Bishop."

The "Ghent Herald" fell foul of the "Bruxelles Gazette," The "Bruxelles Gazette," with much sneering ironical, Scorn'd to remain in the "Ghent Herald's" debt, And the "Amsterdam Times" quizz'd the "Nuremberg Chronicle."

In one thing, indeed, all the journals agreed, Spite of "politics," "bias," or "party collision;" Viz.: to "give," when they'd "further accounts" of the deed, "Full particulars" soon, in "a later Edition."

But now, while on all sides they rode and they ran, Trying all sorts of means to discover the caitiffs, Losing patience, the holy Gengulphus began To think it high time to "astonish the natives."

First, a Rittmeister's Frau, who was weak in both eyes, And supposed the most short-sighted woman in Holland, Found greater relief, to her joy and surprise, From one glimpse of his "squint" than from glasses by Dollond.

By the slightest approach to the tip of his Nose, Meagrims, headache, and vapors were put to the rout; And one single touch of his precious Great Toes Was a certain specific for chillblains and gout.

Rheumatics,--sciatica,--tic-douloureux! Apply to his shin-bones--not one of them lingers-- All bilious complaints in an instant withdrew, If the patient was tickled with one of his fingers.

Much virtue was found to reside in his thumbs: When applied to the chest, they cured scantness of breathing. Sea-sickness, and colic; or, rubb'd on the gums, Were "A blessing to Mothers," for infants in teething.

Whoever saluted the nape of his neck, Where the mark remain'd visible still of the knife, Notwithstanding east winds perspiration might check, Was safe from sore-throat for the rest of his life. Thus, while each acute and each chronic complaint Giving way, proved an influence clearly Divine, They perceived the dead Gentleman must be a Saint, So they lock'd him up, body and bones, in a shrine.

Through country and town his new Saintship's renown As a first-rate physician kept daily increasing, Till, as Alderman Curtis told Alderman Brown, It seem'd as if "Wonders had never DONE CEASING,"

The Three Kings of Cologne began, it was known, A sad falling off in their offerings to find, His feats were so many--still the greatest of any,-- In every sense of the word, was-behind.

For the German Police were beginning to cease From exertions which each day more fruitless appear'd, When Gengulphus himself, his fame still to increase, Unravell'd the whole by the help of--his beard!

If you look back you'll see the aforesaid barbe gris, When divorced from the chin of its murder'd proprietor, Had been stuffed in the seat of a kind of settee, Or double-arm'd chair, to keep the thing quieter.

It may seem rather strange, that it did not arrange Itself in its place when the limbs join'd together; Perhaps it could not get out, for the cushion was stout, And constructed of good, strong, maroon-color'd leather

Or what is more likely, Gengulphus might choose, For saints, e'en when dead, still retain their volition, It should rest there, to aid some particular views, Produced by his very peculiar position,

Be that as it may, on the very first day That the widow Gengulphus sat down on that settee, What occur'd almost frightened her senses away, Beside scaring her hand-maidens, Gertrude and Betty,

They were telling their mistress the wonderful deeds Of the new Saint, to whom all the Town said their orisons; And especially how, as regards invalids, His miraculous cures far outrival'd Von Morison's.

"The cripples," said they, "fling their crutches away, And people born blind now can easily see us!" But she (we presume, a disciple of Hume) Shook her head, and said angrily, "'Credat Judaeus!'

"Those rascally liars, the Monks and the Friars, To bring grist to their mill, these devices have hit on. He works miracles!--pooh!--I'd believe it of you Just as soon, you great Geese,--or the Chair that I sit on!"

The Chair--at that word--it seems really absurd, But the truth must be told,--what contortions and grins Distorted her face!--She sprang up from her place Just as though she'd been sitting on needles and pins!

For, as if the Saint's beard the rash challenge had heard Which she utter'd, of what was beneath her forgetful Each particular hair stood on end in the chair, Like a porcupine's quills when the animal's fretful,

That stout maroon leather, they pierced altogether, Like tenter-hooks holding when clench'd from within, And the maids cried--"Good gracious! how very tenacious!" --They as well might endeavor to pull off her skin!--

She shriek'd with the pain, but all efforts were vain; In vain did they strain every sinew and muscle,-- The cushion stuck fast!--From that hour to her last She could never get rid of that comfortless "Bustle"!

And e'en as Macbeth, when devising the death Of his King, heard "the very stones prate of his whereabouts;" So this shocking bad wife heard a voice all her life Crying "Murder!" resound from the cushion,--or thereabouts.

With regard to the Clerk, we are left in the dark As to what his fate was; but I can not imagine he Got off scot-free, though unnoticed it be Both by Ribadaneira and Jacques de Voragine:

For cut-throats, we're sure, can be never secure, And "History's Muse" still to prove it her pen holds, As you'll see, if you'll look in a rather scarce book, "God's Revenge against Murder," by one Mr. Reynolds.

MORAL.

Now, you grave married Pilgrims, who wander away, Like Ulysses of old (vide Homer and Naso), Don't lengthen your stay to three years and a day, And when you are coming home, just write and say so!

And you, learned Clerks, who're not given to roam, Stick close to your books, nor lose sight of decorum, Don't visit a house when the master's from home! Shun drinking,--and study the "Vilce Sanctorum!"

Above all, you gay ladies, who fancy neglect In your spouses, allow not your patience to fail; But remember Gengulphus's wife!--and reflect On the moral enforced by her terrible tale!

SIR RUPERT THE FEARLESS. A LEGEND OF GERMANY. R. HARRIS BARHAM

Sir Rupert the Fearless, a gallant young knight, Was equally ready to tipple or fight, Crack a crown, or a bottle, Cut sirloin, or throttle; In brief, or as Hume says, "to sum up the tottle," Unstain'd by dishonor, unsullied by fear, All his neighbors pronounced him a preux chevalier.

Despite these perfections, corporeal and mental, He had one slight defect, viz., a rather lean rental; Besides, 'tis own'd there are spots in the sun, So it must be confess'd that Sir Rupert had one; Being rather unthinking, He'd scarce sleep a wink in A night, but addict himself sadly to drinking; And what moralists say, Is as naughty--to play, To Rouge et Noir, Hazard, Short Whist, Ecarte; Till these, and a few less defensible fancies Brought the Knight to the end of his slender finances.

When at length through his boozing, And tenants refusing Their rents, swearing "tunes were so bad they were losing," His steward said, "O, sir, It's some time ago, sir, Since aught through my hands reach'd the baker or grocer, And the tradesmen in general are grown great complainers." Sir Rupert the brave thus address'd his retainers:

"My friends, since the stock Of my father's old hock Is out, with the Kurchwasser, Barsae, Moselle, And we're fairly reduced to the pump and the well, I presume to suggest, We shall all find it best For each to shake hands with his friends ere he goes, Mount his horse, if he has one, and--follow his nose; As to me, I opine, Left sans money or wine, My best way is to throw myself into the Rhine, Where pitying trav'lers may sigh, as they cross over, Though he lived a roue, yet he died a philosopher."

The Knight, having bow'd out his friends thus politely. Got into his skiff, the full moon shining brightly, By the light of whose beam, He soon spied on the stream A dame, whose complexion was fair as new cream, Pretty pink silken hose Cover'd ankles and toes, In other respects she was scanty of clothes; For, so says tradition, both written and oral, Her ONE garment was loop'd up with bunches of coral.

Full sweetly she sang to a sparkling guitar, With silver chords stretch'd over Derbyshire spar, And she smiled on the Knight, Who, amazed at the sight, Soon found his astonishment merged in delight; But the stream by degrees Now rose up to her knees, Till at length it invaded her very chemise, While the heavenly strain, as the wave seem'd to swallow her And slowly she sank, sounded fainter and hollower; --Jumping up in his boat And discarding his coat, "Here goes," cried Sir Rupert, "by jingo I'll follow her!" Then into the water he plunged with a souse That was heard quite distinctly by those in the house.

Down, down, forty fathom and more from the brink, Sir Rupert the Fearless continues to sink, And, as downward he goes, Still the cold water flows Through his ears, and his eyes, and his mouth, and his nose Till the rum and the brandy he'd swallow'd since lunch Wanted nothing but lemon to fill him with punch; Some minutes elapsed since he enter'd the flood, Ere his heels touch'd the bottom, and stuck in the mud.

But oh! what a sight Met the eyes of the Knight, When he stood in the depth of the stream bolt upright!-- A grand stalactite hall, Like the cave of Fingal, Rose above and about him;--great fishes and small Came thronging around him, regardless of danger, And seem'd all agog for a peep at the stranger, Their figures and forms to describe, language fails-- They'd such very odd heads, and such very odd tails; Of their genus or species a sample to gain, You would ransack all Hungerford market in vain; E'en the famed Mr. Myers, Would scarcely find buyers, Though hundreds of passengers doubtless would stop To stare, were such monsters exposed in his shop.

But little reck'd Rupert these queer-looking brutes, Or the efts and the newts That crawled up his boots, For a sight, beyond any of which I've made mention, In a moment completely absorb'd his attention. A huge crystal bath, which, with water far clearer Than George Robins' filters, or Thorpe's (which are dearer), Have ever distill'd, To the summit was fill'd, Lay stretch'd out before him--and every nerve thrill'd As scores of young women Were diving and swimming, Till the vision a perfect quandary put him in;-- All slightly accoutred in gauzes and lawns, They came floating about him like so many prawns.

Sir Rupert, who (barring the few peccadilloes Alluded to), ere he lept into the billows Possess'd irreproachable morals, began To feel rather queer, as a modest young man; When forth stepp'd a dame, whom he recognized soon As the one he had seen by the light of the moon, And lisp'd, while a soft smile attended each sentence, "Sir Rupert, I'm happy to make your acquaintance; My name is Lurline, And the ladies you've seen, All do me the honor to call me their Queen; I'm delighted to see you, sir, down in the Rhine here And hope you can make it convenient to dine here."

The Knight blush'd, and bow'd, As he ogled the crowd Of subaqueous beauties, then answer'd aloud; "Ma'am, you do me much honor--I can not express The delight I shall feel--if you'll pardon my dress-- May I venture to say, when a gentleman jumps In the river at midnight for want of the 'dumps,' He rarely puts on his knee-breeches and pumps; If I could but have guess'd--what I sensibly feel-- Your politeness--I'd not have come en dishabille, But have put on my SILK tights in lieu of my STEEL." Quoth the lady, "Dear sir, no apologies, pray, You will take our 'pot-luck' in the family way; We can give you a dish Of some decentish fish, And our water's thought fairish; but here in the Rhine, I can't say we pique ourselves much on our wine."

The Knight made a bow more profound than before, When a Dory-faced page oped the dining-room door, And said, bending his knee, "Madame, on a servi!" Rupert tender'd his arm, led Lurline to her place, And a fat little Mer-man stood up and said grace,

What boots it to tell of the viands, or how she Apologized much for their plain water-souchy, Want of Harvey's, and Cross's, And Burgess's sauces? Or how Rupert, on his side, protested, by Jove, he Preferr'd his fish plain, without soy or anchovy. Suffice it the meal Boasted trout, perch, and eel, Besides some remarkably fine salmon peel, The Knight, sooth to say, thought much less of the fishes Than what they were served on, the massive gold dishes; While his eye, as it glanced now and then on the girls, Was caught by their persons much less than their pearls, And a thought came across him and caused him to muse, "If I could but get hold Of some of that gold, I might manage to pay off my rascally Jews!"

When dinner was done, at a sign to the lasses, The table was clear'd, and they put on fresh glasses; Then the lady addrest Her redoubtable guest Much as Dido, of old, did the pious Eneas, "Dear sir, what induced you to come down and see us?"-- Rupert gave her a glance most bewitchingly tender, Loll'd back in his chair, put his toes on the fender, And told her outright How that he, a young Knight, Had never been last at a feast or a fight; But that keeping good cheer Every day in the year, And drinking neat wines all the same as small-beer, Had exhausted his rent, And, his money all spent, How he borrow'd large sums at two hundred per cent.; How they follow'd--and then, The once civilest of men, Messrs. Howard and Gibbs, made him bitterly rue it he'd Ever raised money by way of annuity; And, his mortgages being about to foreclose, How he jumped into the river to finish his woes!

Lurline was affected, and own'd, with a tear, That a story so mournful had ne'er met her ear: Rupert, hearing her sigh, Look'd uncommonly sly, And said, with some emphasis, "Ah! miss, had I A few pounds of those metals You waste here on kettles, Then, Lord once again Of my spacious domain, A free Count of the Empire once more I might reign, With Lurline at my side, My adorable bride (For the parson should come, and the knot should be tied); No couple so happy on earth should be seen As Sir Rupert the brave and his charming Lurline; Not that money's my object--No, hang it! I scorn it-- And as for my rank--but that YOU'D so adorn it-- I'd abandon it all To remain your true thrall, And, instead of 'the GREAT,' be call'd 'Rupert the SMALL,' --To gain but your smiles, were I Sardanapalus, I'd descend from my throne, and be boots at an alehouse."

Lurline hung her head Turn'd pale, and then red, Growing faint at this sudden proposal to wed, As though his abruptness, in "popping the question" So soon after dinner, disturb'd her digestion. Then, averting her eye, With a lover-like sigh, "You are welcome," she murmur'd in tones most bewitching, "To every utensil I have in my kitchen!" Upstarted the Knight, Half mad with delight, Round her finely-form'd waist He immediately placed One arm, which the lady most closely embraced, Of her lily-white fingers the other made capture, And he press'd his adored to his bosom with rapture, "And, oh!" he exclaim'd, "let them go catch my skiff, I'll be home in a twinkling and back in a jiffy, Nor one moment procrastinate longer my journey Than to put up the bans and kick out the attorney."

One kiss to her lip, and one squeeze to her hand And Sir Rupert already was half-way to land, For a sour-visaged Triton, With features would frighten Old Nick, caught him up in one hand, though no light one, Sprang up through the waves, popp'd him into his funny, Which some others already had half-fill'd with money; In fact, 'twas so heavily laden with ore And pearls, 'twas a mercy he got it to shore; But Sir Rupert was strong, And while pulling along, Still he heard, faintly sounding, the water-nymphs' song.

LAY OF THE NAIADS.

"Away! away! to the mountain's brow, Where the castle is darkly frowning; And the vassals, all in goodly row, Weep for their lord a-drowning! Away! away! to the steward's room, Where law with its wig and robe is; Throw us out John Doe and Richard Roe, And sweetly we'll tidde their tobies!"

The unearthly voices scarce had ceased their yelling, When Rupert reach'd his old baronial dwelling.

What rejoicing was there! How the vassals did stare! The old housekeeper put a clean shirt down to air, For she saw by her lamp That her master's was damp, And she fear'd he'd catch cold, and lumbago, and cramp; But, scorning what she did, The Knight never heeded Wet jacket, or trousers, or thought of repining, Since their pockets had got such a delicate lining. But, oh! what dismay Fill'd the tribe of Ca Sa, When they found he'd the cash, and intended to pay! Away went "cognovits," "bills," "bonds," and "escheats," Rupert cleared off old scores, and took proper receipts.

Now no more he sends out, For pots of brown stout, Or schnapps, but resolves to do henceforth without, Abjure from this hour all excess and ebriety, Enroll himself one of a Temp'rance Society, All riot eschew, Begin life anew, And new-cushion and hassock the family pew! Nay, to strengthen him more in this new mode of life He boldly determined to take him a wife.

Now, many would think that the Knight, from a nice sense Of honor, should put Lurline's name in the license, And that, for a man of his breeding and quality, To break faith and troth, Confirm'd by an oath, Is not quite consistent with rigid morality; But whether the nymph was forgot, or he thought her From her essence scarce wife, but at best wife-and-water And declined as unsuited, A bride so diluted-- Be this as it may, He, I'm sorry to say For, all things consider'd, I own 'twas a rum thing, Made proposals in form to Miss Una Von--something (Her name has escaped me), sole heiress, and niece To a highly respectable Justice of Peace.

"Thrice happy's the wooing That's not long a-doing!" So much time is saved in the billing and cooing-- The ring is now bought, the white favors, and gloves, And all the et cetera which crown people's loves; A magnificent bride-cake comes home from the baker. And lastly appears, from the German Long Acre, That shaft which, the sharpest in all Cupid's quiver is, A plumb-color'd coach, and rich Pompadour liveries,

'Twas a comely sight To behold the Knight, With his beautiful bride, dress'd all in white, And the bridemaids fair with their long lace vails, As they all walk'd up to the altar rails, While nice little boys, the incense dispensers, March'd in front with white surplices, bands, and gilt censers.

With a gracious air, and a smiling look, Mess John had open'd his awful book, And had read so far as to ask if to wed he meant? And if "he knew any just cause or impediment?" When from base to turret the castle shook!!! Then came a sound of a mighty rain Dashing against each storied pane, The wind blew loud, And coal-black cloud O'ershadow'd the church, and the party, and crowd; How it could happen they could not divine, The morning had been so remarkably fine!

Still the darkness increased, till it reach'd such a pass That the sextoness hasten'd to turn on the gas; But harder it pour'd, And the thunder roar'd, As if heaven and earth were coming together; None ever had witness'd such terrible weather. Now louder it crash'd, And the lightning flash'd, Exciting the fears Of the sweet little dears In the vails, as it danced on the brass chandeliers; The parson ran off, though a stout-hearted Saxon, When he found that a flash had set fire to his caxon.

Though all the rest trembled, as might be expected, Sir Rupert was perfectly cool and collected, And endeavor'd to cheer His bride, in her ear Whisp'ring tenderly, "Pray don't be frighten'd, my dear Should it even set fire to the castle, and burn it, you're Amply insured, both for buildings and furniture." But now, from without, A trustworthy scout Rush'd hurriedly in-- Wet through to the skin, Informing his master 'the river was rising, And flooding the grounds in a way quite surprising.'

He'd no time to say more, For already the roar Of the waters was heard as they reach'd the church-door, While, high on the first wave that roll'd in, was seen, Riding proudly, the form of the angry Lurline; And all might observe, by her glance fierce and stormy, She was stung by the spretoe injuria formoe.

What she said to the Knight, what she said to the bride, What she said to the ladies who stood by her side, What she said to the nice little boys in white clothes, Oh, nobody mentions--for nobody knows; For the roof tumbled in, and the walls tumbled out, And the folks tumbled down, all confusion and rout, The rain kept on pouring, The flood kept on roaring, The billows and water-nymphs roll'd more and more in Ere the close of the day All was clean wash'd away-- One only survived who could hand down the news, A little old woman that open'd the pews; She was borne off, but stuck, By the greatest good luck, In an oak-tree, and there she hung, crying and screaming, And saw all the rest swallow'd up the wild stream in; In vain, all the week, Did the fishermen seek For the bodies, and poke in each cranny and creek; In vain was their search After aught in the church, They caught nothing but weeds, and perhaps a few perch. The Humane Society Tried a variety Of methods, and brought down, to drag for the wreck, tackles But they only fished up the clerk's tortoise-shell spectacles.

MORAL.

This tale has a moral. Ye youths, oh, beware Of liquor, and how you run after the fair! Shun playing at SHORTS--avoid quarrels and jars-- And don't take to smoking those nasty cigars! --Let no run of bad-luck, or despair for some Jewess-eyed Damsel, induce you to contemplate suicide! Don't sit up much later than ten or eleven!-- Be up in the morning by half after seven! Keep from flirting--nor risk, warn'd by Rupert's miscarriage, An action for breach of a promise of marriage;-- Don't fancy odd fishes! Don't prig silver dishes! And to sum up the whole, in the shortest phrase I know, BEWARE OF THE RHINE, AND TAKE CARE OF THE RHINO!

LOOK AT THE CLOCK. R. HARRIS BARHAM.

"Look at the Clock!" quoth Winifred Pryce, As she opened the door to her husband's knock, Then paused to give him a piece of advice, "You nasty Warmint, look at the Clock! Is this the way, you Wretch, every day you Treat her who vow'd to love and obey you?-- Out all night! Me in a fright! Staggering home as it's just getting light! You intoxified brute!--you insensible block!-- Look at the Clock!--Do!--Look at the Clock!"

Winifred Pryce was tidy and clean, Her gown was a flower'd one, her petticoat green, Her buckles were bright as her milking-cans, Her hat was a beaver, and made like a man's; Her little red eyes were deep set in their socket-holes, Her gown-tail was turn'd up, and tuck'd through the pocket-holes; A face like a ferret Betoken'd her spirit: To conclude, Mrs. Pryce was not over young, Had very short legs, and a very long tongue.

Now David Pryce Had one darling vice; Remarkably partial to any thing nice, Nought that was good to him came amiss, Whether to eat, or to drink or to kiss! Especially ale-- If it was not too stale I really believe he'd have emptied a pail; Not that in Wales They talk of their Ales: To pronounce the word they make use of might trouble you, Being spelt with a C, two R's, and a W.

That particular day, As I've heard people say, Mr. David Pryce had been soaking his clay, And amusing himself with his pipe and cheroots, The whole afternoon at the Goat-in-Boots, With a couple more soakers, Thoroughbred smokers, Both, like himself, prime singers and jokers; And, long after day had drawn to a close, And the rest of the world was wrapp'd in repose, They were roaring out "Shenkin!" and "Ar hydd y nos;" While David himself, to a Sassenach tune, Sang, "We've drunk down the Sun, boys! let's drink down the Moon! What have we with day to do? Mrs. Winifred Pryce, 't was made for you!"-- At length, when they couldn't well drink any more, Old "Goat-in-Boots" showed them the door: And then came that knock, And the sensible shock David felt when his wife cried, "Look at the Clock!" For the hands stood as crooked as crooked might be, The long at the Twelve, and the short at the Three!

That self-same clock had long been a bone Of contention between this Darby and Joan; And often, among their pother and rout, When this otherwise amiable couple fell out,

Pryce would drop a cool hint, With an ominous squint At its case, of an "Uncle" of his, who'd a "Spout." That horrid word "Spout" No sooner came out Than Winifred Pryce would turn her about, And with scorn on her lip, And a hand on each hip, "Spout" herself till her nose grew red at the tip, "You thundering Willin, I know you'd be killing Your wife,--ay, a dozen of wives,--for a shilling! You may do what you please, You may sell my chemise (Mrs. P. was too well-bred to mention her stock), But I never will part with my Grandmother's Clock!"

Mrs. Pryce's tongue ran long and ran fast, But patience is apt to wear out at last, And David Pryce in temper was quick, So he stretch'd out his hand, and caught hold of a stick; Perhaps in its use he might mean to be lenient, But walking just then wasn't very convenient, So he threw it, instead, Direct at her head; It knock'd off her hat; Down she fell flat; Her case, perhaps, was not much mended by that: But whatever it was,--whether rage and pain Produced apoplexy, or burst a vein, Or her tumble induced a concussion of brain, I can't say for certain,--but THIS I can, When sober'd by fright, to assist her he ran, Mrs. Winifred Pryce was dead as Queen Anne!

The fatal catastrophe Named in my last strophe As adding to grim Death's exploits such a vast trophy, Made a great noise; and the shocking fatality, Ran over, like wild-fire, the whole Principality. And then came Mr. Ap Thomas, the Coroner, With his jury to sit, some dozen or more, on her.

Mr. Pryce to commence His "ingenious defense," Made a "powerful appeal" to the jury's "good sense," "The world he must defy Ever to justify Any presumption of 'Malice Prepense;'"-- The unlucky lick From the end of his stick He "deplored"--he was "apt to be rather too quick;"-- But, really, her prating Was so aggravating: Some trifling correction was just what he meant;--all The rest, he assured them, was "quite accidental!"

Then he calls Mr. Jones, Who depones to her tones, And her gestures and hints about "breaking his bones," While Mr. Ap Morgan, and Mr. Ap Rhys Declared the deceased Had styled him "a Beast," And swear they had witness'd, with grief and surprise, The allusion she made to his limbs and his eyes.

The jury, in fine, having sat on the body The whole day, discussing the case, and gin-toddy, Return'd about half-past eleven at night The following verdict, "We find, SARVE HER RIGHT!"

Mr. Pryce, Mrs. Winifred Pryce being dead, Felt lonely, and moped; and one evening he said He would marry Miss Davis at once in her stead.

Not far from his dwelling, From the vale proudly swelling, Rose a mountain, it's name you'll excuse me from telling For the vowels made use of in Welsh are so few That the A and the E, the I, O, and the U, Have really but little or nothing to do; And the duty, of course, falls the heavier by far, On the L, and the H, and the N, and the R, Its first syllable "PEN," Is pronounceable;--then Come two LL's, and two HH's, two FF's, and an N; About half a score R's and some Ws follow, Beating all my best efforts at euphony hollow: But we shan't have to mention it often, so when We do, with your leave, we'll curtail it to "PEN."

Well--the moon shone bright Upon "PEN" that night, When Pryce, being quit of his fuss and his fright, Was scaling its side With that sort of stride A man puts out when walking in search of a bride Mounting higher and higher, He began to perspire, Till, finding his legs were beginning to tire, And feeling opprest By a pain in his chest, He paus'd, and turn'd round to take breath, and to rest; A walk all up hill is apt, we know, To make one, however robust, puff and blow, So he stopp'd, and look'd down on the valley below.

O'er fell, and o'er fen, Over mountain and glen, All bright in the moonshine, his eye roved, and then All the Patriot rose in his soul, and he thought Upon Wales, and her glories, and all he'd been taught Of her Heroes of old, So brave and so bold,-- Of her Bards with long beards, and harps mounted in gold Of King Edward the First, Of memory accurst; And the scandalous manner in which he behaved, Killing Poets by dozens, With their uncles and cousins, Of whom not one in fifty had ever been shaved-- Of the Court Ball, at which, by a lucky mishap, Owen Tudor fell into Queen Katherine's lap; And how Mr. Tudor, Successfully woo'd her, Till the Dowager put on a new wedding ring, And so made him Father-in law to the King.

He thought upon Arthur, and Merlin of yore, On Gryffith ap Conan, and Owen Glendour; On Pendragon, and Heaven knows how many more. He thought of all this, as he gazed, in a trice, On all things, in short, but the late Mrs. Pryce; When a lumbering noise from behind made him start, And sent the blood back in full tide to his heart, Which went pit-a-pat As he cried out "What's that?"-- That very queer sound?-- Does it come from the ground? Or the air,--from above,--or below,--or around?-- It is not like Talking, It is not like Walking, It's not like the clattering of pot or of pan, Or the tramp of a horse,--or the tread of a man,-- Or the hum of a crowd,--or the shouting of boys,-- It's really a deuced odd sort of a noise! Not unlike a cart's,--but that can't be;--for when Could "all the King's horses, and all the King's men," With Old Nick for a wagoner, drive one up "PEN?"

Pryce, usually brimful of valor when drunk, Now experienced what school-boys denominate "funk." In vain he look'd back On the whole of the track He had traversed; a thick cloud, uncommonly black, At this moment obscured the broad disc of the moon, And did not seem likely to pass away soon; While clearer and clearer, 'Twas plain to the hearer, Be the noise what it might, it drew nearer and nearer, And sounded, as Pryce to this moment declares, Very much "like a coffin a-walking up stairs."

Mr. Pryce had begun To "make up" for a run, As in such a companion he saw no great fun, When a single bright ray Shone out on the way He had passed, and he saw, with no little dismay, Coming after him, bounding o'er crag and o'er rock, The deceased Mrs. Winifred's "Grandmother's Clock!!"

'Twas so!--it had certainly moved from its place, And come, lumbering on thus, to hold him in chase; 'Twas the very same Head, and the very same Case, And nothing was altered at all--but the Face! In that he perceived, with no little surprise, The two little winder-holes turn'd into eyes Blazing with ire, Like two coals of fire; And the "Name of the Maker" was changed to a Lip, And the Hands to a Nose with a very red tip, No!--he could not mistake it,--'twas SHE to the life! The identical face of his poor defunct Wife!

One glance was enough Completely "Quant. suff." As the doctors write down when they send you their "stuff,"-- Like a Weather-cock whirled by a vehement puff, David turned himself round; Ten feet of ground He clear'd, in his start, at the very first bound!

I've seen people run at West End Fair for cheeses-- I've seen Ladies run at Bow Fair for chemises-- At Greenwich Fair twenty men run for a hat, And one from a Bailiff much faster than that-- At foot-ball I've seen lads run after the bladder-- I've seen Irish Bricklayers run up a ladder-- I've seen little boys run away from a cane-- And I've seen (that is, READ OF) good running in Spain; But I never did read Of, or witness such speed As David exerted that evening.--Indeed All I have ever heard of boys, women, or men, Falls far short of Pryce, as he ran over "PEN!"

He reaches its brow,-- He has past it,--and now Having once gained the summit, and managed to cross it, he Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity; But, run as he will, Or roll down the hill, That bugbear behind him is after him still!

And close at his heels, not at all to his liking, The terrible clock keeps on ticking and striking, Till, exhausted and sore, He can't run any more, But falls as he reaches Miss Davis's door, And screams when they rush out, alarm'd at his knock, "Oh! Look at the Clock!--Do!--Look at the Clock!!"

Miss Davis look'd up, Miss Davis look'd down, She saw nothing there to alarm her;--a frown Came o'er her white forehead, She said, "It was horrid A man should come knocking at that time of night, And give her Mamma and herself such a fright;-- To squall and to bawl About nothing at all!" She begg'd "he'd not think of repeating his call; His late wife's disaster By no means had past her," She'd "have him to know she was meat for his Master!" Then regardless alike of his love and his woes, She turn'd on her heel and she turn'd up her nose,

Poor David in vain Implored to remain, He "dared not," he said, "cross the mountain again." Why the fair was obdurate None knows,--to be sure it Was said she was setting her cap at the Curate;-- Be that as it may, it is certain the sole hole Pryce found to creep into that night was the Coal-hole! In that shady retreat With nothing to eat And with very bruised limbs, and with very sore feet, All night close he kept; I can't say he slept; But he sigh'd, and he sobb'd, and he groan'd, and he wept; Lamenting his sins, And his two broken shins, Bewailing his fate with contortions and grins, And her he once thought a complete Rara Avis, Consigning to Satan,--viz., cruel Miss Davis'

Mr. David has since had a "serious call," He never drinks ale, wine, or spirits, at all, And they say he is going to Exeter Hall To make a grand speech, And to preach, and to teach People that "they can't brew their malt liquor too small!" That an ancient Welsh Poet, one PYNDAR AP TUDOR, Was right in proclaiming "ARISTON MEN UDOR!" Which means "The pure Element Is for Man's belly meant!" And that GIN'S but a SNARE of Old Nick the deluder!

And "still on each evening when pleasure fills up," At the old Goat-in-Boots, with Metheglin, each cup Mr. Pryce, if he's there, Will get into "The Chair," And make all his QUONDAM associates stare By calling aloud to the Landlady's daughter, "Patty, bring a cigar, and a glass of Spring Water!" The dial he constantly watches; and when The long hand's at the "XII.," and the short at the "X.," He gets on his legs, Drains his glass to the dregs, Takes his hat and great-coat off their several pegs, With his President's hammer bestows his last knock, And says solemnly--"Gentlemen! LOOK AT THE CLOCK!!!"

THE BAGMAN'S DOG. R. HARRIS BARHAM.

Stant littore Puppies!--VIRGIL.

It was a litter, a litter of five, Four are drown'd, and one left alive, He was thought worthy alone to survive; And the Bagman resolved upon bringing him up, To eat of his bread, and to drink of his cup, He was such a dear little cock-tail'd pup!

The Bagman taught him many a trick; He would carry, and fetch, and run after a stick, He could well understand The word of command, And appear to doze With a crust on his nose Till the Bagman permissively waved his hand: Then to throw up and catch it he never would fail, As he sat up on end, on his little cock-tail. Never was puppy so bien instruit, Or possess'd of such natural talent as he; And as he grew older, Every beholder Agreed he grew handsomer, sleeker, and bolder.

Time, however his wheels we may clog, Wends steadily still with onward jog, And the cock-tail'd puppy's a curly-tail'd dog! When, just at the time He was reaching his prime, And all thought he'd be turning out something sublime, One unlucky day, How no one could say, Whether soft liaison induced him to stray, Or some kidnapping vagabond coaxed him away, He was lost to the view, Like the morning dew;-- He had been, and was not--that's all that they knew And the Bagman storm'd, and the Bagman swore As never a Bagman had sworn before; But storming or swearing but little avails To recover lost dogs with great curly tails.

In a large paved court, close by Billiter Square, Stands a mansion, old, but in thorough repair, The only thing strange, from the general air Of its size and appearance, is how it got there; In front is a short semicircular stair Of stone steps--some half score-- Then you reach the ground floor, With a shell-pattern'd architrave over the door.

It is spacious, and seems to be built on the plan Of a Gentleman's house in the time of Queen Anne; Which is odd, for, although As we very well know, Under Tudors and Stuarts the City could show Many Noblemen's seats above Bridge and below, Yet that fashion soon after induced them to go From St. Michael Cornhill, and St. Mary-le-Bow, To St. James, and St. George, and St. Anne in Soho-- Be this as it may--at the date I assign To my tale--that's about Seventeen Sixty-Nine-- This mansion, now rather upon the decline, Had less dignified owners--belonging, in fine, To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne-- A respectable House in the Manchester line.

There were a score Of Bagmen, and more, Who had travel'd full oft for the firm before, But just at this period they wanted to send Some person on whom they could safely depend-- A trust-worthy body, half agent, half friend-- On some mercantile matter, as far as Ostend; And the person they pitch'd on was Anthony Blogg A grave, steady man, not addicted to grog-- The Bagman, in short, who had lost the great dog.

* * * * * *

"The Sea! the Sea! the open Sea!-- That is the place where we all wish to be, Rolling about on it merrily!" So all sing and say By night and by day, In the boudoir, the street, at the concert, and play, In a sort of coxcombical roundelay;-- You may roam through the City, transversely or straight From Whitechapel turnpike to Cumberland gate, And every young Lady who thrums a guitar, Ev'ry mustached Shopman who smokes a cigar, With affected devotion Promulgates his notion Of being a "Rover" and "Child of the Ocean"--

Whate'er their age, sex, or condition may be, They all of them long for the "Wide, Wide Sea!" But, however they dote, Only set them afloat In any craft bigger at all than a boat, Take them down to the Nore, And you'll see that, before The "Wessel" they "Woyage" in has made half her way Between Shell-Ness Point and the pier at Herne Bay, Let the wind meet the tide in the slightest degree, They'll be all of them heartily sick of "the Sea!"

* * * * * *

I've stood in Margate, on a bridge of size Inferior far to that described by Byron, Where "palaces and pris'ns on each hand rise--" --That too's a stone one, this is made of iron-- And little donkey-boys your steps environ, Each proffering for your choice his tiny hack, Vaunting its excellence; and, should you hire one, For sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack, The much-enduring beast to Buenos Ayres--and back.

And there, on many a raw and gusty day, I've stood, and turn'd my gaze upon the pier, And seen the crews, that did embark so gay That self-same morn, now disembark so queer; Then to myself I've sigh'd and said, "Oh dear! Who would believe yon sickly-looking man's a London Jack Tar--a Cheapside Buccaneer!--" But hold, my Muse!--for this terrific stanza Is all too stiffly grand for our Extravaganza.

* * * * *

"So now we'll go up, up, up, And now we'll go down, down, down, And now we'll go backward and forward, And now we'll go roun', roun', roun'."-- --I hope you've sufficient discernment to see, Gentle Reader, that here the discarding the D Is a fault which you must not attribute to me; Thus my Nurse cut it off when, "with counterfeit glee," She sung, as she danced me about on her knee,

In the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and three: All I mean to say is, that the Muse is now free From the self-imposed trammels put on by her betters, And no longer like Filch, midst the felons and debtors, At Drury Lane, dances her hornpipe in fetters. Resuming her track, At once she goes back To our hero, the Bagman--Alas! and Alack! Poor Anthony Blogg Is as sick as a dog, Spite of sundry unwonted potations of grog, By the time the Dutch packet is fairly at sea, With the sands called the Goodwins a league on her lee.

And now, my good friends, I've a fine opportunity To obfuscate you all by sea terms with impunity, And talking of "calking," And "quarter-deck walking," "Fore and aft," And "abaft," "Hookers," "barkeys," and "craft," (At which Mr. Poole has so wickedly laughed), Of binnacles--bilboes--the boom call'd the spanker, The best bower-cable--the jib--and sheet-anchor; Of lower-deck guns--and of broadsides and chases, Of taffrails and topsails, and splicing main-braces, And "Shiver my timbers!" and other odd phrases Employ'd by old pilots, with hard-featured faces;-- Of the expletives sea-faring Gentlemen use, The allusions they make to the eyes of their crews;-- How the Sailors, too, swear, How they cherish their hair, And what very long pigtails a great many wear.-- But, Reader, I scorn it--the fact is, I fear, To be candid, I can't make these matters so clear As Marryat, or Cooper, or Captain Chamier, Or Sir E. Lytton Bulwer, who brought up the rear Of the "Nauticals," just at the end of the year Eighteen thirty-nine--(how Time flies!--Oh, dear!)-- With a well-written preface, to make it appear That his play, the "Sea-Captain," 's by no means small beer.

There!--"brought up the rear"--you see there's a mistake Which none of the authors I've mentioned would make, I ought to have said, that he "sail'd in their wake."-- So I'll merely observe, as the water grew rougher The more my poor hero continued to suffer, Till the Sailors themselves cried, in pity, "Poor Buffer!"

Still rougher it grew, And still harder it blew, And the thunder kick'd up such a hullballoo, That even the Skipper began to look blue; While the crew, who were few, Look'd very queer, too, And seem'd not to know what exactly to do, And they who'd the charge of them wrote in the logs, "Wind N. E.--blows a hurricane--rains cats and dogs." In short it soon grew to a tempest as rude as That Shakspeare describes near the "still vex'd Bermudas," When the winds, in their sport, Drove aside from its port The King's ship, with the whole Neapolitan Court, And swamp'd it to give "the King's Son, Ferdinand," a Soft moment or two with the Lady Miranda, While her Pa met the rest, and severely rebuked 'em For unhandsomely doing him out of his Dukedom, You don't want me, however, to paint you a Storm, As so many have done, and in colors so warm; Lord Byron, for instance, in manner facetious, Mr. Ainsworth, more gravely,--see also Lucretius, --A writer who gave me no trifling vexation When a youngster at school, on Dean Colet's foundation.-- Suffice it to say That the whole of that day, And the next, and the next, they were scudding away Quite out of their course, Propell'd by the force Of those flatulent folks known in Classical story as Aquilo, Libs, Notus, Auster, and Boreas, Driven quite at their mercy 'Twist Guernsey and Jersey, Till at length they came bump on the rocks and the shallows In West longtitude, One, fifty-seven, near St. Maloes;

There you will not be surprised That the vessel capsized, Or that Blogg, who had made, from intestine commotions, His specific gravity less than the Ocean's, Should go floating away, 'Mid the surges and spray, Like a cork in a gutter, which, swoll'n by a shower, Runs down Holborn-hill about nine knots an hour.

You've seen, I've no doubt, at Bartholomew fair, Gentle Header,--that is, if you've ever been there,-- With their hands tied behind them, some two or three pair Of boys round a bucket set up on a chair, Skipping, and dipping Eyes, nose, chin, and lip in, Their faces and hair with the water all dripping, In an anxious attempt to catch hold of a pippin, That bobs up and down in the water whenever They touch it, as mocking the fruitless endeavor; Exactly as Poets say,--how, though, they can't tell us,-- Old Nick's Nonpareils play at bob with poor Tantalus --Stay!--I'm not clear, But I'm rather out here; 'T was the water itself that slipp'd from him, I fear; Faith, I can't recollect, and I haven't Lempriere-- No matter,--poor Blogg went on clucking and bobbing, Sneezing out the salt water, and gulping and sobbing, Just as Clarence, in Shakspeare, describes all the qualms he Experienced while dreaming they'd drown'd him in Malmsey.

"O Lord," he thought, "what pain it was to drown!" And saw great fishes with great goggling eyes, Glaring as he was bobbing up and down, And looking as they thought him quite a prize, When, as he sank, and all was growing dark, A something seized him with its jaws!--A shark?--

No such thing, Reader--most opportunely for Blogg, 'Twas a very large, web-footed, curly-tail'd Dog!

* * * * * * *

I'm not much of a trav'ler, and really can't boast That I know a great deal of the Brittany coast, But I've often heard say That e'en to this day, The people of Granville, St. Maloes, and thereabout, Are a class that society doesn't much care about; Men who gam their subsistence by contraband dealing, And a mode of abstraction strict people call "stealing," Notwithstanding all which, they are civil of speech, Above all to a stranger who comes within reach; And they were so to Bogg, When the curly-tail'd Dog At last dragged him out, high and dry on the beach. But we all have been told, By the proverb of old, By no means to think "all that glitters is gold," And, in fact, some advance That most people in France Join the manners and air of a Maitre de Danse, To the morals--(as Johnson of Chesterfield said)-- Of an elderly Lady, in Babylon bred, Much addicted to flirting, and dressing in red.-- Be this as it might, It embarrass'd Blogg quite To find those about him so very polite.

A suspicious observer perhans might have traced The petiles soins, tendered with so much good taste To the sight of an old-fashion'd pocket-book, placed In a black leather belt well secured round his waist And a ring set with diamonds, his finger that graced, So brilliant, no one could have guess'd they were paste. The group on the shore Consisted of four, You will wonder, perhaps, there were not a few more; But the fact is they've not, in that part of the nation, What Malthus would term, a "too dense population," Indeed the sole sign of man's habitation Was merely a single Rude hut, in a dingle That led away inland direct from the shingle Its sides clothed with underwood, gloomy and dark, Some two hundred yards above high-water mark; And thither the party, So cordial and hearty, Viz., an old man, his wife, two lads, made a start, he The Bagman, proceeding, With equal good breeding, To express, in indifferent French, all he feels, The great curly-tail'd Dog keeping close to his heels.-- They soon reach'd the hut, which seem'd partly in ruin, All the way bowing, chattering, shrugging, Mon-Dieuing, Grimacing, and what sailors call parley-vooing,

* * * * * * *

Is it Paris, or Kitchener, Reader, exhorts You, whenever your stomach's at all out of sorts, To try, if you find richer viands won't stop in it, A basin of good mutton broth with a chop in it? (Such a basin and chop as I once heard a witty one Call, at the Garrick, "a c--d Committee one," An expression, I own, I do not think a pretty one.) However, it's clear That with sound table beer, Such a mess as I speak of is very good cheer; Especially too When a person's wet through, And is hungry, and tired, and don't know what to do. Now just such a mess of delicious hot pottage Was smoking away when they enter'd the cottage, And casting a truly delicious perfume Through the whole of an ugly ill-furnish'd room; "Hot, smoking hot," On the fire was a pot Well replenish'd, but really I can't say with what; For, famed as the French always are for ragouts, No creature can tell what they put in their stews, Whether bull-frogs, old gloves, or old wigs, or old shoes Notwithstanding, when offer'd I rarely refuse, Any more than poor Blogg did, when seeing the reeky Repast placed before him, scarce able to speak, he In ecstasy mutter'd, "By Jove, Cocky-leeky!" In an instant, as soon As they gave him a spoon.

Every feeling and faculty bent on the gruel, he No more blamed Fortune for treating him cruelly, But fell tooth and nail on the soup and the bouilli.

* * * * * *

Meanwhile that old man standing by, Subducted his long coat-tails on high, With his back to the fire, as if to dry A part of his dress which the watery sky Had visited rather inclemently.-- Blandly he smil'd, but still he look'd sly, And something sinister lurk'd in his eye, Indeed, had you seen him his maritime dress in, You'd have own'd his appearance was not prepossessing; He'd a "dreadnought" coat, and heavy sabots, With thick wooden soles turn'd up at the toes, His nether man cased in a striped quelque chose, And a hump on his back, and a great hook'd nose, So that nine out of ten would be led to suppose That the person before them was Punch in plain clothes.

Yet still, as I told you, he smiled on all present, And did all that lay in his power to look pleasant. The old woman, too, Made a mighty ado, Helping her guest to a deal of the stew; She fish'd up the meat, and she help'd him to that, She help'd him to lean, and she help'd him to fat. And it look'd like Hare--but it might have been Cat. The little garcons too strove to express Their sympathy toward the "Child of distress" With a great deal of juvenile French politesse; But the Bagman bluff Continued to "stuff" Of the fat, and the lean, and the tender, and tough, Till they thought he would never cry "Hold, enough!" And the old woman's tones became far less agreeable, Sounding like peste! and sacre! and diable!

I've seen an old saw, which is well worth repeating, That says, "Good Eatynge Deserveth good Drynkynge."

You'll find it so printed by Caxton or Wynkyn, And a very good proverb it is to my thinking. Blogg thought so too;-- As he finish'd his stew, His ear caught the sound of the word "Morbleu!" Pronounced by the old woman under her breath. Now, not knowing what she could mean by "Blue Death!" He conceiv'd she referr'd to a delicate brewing Which is almost synonymous,--namely, "Blue Ruin." So he pursed up his lip to a smile, and with glee, In his cockneyfy'd accent, responded "Oh, VEE!" Which made her understand he Was asking for brandy; So she turn'd to the cupboard, and, having some handy, Produced, rightly deeming he would not object to it, An oracular bulb with a very long neck to it; In fact you perceive her mistake was the same as his, Each of them "reasoning right from wrong premises;"-- --And here by the way Allow me to say, Kind Reader--you sometimes permit me to stray-- 'Tis strange the French prove, when they take to aspersing, So inferior to us in the science of cursing: Kick a Frenchman down stairs, How absurdly he swears! And how odd 'tis to hear him, when beat to a jelly, Roar out in a passion, "Blue Death!" and "Blue Belly!"

"To return to our sheep" from, this little digression:-- Blogg's features assumed a complacent expression As he emptied his glass, and she gave him a fresh one; Too little he heeded, How fast they succeeded. Perhaps you or I might have done, though, as he did; For when once Madam Fortune deals out her hard raps It's amazing to think How one "cottons" to Drink! At such times, of all things in nature, perhaps, There's not one that is half so seducing as Schnaps.

Mr. Blogg, beside being uncommonly dry, Was, like most other Bagmen, remarkably shy, --"Did not like to deny"-- "Felt obliged to comply" Every time that she ask'd him to "wet t' other eye;" For 'twas worthy remark that she spared not the stoup, Though before she had seem'd so to grudge him the soup, At length the fumes rose To his brain; and his nose Gave hints of a strong disposition to doze, And a yearning to seek "horizontal repose."-- His queer-looking host, Who, firm at his post, During all the long meal had continued to toast That garment 't were rude to Do more than allude to, Perceived, from his breathing and nodding, the views Of his guest were directed to "taking a snooze:" So he caught up a lamp in his huge dirty paw, With (as Blogg used to tell it) "Mounseer, swivvy maw!" And "marshal'd" him so "The way he should go," Up stairs to an attic, large, gloomy, and low, Without table or chair. Or a movable there, Save an old-fashion'd bedstead, much out of repair, That stood at the end most remov'd from the stair.-- With a grin and a shrug The host points to the rug, Just as much as to say, "There!--I think you'll be snug!" Puts the light on the floor, Walks to the door, Makes a formal Salaam, and is then seen no more; When just as the ear lost the sound of his tread, To the Bagman's surprise, and, at first, to his dread, The great curly tail'd Dog crept from under the bed!--

--It's a very nice thing when a man's in a fright, And thinks matters all wrong, to find matters all right; As, for instance, when going home late-ish at night Through a Church-yard, and seeing a thing all in white. Which, of course, one is led to consider a Sprite, To find that the Ghost Is merely a post. Or a miller, or chalky-faced donkey at most; Or, when taking a walk as the evenings begin To close, or, as some people call it, "draw in," And some undefined form, "looming large" through the haze Presents itself, right in your path, to your gaze, Inducing a dread Of a knock on the head, Or a sever'd carotid, to find that, instead Of one of those ruffians who murder and fleece men, It's your uncle, or one of the "Rural Policemen;"-- Then the blood flows again Through artery and vein; You're delighted with what just before gave you pain; You laugh at your fears--and your friend in the fog Meets a welcome as cordial as Anthony Blogg Now bestow'd on HIS friend--the great curly-tail'd Dog.

For the Dog leap'd up, and his paws found a place On each side his neck in a canine embrace, And he lick'd Blogg's hands, and he lick'd his face, And he waggled his tail as much as to say, "Mr. Blogg, we've foregather'd before to-day!" And the Bagman saw, as he now sprang up, What, beyond all doubt, He might have found out Before, had he not been so eager to sup, 'T was Sancho!--the Dog he had rear'd from a pup!-- The Dog who when sinking had seized his hair-- The Dog who had saved, and conducted him there-- The Dog he had lost out of Billiter Square!

It's passing sweet, An absolute treat, When friends, long sever'd by distance, meet-- With what warmth and affection each other they greet! Especially too, as we very well know, If there seems any chance of a little cadeau, A "Present from Brighton," or "Token" to show, In the shape of a work-box, ring, bracelet, or so, That our friends don't forget us, although they may go To Ramsgate, or Rome, or Fernando Po. If some little advantage seems likely to start, From a fifty-pound note to a two-penny tart, It's surprising to see how it softens the heart, And you'll find those whose hopes from the other are strongest, Use, in common, endearments the thickest and longest But, it was not so here; For although it is clear, When abroad, and we have not a single friend near, E'en a cur that will love us becomes very dear, And the balance of interest 'twixt him and the Dog Of course was inclining to Anthony Blogg, Yet he, first of all, ceased To encourage the beast, Perhaps thinking "Enough is as good as a feast;" And besides, as we've said, being sleepy and mellow, He grew tired of patting, and crying "Poor fellow!" So his smile by degrees harden'd into a frown, And his "That's a good dog!" into "Down, Sancho! down!"

But nothing could stop his mute fav'rite's caressing, Who, in fact, seem'd resolved to prevent his undressing, Using paws, tail, and head, As if he had said, "Most beloved of masters, pray, don't go to bed; You had much better sit up, and pat me instead!" Nay, at last, when determined to take some repose, Blogg threw himself down on the outside the clothes, Spite of all he could do, The Dog jump'd up too, And kept him awake with his very cold nose; Scratching and whining, And moaning and pining, Till Blogg really believed he must have some design in Thus breaking his rest; above all, when at length The Dog scratch'd him off from the bed by sheer strength.

Extremely annoy'd by the "tarnation whop," as it 's call'd in Kentuck, on his head and its opposite, Blogg show'd fight; When he saw, by the light Of the flickering candle, that had not yet quite Burnt down in the socket, though not over bright, Certain dark-color'd stains, as of blood newly spilt, Reveal'd by the dog's having scratch'd off the quilt-- Which hinted a story of horror and guilt'-- 'T was "no mistake,"-- He was "wide awake" In an instant; for, when only decently drunk, Nothing sobers a man so completely as "funk."

And hark!--what's that?-- They have got into chat In the kitchen below--what the deuce are they at?-- There's the ugly old Fisherman scolding his wife-- And she!--by the Pope! she's whetting a knife!-- At each twist Of her wrist, And her great mutton fist, The edge of the weapon sounds shriller and louder!-- The fierce kitchen fire Had not made Blogg perspire Half so much, or a dose of the best James's powder,-- It ceases--all's silent!--and now, I declare There's somebody crawls up that rickety stair.

* * * * * * *

The horrid old ruffian comes, cat-like, creeping;-- He opens the door just sufficient to peep in, And sees, as he fancies, the Bagman sleeping! For Blogg, when he'd once ascertain'd that there was some "Precious mischief" on foot, had resolv'd to play "'Possum;"-- Down he went, legs and head, Flat on the bed, Apparently sleeping as sound as the dead; While, though none who look'd at him would think such a thing Every nerve in his frame was braced up for a spring. Then, just as the villain Crept, stealthily still, in, And you'd not have insur'd his guest's life for a shilling, As the knife gleam'd on high, bright and sharp as a razor, Blogg, starting upright, "tipped" the fellow "a facer;"-- --Down went man and weapon.--Of all sorts of blows, From what Mr. Jackson reports, I suppose There are few that surpass a flush hit on the nose.

Now, had I the pen of old Ossian or Homer, (Though each of these names some pronounce a misnomer, And say the first person Was call'd James M'Pherson, While, as to the second, they stoutly declare He was no one knows who, and born no one knows where) Or had I the quill of Pierce Egan, a writer Acknowledged the best theoretical fighter For the last twenty years, By the lively young Peers, Who, doffing their coronets, collars, and ermine, treat Boxers to "Max," at the One Tun in Jermyn Street; --I say, could I borrow these Gentlemen's Muses, More skill'd than my meek one in "fibbings" and "bruises," I'd describe now to you As "prime a Set-to," And "regular turn-up," as ever you knew; Not inferior in "bottom" to aught you have read of Since Cribb, years ago, half knock'd Molyneux's head off. But my dainty Urania says, "Such things are shocking!" Lace mittens she loves, Detesting "The Gloves;" And turning, with air most disdainfully mocking, From Melpomene's buskin, adopts the silk stocking. So, as far as I can see, I must leave you to "fancy" The thumps, and the bumps, and the ups and the downs, And the taps, and the slaps, and the raps on the crowns, That pass'd 'twist the Husband, Wife, Bagman, and Dog, As Blogg roll'd over them, and they roll'd over Blogg; While what's called "The Claret" Flew over the garret: Merely stating the fact. As each other they whack'd, The Dog his old master most gallantly back'd; Making both the gargcos, who came running in, sheer off, With "Hippolyte's" thumb, and "Alphonse's" left ear off; Next making a stoop on The buffeting group on The floor, rent in tatters the old woman's jupon; Then the old man turn'd up, and a fresh bite of Sancho's Tore out the whole seat of his striped Calimancoes.-- Really, which way This desperate fray Might have ended at last, I'm not able to say, The dog keeping thus the assassins at bay: But a few fresh arrivals decided the day; For bounce went the door, In came half a score Of the passengers, sailors, and one or two more Who had aided the party in gaining the shore!

It's a great many years ago--mine then were few-- Since I spent a short time in the old Courageux; I think that they say She had been, in her day A First-rate,--but was then what they term a Rasee,-- And they took me on board in the Downs, where she lay (Captain Wilkinson held the command, by the way.) In her I pick'd up, on that single occasion, The little I know that concerns Navigation, And obtained, inter alia, some vague information Of a practice which often, in cases of robbing, Is adopted on shipboard--I think it's call'd "Cobbing." How it's managed exactly I really can't say, But I think that a Boot-jack is brought into play,--That is, if I'm right:--it exceeds my ability To tell how 'tis done; But the system is one Of which Sancho's exploit would increase the facility. And, from all I can learn, I'd much rather be robb'd Of the little I have in my purse, than be "cobb'd;"-- That's mere matter of taste: But the Frenchman was placed-- I mean the old scoundrel whose actions we've traced-- In such a position, that, on his unmasking, His consent was the last thing the men thought of asking.

The old woman, too, Was obliged to go through, With her boys, the rough discipline used by the crew, Who, before they let one of the set see the back of them, "Cobb'd" the whole party,--ay, "every man Jack of them."

MORAL.

And now, Gentle Reader, before that I say Farewell for the present, and wish you good-day. Attend to the moral I draw from my lay!--

If ever you travel, like Anthony Blogg, Be wary of strangers!--don't take too much grog!-- And don't fall asleep, if you should, like a hog!-- Above all--carry with you a curly-tail'd Dog!

Lastly, don't act like Blogg, who, I say it with blushing, Sold Sancho next month for two guineas at Flushing; But still on these words of the Bard keep a fix'd eye, INGRATUM SI DIXERIS, OMNIA DIXTI!!!

L'Envoye.

I felt so disgusted with Blogg, from sheer shame of him, I never once thought to inquire what became of him; If YOU want to know, Reader, the way. I opine, To achieve your design,-- --Mind, it's no wish of mine,-- Is,--(a penny will do't)--by addressing a line To Turner, Dry, Weipersyde, Rogers, and Pyne.

DAME FREDEGONDE. WILLIAM AYTOUS.

When folks with headstrong passion blind, To play the fool make up their mind, They're sure to come with phrases nice, And modest air, for your advice. But, as a truth unfailing make it, They ask, but never mean to take it. 'Tis not advice they want, in fact, But confirmation in their act. Now mark what did, in such a case, A worthy priest who knew the race.

A dame more buxom, blithe and free, Than Fredegonde you scarce would see. So smart her dress, so trim her shape, Ne'er hostess offer'd juice of grape, Could for her trade wish better sign; Her looks gave flavor to her wine, And each guest feels it, as he sips, Smack of the ruby of her lips. A smile for all, a welcome glad,-- A jovial coaxing way she had; And,--what was more her fate than blame,-- A nine months' widow was our dame. But toil was hard, for trade was good, And gallants sometimes will be rude. "And what can a lone woman do? The nights are long and eerie too. Now, Guillot there's a likely man. None better draws or taps a can; He's just the man, I think, to suit, If I could bring my courage to't." With thoughts like these her mind is cross'd: The dame, they say, who doubts, is lost. "But then the risk? I'll beg a slice. Of Father Raulin's good advice."

Frankt in her best, with looks demure, She seeks the priest; and, to be sure, Asks if he thinks she ought to wed: "With such a business on my head, I'm worried off my legs with care, And need some help to keep things square. I've thought of Guillot, truth to tell! He's steady, knows his business well, What do you think?" When thus he met her "Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better!" "But then the danger, my good pastor, If of the man I make the master. There is no trusting to these men." "Well, well, my dear, don't have him then!" "But help I must have, there's the curse. I may go further and fare worse." "Why, take him then!" "But if he should Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good,-- In drink and riot waste my all, And rout me out of house and hall?" "Don't have him, then! But I've a plan To clear your doubts, if any can. The bells a peal are ringing,--hark! Go straight, and what they tell you mark. If they say 'Yes!' wed, and be blest-- If 'No,' why--do as you think best."

The bells rung out a triple bob: Oh, how our widow's heart did throb, And thus she heard their burden go, "Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!" Bells were not then left to hang idle: A week,--and they rang for her bridal But, woe the while, they might as well Have rung the poor dame's parting knell. The rosy dimples left her cheek. She lost her beauties plump and sleek, For Guillot oftener kick'd than kiss'd, And back'd his orders with his fist, Proving by deeds as well as words, That servants make the worst of lords.

She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, And speaks as angry women speak, With tiger looks, and bosom swelling, Cursing the hour she took his telling. To all, his calm reply was this,-- "I fear you've read the bells amiss, If they have led you wrong in aught, Your wish, not they, inspired the thought, Just go, and mark well what they say." Off trudged the dame upon her way, And sure enough the chime went so,-- "Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot!"

"Too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt: What could my ears have been about!" She had forgot, that, as fools think, The bell is ever sure to clink.

THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

The noble king of Brentford Was old and very sick; He summoned his physicians To wait upon him quick; They stepped into their coaches, And brought their best physic.

They crammed their gracious master With potion and with pill; They drenched him and they bled him; They could not cure his ill. "Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer; I'd better make my will."

The monarch's royal mandate The lawyer did obey; The thought of six-and-eightpence Did make his heart full gay. "What is't," says he, "your majesty Would wish of me to-day?"

"The doctors have belabored me With potion and with pill; My hours of life are counted O man of tape and quill! Sit down and mend a pen or two, I want to make my will.

"O'er all the land of Brentford I'm lord and eke of Kew: I've three per cents and five per cents; My debts are but a few; And to inherit after me I have but children two.

"Prince Thomas is my eldest son, A sober prince is he; And from the day we breeched him, Till now he's twenty-three, He never caused disquiet To his poor mamma or me.

"At school they never flogged him; At college, though not fast, Yet his little go and great go He creditably passed, And made his year's allowance For eighteen months to last.

"He never owed a shilling, Went never drunk to bed, He has not two ideas Within his honest head; In all respects he differs From my second son, Prince Ned.

"When Tom has half his income Laid by at the year's end, Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver That rightly he may spend, But sponges on a tradesman, Or borrows from a friend.

"While Tom his legal studies Most soberly pursues, Poor Ned must pass his mornings A-dawdling with the Muse; While Tom frequents his banker, Young Ned frequents the Jews.

"Ned drives about in buggies, Tom sometimes takes a 'bus; Ah, cruel fate, why made you My children differ thus? Why make of Tom a DULLARD, And Ned a GENIUS?"

"You'll cut him with a shilling," Exclaimed the man of wits: "I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford, "Sir Lawyer, as befits; And portion both their fortunes Unto their several wits."

"Your grace knows best," the lawyer said, "On your commands I wait." "Be silent, sir," says Brentford, "A plague upon your prate! Come, take your pen and paper, And write as I dictate."

The will, as Brentford spoke it, Was writ, and signed, and closed; He bade the lawyer leave him, And turned him round, and dozed; And next week in the church-yard The good old king reposed.

Tom, dressed in crape and hatband, Of mourners was the chief; In bitter self-upbraidings Poor Edward showed his grief; Tom hid his fat, white countenance In his pocket handkerchief.

Ned's eyes were full of weeping, He faltered in his walk; Tom never shed a tear, But onward he did stalk, As pompous, black, and solemn, As any catafalque.

And when the bones of Brentford-- That gentle king and just-- With bell, and book, and candle, Were duly laid in dust, "Now, gentlemen," says Thomas, "Let business be discussed.

"When late our sire beloved Was taken deadly ill, Sir Lawyer, you attended him, (I mean to tax your bill;) And, as you signed and wrote it, I pr'ythee read the will."

The lawyer wiped his spectacles, And drew the parchment out; And all the Brentford family Sat eager round about: Poor Ned was somewhat anxious, But Tom had ne'er a doubt.

"My son, as I make ready To seek my last long home, Some cares I had for Neddy, But none for thee, my Tom: Sobriety and order You ne'er departed from.

"Ned hath a brilliant genius, And thou a plodding brain; On thee I think with pleasure, On him with doubt and pain." ("You see, good Ned," says Thomas "What he thought about us twain.")

"Though small was your allowance, You saved a little store; And those who save a little Shall get a plenty more." As the lawyer read this compliment, Tom's eyes were running o'er.

"The tortoise and the hare, Tom, Set out, at each his pace; The hare it was the fleeter, The tortoise won the race; And since the world's beginning, This ever was the case.

"Ned's genius, blithe and singing Steps gayly o'er the ground; As steadily you trudge it, He clears it with a bound; But dullness has stout legs, Tom, And wind that's wondrous sound.

"O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom, You pass with plodding feet; You heed not one nor t'other, But onward go your beat, While genius stops to loiter With all that he may meet.

"And ever, as he wanders, Will have a pretext fine For sleeping in the morning, Or loitering to dine, Or dozing in the shade, Or basking in the shine.

"Your little steady eyes, Tom, Though not so bright as those That restless round about him Your flashing genius throws, Are excellently suited To look before your nose.

"Thank heaven, then, for the blinkers It placed before your eyes; The stupidest are weakest, The witty are not wise; O, bless your good stupidity, It is your dearest prize! "And though my lands are wide, And plenty is my gold, Still better gifts from Nature, My Thomas, do you hold-- A brain that's thick and heavy, A heart that's dull and cold;

"Too dull to feel depression, Too hard to heed distress, Too cool to yield to passion, Or silly tenderness. March on--your road is open To wealth, Tom, and success.

"Ned sinneth in extravagance, And you in greedy lust." ("I' faith," says Ned, "our father Is less polite than just.") "In you, son Tom, I've confidence, But Ned I can not trust.

"Wherefore my lease and copyholds, My lands and tenements, My parks, my farms, and orchards, My houses and my rents, My Dutch stock, and my Spanish stock, My five and three per cents;

"I leave to you, my Thomas--" ("What, all?" poor Edward said; "Well, well, I should have spent them, And Tom's a prudent head.") "I leave to you, my Thomas,-- To you, IN TRUST for Ned."

The wrath and consternation What poet e'er could trace That at this fatal passage Came o'er Prince Tom his face; The wonder of the company, And honest Ned's amaze!

"'Tis surely some mistake," Good-naturedly cries Ned; The lawyer answered gravely, "'Tis even as I said; 'T was thus his gracious majesty Ordained on his death-bed.

"See, here the will is witnessed, And here's his autograph." "In truth, our father's writing," Said Edward, with a laugh; "But thou shalt not be loser, Tom, We'll share it half and half."

"Alas! my kind young gentleman, This sharing can not be; 'Tis written in the testament That Brentford spoke to me, 'I do forbid Prince Ned to give Prince Tom a half-penny.

"'He hath a store of money, But ne'er was known to lend it; He never helped his brother; The poor he ne'er befriended; He hath no need of property He knows not how to spend it.

"'Poor Edward knows but how to spend, And thrifty Tom to hoard; Let Thomas be the steward then, And Edward be the lord; And as the honest laborer Is worthy his reward,

"'I pray Prince Ned, my second son, And my successor dear, To pay to his intendant Five hundred pounds a year; And to think of his old father, And live and make good cheer.'"

Such was old Brentford's honest testament; He did devise his moneys for the best, And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest. Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent; But his good sire was wrong, it is confessed, To say his young son Thomas, never lent. He did. Young Thomas lent at interest, And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.

Long time the famous reign of Ned endured, O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew; But of extravagance he ne'er was cured. And when both died, as mortal men will do, 'T was commonly reported that the steward Was very much the richer of the two.

TITMARSH'S CARMEN LILLIENSE. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. LILLE, Sept. 2, 1843.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal? I have no money, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille.

I.

With twenty pounds but three weeks since From Paris forth did Titmarsh wheel, I thought myself as rich a prince As beggar poor I'm now at Lille.

Confiding in my ample means-- In troth, I was a happy chiel! I passed the gate of Valenciennes. I never thought to come by Lille.

I never thought my twenty pounds Some rascal knave would dare to steal; I gayly passed the Belgic bounds At Quievrain, twenty miles from Lille.

To Antwerp town I hastened post, And as I took my evening meal I felt my pouch,--my purse was lost, O Heaven! Why came I not by Lille?

I straightway called for ink and pen, To grandmamma I made appeal; Meanwhile a load of guineas ten I borrowed from a friend so leal.

I got the cash from grandmamma (Her gentle heart my woes could feel), But where I went, and what I saw, What matters? Here I am at Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal? I have no cash, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille.

II.

To stealing I can never come, To pawn my watch I'm too genteel, Besides, I left my watch at home; How could I pawn it, then, at Lille?

"La note," at times the guests will say, I turn as white as cold boiled veal: I turn and look another way, I dare not ask the bill at Lille.

I dare not to the landlord say, "Good sir, I can not pay your bill:" He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, And is quite proud I stay at Lille.

He thinks I am a Lord Anglais, Like Rothschild or Sir Robert Peel, And so he serves me every day The best of meat and drink in Lille.

Yet when he looks me in the face I blush as red as cochincal; And think did he but know my case, How changed he'd be, my host of Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone. How shall I e'er my woes reveal? I have no money, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille.

III.

The sun bursts out in furious blaze, I perspirate from head to heel; I'd like to hire a one-horse chaise; How can I, without cash, at Lille?

I pass in sunshine burning hot By cafes where in beer they deal; I think how pleasant were a pot, A frothing pot of beer of Lille!

What is yon house with walls so thick, All girt around with guard and grille? O, gracious gods, it makes me sick, It is the PRISON-HOUSE of Lille!

O cursed prison strong and barred, It does my very blood congeal! I tremble as I pass the guard, And quit that ugly part of Lille.

The church-door beggar whines and prays, I turn away at his appeal: Ah, church-door beggar! go thy ways! You're not the poorest man in Lille.

My heart is weary, my peace is gone, How shall I e'er my woes reveal? I have no money, I lie in pawn, A stranger in the town of Lille.

IV.

Say, shall I to yon Flemish church, And at a Popish altar kneel? O do not leave me in the lurch,-- I'll cry ye patron-saints of Lille!

Ye virgins dressed in satin hoops, Ye martyrs slain for mortal weal, Look kindly down! before you stoops The miserablest man in Lille.

And lo! as I beheld with awe A pictured saint (I swear 'tis real) It smiled, and turned to grandmamma!-- It did! and I had hope in Lille!

'T was five o'clock, and I could eat, Although I could not pay, my meal; I hasten back into the street Where lies my inn, the best in Lille.

What see I on my table stand,-- A letter with a well-known seal? 'Tis grandmamma's! I know her hand,-- "To Mr. M. A. Titmarsh, Lille."

I feel a choking in my throat, I pant and stagger, faint and reel! It is--it is--a ten pound note, And I'm no more in pawn at Lille!

[He goes off by the diligence that evening, and is restored to the bosom of his happy family.]

SHADOWS Lantern

DEEP! I own I start at shadows, Listen, I will tell you why; (Life itself is but a taper, Casting shadows till we die.)

Once, in Italy, at Florence, I a radiant girl adored: When she came, she saw, she conquered, And by Cupid I was floored.

Round my heart her glossy ringlets Were mysteriously entwined-- And her soft voluptuous glances All my inmost thoughts divined.

"Mia cara Mandolina! Are we not, indeed," I cried, "All the world to one another?" Mandolina, smiled and sighed.

Earth was Eden, she an angel, I a Jupiter enshrined-- Till one night I saw a damning DOUBLE SHADOW ON HER BLIND!

"Fire and fury! double shadows On their bed-room windows ne'er, To my knowledge, have been cast by Ladies virtuous and fair.

"False, abandoned, Mandolina! Fare thee well, for evermore! Vengeance!" shrieked I, "vengeance! vengeance!" And I thundered through the door.

This event occurred next morning; Mandolina staring sat, Stark amaz'd, as out I tumbled, Raving mad, without a hat!

Six weeks after I'd a letter, On its road six weeks delayed-- With a dozen re-directions From the lost one, and it said:

"Foolish, wicked, cruel Albert! Base suspicion's doubts resign; DOUBLE LIGHTS THROW DOUBLE SHADOWS! Mandolina--ever thine."

"Heavens, what an ass!" I muttered, "Not before to think of that!"-- And again I rushed excited To the rail, without a hat.

"Mandolina! Mandolina!" When her house I reached, I cried: "Pardon, dearest love!" she answered-- "I'm the Russian Consul's bride!"

Thus, by Muscovite barbarian, And by Fate, my life was crossed; Wonder ye I start at shadows? Types of Mandolina lost.

THE RETORT GEORGE P. MORRIS

Old Nick, who taught the village school, Wedded a maid of homespun habit; He was stubborn as a mule, She was playful as a rabbit.

Poor Jane had scarce become a wife, Before her husband sought to make her The pink of country-polished life, And prim and formal as a Quaker.

One day the tutor went abroad, And simple Jenny sadly missed him; When he returned, behind her lord She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him!

The husband's anger rose!--and red And white his face alternate grew! "Less freedom, ma'am!"--Jane sighed and said "OH, DEAR! I DIDN'T KNOW 'TWAS YOU!"

SATIRICAL

THE RABBLE: OR, WHO PAYS! SAMUEL BUTLER.

How various and innumerable Are those who live upon the rabble! 'Tis they maintain the Church and State, Employ the priest and magistrate; Bear all the charge of government, And pay the public fines and rent; Defray all taxes and excises, And impositions of all prices; Bear all th' expense of peace and war, And pay the pulpit and the bar; Maintain all churches and religions, And give their pastors exhibitions; And those who have the greatest flocks Are primitive and orthodox; Support all schismatics and sects, And pay them for tormenting texts; Take all their doctrines off their hands, And pay 'em in good rents and lands; Discharge all costly offices, The doctor's and the lawyer's fees, The hangman's wages, and the scores Of caterpillar bawds and whores; Discharge all damages and costs Of Knights and Squires of the Post; All statesmen, cut-purses, and padders, And pay for all their ropes and ladders; All pettifoggers, and all sorts Of markets, churches, and of courts; All sums of money paid or spent, With all the charges incident, Laid out, or thrown away, or given To purchase this world, Hell or Heaven.

THE CHAMELEON. MATTHEW PRIOR.

As the Chameleon who is known To have no colors of its own: But borrows from his neighbor's hue His white or black, his green or blue; And struts as much in ready light, Which credit gives him upon sight: As if the rainbow were in tail Settled on him, and his heirs male; So the young squire, when first he comes From country school to Will or Tom's: And equally, in truth is fit To be a statesman or a wit; Without one notion of his own, He saunters wildly up and down; Till some acquaintance, good or bad, Takes notice of a staring lad; Admits him in among the gang: They jest, reply, dispute, harangue; He acts and talks, as they befriend him, Smear'd with the colors which they lend him, Thus merely, as his fortune chances, His merit or his vice advances. If haply he the sect pursues, That road and comment upon news; He takes up their mysterious face: He drinks his coffee without lace. This week his mimic tongue runs o'er What they have said the week before; His wisdom sets all Europe right, And teaches Marlborough when to fight. Or if it be his fate to meet With folks who have more wealth than wit He loves cheap port, and double bub; And settles in the hum-drum club: He earns how stocks will fall or rise; Holds poverty the greatest vice; Thinks wit the bane of conversation; And says that learning spoils a nation. But if, at first, he minds his hits, And drinks champagne among the wits! Five deep he toasts the towering lasses; Repeats you verses wrote on glasses; Is in the chair; prescribes the law; And lies with those he never saw.

MERRY ANDREW. MATTHEW PRIOR.

SLY Merry Andrew, the last Southwark fair (At Barthol'mew he did not much appear: So peevish was the edict of the Mayor) At Southwark, therefore, as his tricks he show'd, To please our masters, and his friends the crowd; A huge neat's tongue he in his right hand held: His left was with a huge black pudding fill'd. With a grave look in this odd equipage, The clownish mimic traverses the stage: Why, how now, Andrew! cries his brother droll, To-day's conceit, methinks, is something dull: Come on, sir, to our worthy friends explain, What does your emblematic worship mean? Quoth Andrew; Honest English let us speak: Your emble--(what d' ye call 't) is heathen Greek. To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretense: Learning thy talent is, but mine is sense. That busy fool I was, which thou art now; Desirous to correct, not knowing how: With very good design, but little wit, Blaming or praising things, as I thought fit I for this conduct had what I deserv'd; And dealing honestly, was almost starv'd. But, thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat; Since I have found the secret to be great. O, dearest Andrew, says the humble droll, Henceforth may I obey and thou control; Provided thou impart thy useful skill.-- Bow then, says Andrew; and, for once, I will.-- Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says; Sleep very much: think little; and talk less; Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong, But eat your pudding, slave; and hold your tongue. A reverend prelate stopp'd his coach and six, To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks; But when he heard him give this golden rule, Drive on (he cried); this fellow is no fool.

JACK AND JOAN. MATTHEW PRIOR.

Stet quicunque volet potens Aulae culmine lubrico, &c. SENECA.

Interr'd beneath this marble stone Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan. While rolling threescore years and one Did round this globe their courses run; If human things went ill or well; If changing empires rose or fell; The morning past, the evening came, And found this couple still the same. They walk'd and eat, good folks: what then? Why then they walk'd and eat again: They soundly slept the night away; They just did nothing all the day; And having buried children four, Would not take pains to try for more; Nor sister either had, nor brother; They seem'd just tallied for each other. Their moral and economy Most perfectly they made agree: Each virtue kept its proper bound, Nor trespass'd on the other's ground, Nor fame, nor censure they regarded; They neither punish'd nor rewarded. He cared not what the footman did; Her maids she neither prais'd nor chid; So every servant took his course; And bad at first, they all grew worse. Slothful disorder filled his table; And sluttish plenty deck'd her table. Their beer was strong; their wine was port; Their meal was large; their grace was short. They gave the poor the remnant meat, Just when it grew not fit to eat. They paid the church and parish rate; And took, but read not the receipt: For which they claim their Sunday's due, Of slumbering in an upper pew. No man's defects sought they to know; So never made themselves a foe, No man's good deeds did they commend; So never rais'd themselves a friend. Nor cherish'd they relations poor; That might decrease their present store: Nor barn nor house did they repair; That might oblige their future heir. They neither added nor confounded; They neither wanted nor abounded. Each Christmas they accompts did clear, And wound their bottom round the year. Nor tear or smile did they employ At news of public grief or joy. When bells were rung, and bonfires made, If ask'd they ne'er denied their aid; Their jug was to the ringers carried, Whoever either died, or married. Their billet at the fire was found, Whoever was depos'd, or crown'd. Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise; They would not learn, nor could advise: Without love, hatred, joy, or fear, They led--a kind of--as it were: Nor wish'd, nor car'd, nor laugh'd, nor cried: And so they liv'd, and so they died.

THE PROGRESS OF POETRY. DEAN SWIFT

The farmer's goose, who in the stubble Has fed without restraint or trouble, Grown fat with corn and sitting still, Can scarce get o'er the barn-door sill; And hardly waddles forth to cool Her belly in the neighboring pool: Nor loudly cackles at the door; For cackling shows the goose is poor.

But, when she must be turn'd to graze, And round the barren common strays, Hard exercise, and harder fare, Soon make my dame grow lank and spare Her body light, she tries her wings, And scorns the ground, and upward springs While all the parish, as she flies, Hear sounds harmonious from the skies.

Such is the poet fresh in pay, The third night's profits of his play; His morning draughts till noon can swill Among his brethren of the quill: With good roast beef his belly full, Grown lazy, foggy, fat, and dull, Deep sunk in plenty and delight, What poet e'er could take his flight? Or, stuff'd with phlegm up to the throat What poet e'er could sing a note? Nor Pegasus could bear the load Along the high celestial road; The steed, oppress'd, would break his To raise the lumber from the earth.

But view him in another scene, When all his drink is Hippocrene, His money spent, his patrons fail, His credit out for cheese and ale; His two-years' coat so smooth and Through every thread it lets in air With hungry meals his body pines His guts and belly full of wind; And like a jockey for a race, His flesh brought down to flying case: Now his exalted spirit loathes Encumbrances of food and clothes; And up he rises like a vapor, Supported high on wings of paper. He singing flies, and flying sings, While from below all Grub street rings.

TWELVE ARTICLES. DEAN SWIFT.

I.

Lest it may more quarrels breed, I will never hear you read,

II.

By disputing, I will never, To convince you once endeavor.

III.

When a paradox you stick to, I will never contradict you.

IV.

When I talk and you are heedless I will show no anger needless.

V.

When your speeches are absurd, I will ne'er object a word.

VI.

When you furious argue wrong, I will grieve and hold my tongue.

VII.

Not a jest or humorous story Will I ever tell before ye: To be chidden for explaining, When you quite mistake the meaning.

VIII.

Never more will I suppose, You can taste my verse or prose.

IX.

You no more at me shall fret, While I teach and you forget.

X.

You shall never hear me thunder, When you blunder on, and blunder.

XI.

Show your poverty of spirit, And in dress place all your merit; Give yourself ten thousand airs: That with me shall break no squares.

XII.

Never will I give advice, Till you please to ask me thrice: Which if you in scorn reject, 'T will be just as I expect.

Thus we both shall have our ends And continue special friends.

THE BEASTS' CONFESSION. DEAN SWIFT

When beasts could speak (the learned say They still can do so every day), It seems, they had religion then, As much as now we find in men. It happen'd, when a plague broke out (Which therefore made them more devout), The king of brutes (to make it plain, Of quadrupeds I only mean) By proclamation gave command, That every subject in the land Should to the priest confess their sins; And thus the pious Wolf begins: Good father, I must own with shame, That often I have been to blame: I must confess, on Friday last, Wretch that I was! I broke my fast: But I defy the basest tongue To prove I did my neighbor wrong; Or ever went to seek my food, By rapine, theft, or thirst of blood.

The Ass approaching next, confess'd, That in his heart he loved a jest: A wag he was, he needs must own, And could not let a dunce alone: Sometimes his friend he would not spare, And might perhaps be too severe: But yet the worst that could be said, He was a wit both born and bred; And, if it be a sin and shame, Nature alone must bear the blame: One fault he has, is sorry for't, His ears are half a foot too short; Which could he to the standard bring, He'd show his face before the king: Then for his voice, there's none disputes That he's the nightingale of brutes.

The Swine with contrite heart allow'd, His shape and beauty made him proud: In diet was perhaps too nice, But gluttony was ne'er his vice: In every turn of life content, And meekly took what fortune sent: Inquire through all the parish round, A better neighbor ne'er was found; His vigilance might some displease; Tis true, he hated sloth like pease.

The mimic Ape began his chatter, How evil tongues his life bespatter; Much of the censuring world complain'd. Who said, his gravity was feign'd: Indeed, the strictness of his morals Engaged him in a hundred quarrels: He saw, and he was grieved to see't, His zeal was sometimes indiscreet; He found his virtues too severe For our corrupted times to bear; Yet such a lewd licentious age Might well excite stoic's rage.

The Goat advanced with decent pace, And first excused his youthful face; Forgiveness begg'd that he appear'd ('T was Nature's fault) without a beard. 'Tis true, he was not much inclined To fondness for the female kind: Not, as his enemies object, From chance, or natural defect, Not by his frigid constitution; But through a pious resolution: For he had made a holy vow Of Chastity, as monks do now: Which he resolved to keep forever hence, And strictly too, as doth his reverence.

Apply the tale, and you shall find, How just it suits with human kind. Some faults we own; but can you guess? --Why, virtue's carried to excess, Wherewith our vanity endows us, Though neither foe nor friend allows us.

The Lawyer swears (you may rely on't) He never squeezed a needy client; And this he makes his constant rule, For which his brethren call him fool; His conscience always was so nice, He freely gave the poor advice; By which he lost, he may affirm, A hundred fees last Easter term; While others of the learned robe, Would break the patience of a Job. No pleader at the bar could match His diligence and quick dispatch; Ne'er kept a cause, he well may boast, Above a term or two at most.

The cringing Knave, who seeks a place Without success, thus tells his case. Why should he longer mince the matter? He fail'd, because he could not flatter: He had not learn'd to turn his coat, Nor for a party give his vote: His crime he quickly understood; Too zealous for the nation's good: He found the ministers resent it, Yet could not for his heart repent it.

The Chaplain vows, he can not fawn, Though it would raise him to the lawn He pass'd his hours among his books; You find it in his meager looks: He might, if he were worldly wise, Preferment get, and spare his eyes; But owns he had a stubborn spirit, That made him trust alone to merit; Would rise by merit to promotion; Alas! a mere chimeric notion. The Doctor, if you will believe him, Confess'd a sin; (and God forgive him!) Call'd up at midnight, ran to save A blind old beggar from the grave: But see how Satan spreads his snares; He quite forgot to say his prayers. He can not help it, for his heart, Sometimes to act the parson's part: Quotes from the Bible many a sentence, That moves his patients to repentance; And, when his medicines do no good, Supports their minds with heavenly food: At which, however well intended, He hears the clergy are offended; And grown so bold behind his back, To call him hypocrite and quack. In his own church he keeps a seat; Says grace before and after meat; And calls, without affecting airs, His household twice a-day to prayers, He shuns apothecaries' shops, And hates to cram the sick with slops: He scorns to make his art a trade; Nor bribes my lady's favorite maid. Old nurse-keepers would never hire, To recommend him to the squire; Which others, whom he will not name, Have often practiced to their shame.

The Statesman tells you, with a sneer, His fault is to be too sincere; And having no sinister ends, Is apt to disoblige his friends. The nation's good, his master's glory, Without regard to Whig or Tory, Were all the schemes he had in view, Yet he was seconded by few: Though some had spread a thousand lies, 'T was he defeated the excise. 'T was known, though he had borne aspersion, That standing troops were his aversion: His practice was, in every station, To serve the king, and please the nation. Though hard to find in every case The fittest man to fill a place: His promises he ne'er forgot, But took memorials on the spot; His enemies, for want of charity, Said he affected popularity; 'Tis true, the people understood. That all he did was for their good; Their kind affections he has tried; No love is lost on either side. He came to court with fortune clear, Which now he runs out every year; Must at the rate that he goes on, Inevitably be undone: O! if his majesty would please To give him but a writ of ease, Would grant him license to retire, As it has long been his desire, By fair accounts it would be found, He's poorer by ten thousand pound, He owns, and hopes it is no sin, He ne'er was partial to his kin; He thought it base for men in stations, To crowd the court with their relations: His country was his dearest mother, And every virtuous man his brother; Through modesty or awkward shame (For which he owns himself to blame), He found the wisest man he could, Without respect to friends or blood; Nor ever acts on private views, When he has liberty to choose.

The Sharper swore he hated play, Except to pass an hour away: And well he might; for, to his cost, By want of skill he always lost; He heard there was a club of cheats, Who had contrived a thousand feats; Could change the stock, or cog a die, And thus deceive the sharpest eye: Nor wonder how his fortune sunk, His brothers fleece him when he's drunk,

I own the moral not exact, Besides, the tale is false, in fact; And so absurd, that could I raise up, From fields Elysian, fabling Aesop, I would accuse him to his face, For libeling the four-foot race. Creatures of every kind but ours Well comprehend their natural powers, While we, whom reason ought to sway, Mistake our talents every day. The Ass was never known so stupid, To act the part of Tray or Cupid; Nor leaps upon his master's lap, There to be stroked, and fed with pap, As Aesop would the world persuade; He better understands his trade: Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles. But carries loads, and feeds on thistles. Our author's meaning, I presume, is A creature bipes et implumis; Wherein the moralist design'd A compliment on human kind; For here he owns, that now and then Beasts may degenerate into men.

A NEW SIMILE FOR THE LADIES. WITH USEFUL ANNOTATIONS, DR. THOMAS SHERIDAN.

[Footnote: The following foot-note's, which appear to be Dr. Sheridan's, are replaced from the Irish edition. They hit the ignorance of the ladies in that age.]

To make a writer miss his end, You've nothing else to do but mend.

I often tried in vain to find A simile* for womankind, *[Footnote: Most ladies, in reading, call this word a smile; but they are to note, it consists of three syllables, sim-i-le. In English, a likeness.] A simile, I mean, to fit 'em, In every circumstance to hit 'em. [Footnote: Not to hurt them.] Through every beast and bird I went, I ransack'd every element; And, after peeping through all nature, To find so whimsical a creature, A cloud* presented to my view, *[Footnote: Not like a gun or pistol.] And straight this parallel I drew:

Clouds turn with every wind about, They keep us in suspense and doubt, Yet, oft perverse, like womankind, Are seen to scud against the wind: And are not women just the same? For who can tell at what they aim? [Footnote: This is not meant as to shooting, but resolving.]

Clouds keep the stoutest mortals under, When, bellowing*, they discharge their thunder: *[Footnote: This word is not here to be understood of a bull, but a cloud, which makes a noise like a bull, when it thunders.] So, when the alarum-bell is rung, Of Xanti's* everlasting tongue, [Footnote: Xanti, a nick-name of Xantippe, that scold of glorious memory, who never let poor Socrates have one moment's peace of mind; yet with unexampled patience he bore her pestilential tongue. I shall beg the ladies' pardon if I insert a few passages concerning her: and at the same time I assure them it is not to lesson those of the present age, who are possessed of the like laudable talents; for I will confess, that I know three in the city of Dublin, no way inferior to Xantippe, but that they have not as great men to work upon.

When a friend asked Socrates how he could bear the scolding of his wife Xantippe, he retorted, and asked him how he could bear the gaggling of his geese Ay but my geese lay eggs for me, replies his friend; So does my wife bear children, said Socrates.--Diog, Laert,

Being asked at another time, by a friend, how he could bear her tongue, he said, she was of this use to him, that she taught him to bear the impertinences of others with more ease when he went abroad,-- Plat, de Capiend. ex. host. utilit.

Socrates invited his friend Euthymedus to supper. Xantippe, in great rage, went into them, and overset the table. Huthymedus, rising in a passion to go off, My dear friend, stay, said Socrates, did not a hen do the same thing at your house the other day, and did I show any resentment?--Plat, de ira cohibenda.

I could give many more instances of her termagancy and his philosophy, if such a proceeding might not look as if I were glad of an opportunity to expose the fair sex; but, to show that I have no such design, I declare solemnly, that I had much worse stories to tell of her behaviour to her husband, which I rather passed over, on account of the great esteem which I bear the ladies, especially those in the honorable station of matrimony.]

The husband dreads its loudness more Than lightning's flash, or thunder's roar. Clouds weep, as they do, without pain And what are tears but women's rain? The clouds about the welkin roam: [Footnote: Ramble.] And ladies never stay at home. The clouds build castles in the air, A thing peculiar to the fair: For all the schemes of their forecasting, [Footnote: Not vomiting.] Are not more solid nor more lasting, A cloud is light by turns, and dark, Such is a lady with her spark; Now with a sudden pouting [Footnote: Thrusting out the lip.] gloom She seems to darken all the room; Again she's pleased, his fear's beguiled, [Footnote: This is to be understood not in the sense of wort, when brewers put yeast or barm in it; but its true meaning is, deceived or cheated.] And all is clear when she has smiled. In this they're wondrously alike, (I hope this simile will strike)[Footnote: Hit your fancy.] Though in the darkest dumps* you view them, *[Footnote: Sullen fits. We have a merry jig called Dumpty-Deary, invented to rouse ladies from the dumps.] Stay but a moment, you'll see through them. The clouds are apt to make reflection, [Footnote: Reflection of the sun.] And frequently produce infection: So Celia, with small provocation, Blasts every neighbor's reputation. The clouds delight in gaudy show, (For they, like ladies, have their bow;) The gravest matron* will confess, *[Footnote: Motherly woman.] That she herself is fond of dress. Observe the clouds in pomp array'd, What various colors are display'd; The pink, the rose, the violet's dye, In that great drawing-room the sky; How do these differ from our Graces,* *[Footnote: Not grace before and after meat, nor their graces the duchesses, but the Graces which attended on Venus.] In garden-silks, brocades, and laces? Are they not such another sight, When met upon a birth-day night? The clouds delight to change their fashion: (Dear ladies be not in a passion!) Nor let this whim to you seem strange, Who every hour delight in change. In them and you alike are seen The sullen symptoms of the spleen; The moment that your vapors rise, We see them dropping from your eyes. In evening fair you may behold The clouds are fring'd with borrow'd gold; And this is many a lady's case, Who flaunts about in borrow'd lace. [Footnote: Not Flauders-lace, but gold and silver lace. By borrowed, I mean such as run into honest tradesmen's debts, for which they were not able to pay, as many of them did for French silver lace, against the last birth-day. Vide the shopkeepers' books.] Grave matrons are like clouds of snow, Where words fall thick, and soft, and slow; While brisk coquettes,* like rattling hail, *[Footnote: Girls who love to hear themselves prate, and put on a number of monkey-airs to catch men.] Our ears on every side assail. Clouds when they intercept our sight, Deprive us of celestial light: So when my Chloe I pursue, No heaven besides I have in view. Thus, on comparison,* you see, *[Footnote: I hope none will be so uncomplaisant to the ladies as to think these comparisons are odious.] In every instance they agree; So like, so very much the same, That one may go by t'other's name, Let me proclaim* it then aloud, *[Footnote: Tell the whole world; not to proclaim them as robbers and rapparees.] That every woman is a cloud.

ON A LAPDOG. JOHN GAY.

Shock's fate I mourn; poor Shock is now no more: Ye Muses! mourn: ye Chambermaids! deplore. Unhappy Shock! yet more unhappy fair, Doom'd to survive thy joy and only care. Thy wretched fingers now no more shall deck, And tie the favorite ribbon round his neck; No more thy hand shall smooth his glossy hair, And comb the wavings of his pendent ear. Yet cease thy flowing grief, forsaken maid! All mortal pleasures in a moment fade: Our surest hope is in an hour destroy'd, And love, best gift of Heaven, not long enjoy'd.

Methinks I see her frantic with despair, Her streaming eyes, wrung hands, and flowing hair Her Mechlin pinners, rent, the floor bestrow, And her torn fan gives real signs of woe. Hence, Superstition! that tormenting guest, That haunts with fancied fears the coward breast, No dread events upon this fate attend, Stream eyes no more, no more thy tresses rend. Though certain omens oft forewarn a state, And dying lions show the monarch's fate, Why should such fears bid Celia's sorrow rise? Fo when a lapdog falls, no lover dies.

Cease, Celia, cease; restrain thy flowing tears, Some warmer passion will dispel thy cares. In man you'll find a more substantial bliss, More grateful toying, and a sweeter kiss.

He's dead. Oh! lay him gently in the ground! And may his tomb be by this verse renown'd: "Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid, Who fawn'd like man, but ne'er like man betray'd."

THE RAZOR SELLER. PETER PINDAR.

A fellow in a market town, Most musical, cried razors up and down, And offered twelve for eighteen-pence; Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap, And for the money quite a heap, As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard: Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose; With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid, And proudly to himself, in whispers, said, "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

"No matter if the fellow BE a knave, Provided that the razors SHAVE; It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown, with his good fortune, went, Smiling in heart and soul, content, And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lathered from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze: 'Twas a vile razor!--then the rest he tried-- All were imposters--"Ah," Hodge sighed! "I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse."

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore, Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces, And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er:

His muzzle, formed of OPPOSITION stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff: So kept it--laughing at the steel and suds: Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws, On the vile cheat that sold the goods. "Razors! a damned, confounded dog, Not fit to scrape a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow--found him--and begun: "P'rhaps, Master Razor rogue, to you 'tis fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives: You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster knives. Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave, To cry up razors that can't SHAVE."

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave. As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul I never thought That they would SHAVE." "Not think they'd SHAVE!" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries: "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile--"to SELL."

THE SAILOR BOY AT PRAYERS. PETER PINDAR.

A great law Chief, whom God nor demon scares, Compelled to kneel and pray, who swore his prayers, The devil behind him pleased and grinning, Patting the angry lawyer on the shoulder, Declaring naught was ever bolder, Admiring such a novel mode of sinning:

Like this, a subject would be reckoned rare, Which proves what blood game infidels can dare; Which to my memory brings a fact, Which nothing but an English tar would act.

In ships of war, on Sunday's, prayers are given, For though so wicked, sailors think of heaven, Particularly in a storm, Where, if they find no brandy to get drunk, Their souls are in a miserable funk, Then vow they to th' Almighty to reform, If in His goodness only once, once more, He'll suffer them to clap a foot on shore.

In calms, indeed, or gentle airs, They ne'er on weekdays pester heaven with prayers For 'tis among the Jacks a common saying, "Where there's no danger, there's no need of praying."

One Sunday morning all were met To hear the parson preach and pray, All but a boy, who, willing to forget That prayers were handing out, had stolen away, And, thinking praying but a useless task, Had crawled to take a nap, into a cask.

The boy was soon found missing, and full soon The boatswain's cat, sagacious smelt him out, Gave him a clawing to some tune-- This cat's a cousin Germam to the Knout

"Come out, you skulking dog," the boatswain cried, "And save your d---d young sinful soul." He then the moral-mending cat applied, And turned him like a badger from his hole

Sulky the boy marched on, and did not mind him, Altho' the boatswain flogging kept behind him "Flog," cried the boy, "flog--curse me, flog away-- I'll go--but mind--G--d d--n me if I'll PRAY."

BIENSEANCE PETER PINDAR.

There is a little moral thing in France, Called by the natives bienseance, Much are the English mob inclined to scout it, But rarely is Monsieur Canaille without it.

To bienseance 'tis tedious to incline, In many cases; To flatter, par example, keep smooth faces When kicked, or suffering grievous want of coin.

To vulgars, bienseance may seem an oddity-- I deem it a most portable commodity, A sort of magic wand, Which, if 'tis used with ingenuity, Although a utensil of much tenuity, In place of something solid, it will stand

For verily I've marveled times enow To see an Englishman, the ninny, Give people for their services a guinea, Which Frenchmen have rewarded with a bow.

Bows are a bit of bienseance Much practiced too in that same France Yet called by Quakers, children of inanity, But as they pay their court to people's vanity, Like rolling-pins they smooth where er they go The souls and faces of mankind like dough! With some, indeed, may bienseance prevail To folly--see the under-written tale:

THE PETIT MAITRE, AND THE MAN ON THE WHEEL

At Paris some time since, a murdering man, A German, and a most unlucky chap, Sad, stumbling at the threshold of his plan, Fell into Justice's strong trap

The bungler was condemned to grace the wheel, On which the dullest fibers learn to feel, His limbs secundum artem to be broke Amid ten thousand people, perhaps, or more; Whenever Monsieur Ketch applied a stroke, The culprit, like a bullock made a roar.

A flippant petit maitre skipping by, Stepped up to him and checked him for his cry-- "Bohl" quoth the German, "an't I 'pon de wheel? D'ye tink my nerfs and bons can't feel?"

"Sir," quoth the beau, "don't, don't be in a passion; I've naught to say about your situation; But making such a hideous noise in France, Fellow, is contrary to bienseance."

KINGS AND COURTIERS. PETER PINDAR

How pleasant 'tis the courtier clan to see! So prompt to drop to majesty the knee; To start, to run, to leap, to fly, And gambol in the royal eye; And, if expectant of some high employ, How kicks the heart against the ribs, for joy!

How rich the incense to the royal nose! How liquidly the oil of flattery flows! But should the monarch turn from sweet to sour, Which cometh oft to pass in half an hour, How altered instantly the courtier clan! How faint! how pale! how woe-begone, and wan!

Thus Corydon, betrothed to Delia's charms, In fancy holds her ever in his arms: In maddening fancy, cheeks, eyes, lips devours; Plays with the ringlets that all flaxen flow In rich luxuriance o'er a breast of snow, And on that breast the soul of rapture pours.

Night, too, entrances--slumber brings the dream-- Gives to his lips his idol's sweetest kiss; Bids the wild heart, high panting, swell its stream, And deluge every nerve with bliss: But if his nymph unfortunately frowns, Sad, chapfallen, lo! he hangs himself or drowns!

Oh, try with bliss his moments to beguile: Strive not to make your sovereign frown--but smile: Sublime are royal nods--most precious things!-- Then, to be whistled to by kings!

To have him lean familiar on one's shoulder, Becoming thus the royal arm upholder, A heart of very stone must grow quite glad. Oh! would some king so far himself demean, As on my shoulder but for once to lean, The excess of joy would nearly make me mad! How on the honored garment I should dote, And think a glory blazed around the coat!

Blessed, I should make this coat my coat of arms, In fancy glittering with a thousand charms; And show my children's children o'er and o'er; "Here, babies," I should say, "with awe behold This coat--worth fifty times its weight in gold: This very, very coat your grandsire wore!

"Here"--pointing to the shoulder--I should say, "Here majesty's own hand so sacred lay"-- Then p'rhaps repeat some speech the king might utter; As--"Peter, how go sheep a score? what? what? What's cheapest meat to make a bullock fat? Hae? hae? what, what's the price of country butter?"

Then should I, strutting, give myself an air, And deem myself adorned with immortality: Then should I make the children, calf-like stare, And fancy grandfather a man of quality: And yet, not stopping here, with cheerful note, The muse should sing an ode upon the coat.

Poor lost America, high honors missing, Knows naught of smile, and nod, and sweet hand-kissing, Knows naught of golden promises of kings; Knows naught of coronets, and stars, and strings; In solitude the lovely rebel sighs! But vainly drops the penitential tear-- Deaf as the adder to the woman's cries, We suffer not her wail to wound our ear: For food we bid her hopeless children prowl, And with the savage of the desert howl.

PRAYING FOR RAIN. PETER PINDAR

How difficult, alas! to please mankind! One or the other every moment MUTTERS: This wants an eastern, that a western, wind: A third, petition for a southern, utters. Some pray for rain, and some for frost and snow: How can Heaven suit ALL palates?--I don't know.

Good Lamb, the curate, much approved, Indeed by all his flock BELOVED, Was one dry summer begged to pray for rain. The parson most devoutly prayed-- The powers of prayer were soon displayed; Immediately a TORRENT drenched the plain.

It chanced that the church warden, Robin Jay, Had of his meadow not yet SAVED the hay: Thus was his hay to HEALTH quite past restoring. It happened too that Robin was from home; But when he heard the story, in a foam He sought the parson, like a lion roaring.

"Zounds! Parson Lamb, why, what have you been doing! A pretty storm, indeed, ye have been brewing! What! pray for RAIN before I SAVED my hay! Oh! you re a cruel and ungrateful man! I that forever help you all I can; Ask you to dine with me and Mistress Jay, Whenever we have something on the spit, Or in the pot a nice and dainty bit;

"Send you a goose, a pair of chicken, Whose bones you are so fond of picking; And often too a cag of brandy! YOU that were welcome to a treat, To smoke and chat, and drink and eat; Making my house so very handy!

"YOU, parson, serve one such a scurvy trick! Zounds! you must have the bowels of Old Nick. What! bring the flood of Noah from the skies, With MY fine field of hay before your eyes! A numskull, that I wer'n't of this aware.-- Curse me but I had stopped your pretty prayer!" "Dear Mister Jay!" quoth Lamb, "alas! alas! I never thought upon your field of grass."

"Lord! parson, you're a fool, one might suppose-- Was not the field just underneath your NOSE? This is a very pretty losing job!"-- "Sir," quoth the curate, "know that Harry Cobb Your brother warden joined, to have the prayer,"-- "Cobb! Cobb! why this for Cobb was only SPORT: What doth Cobb own that any rain can HURT?" Roared furious Jay as broad as he could stare.

"The fellow owns, as far as I can LARN, A few old houses only, and a barn; As that's the case, zounds! what are showers to HIM? Not Noah's flood could make HIS trumpery SWIM.

"Besides--why could you not for drizzle pray? Why force it down in BUCKETS on the hay? Would I have played with YOUR hay such a freak? No! I'd have stopped the weather for a week."

"Dear Mister Jay, I do protest, I acted solely for the best; I do affirm it, Mister Jay, indeed. Your anger for this ONCE restrain, I'll never bring a drop again Till you and all the parish are AGREED."

APOLOGY FOR KINGS PETER PINDAR

As want of candor really is not right, I own my satire too inclined to bite: On kings behold it breakfast, dine, and sup-- Now shall she praise, and try to make it up.

Why will the simple world expect wise things From lofty folk, particularly kings? Look on their poverty of education! Adored and flattered, taught that they are gods, And by their awful frowns and nods, Jove-like, to shake the pillars of creation!

They scorn that little useful imp called mind, Who fits them for the circle of mankind! Pride their companion, and the world their hate; Immured, they doze in ignorance and state.

Sometimes, indeed, great kings will condescend A little with their subjects to unbend! An instance take:--A king of this great land, In days of yore, we understand, Did visit Salisbury's old church so fair: An Earl of Pembroke was the Monarch's guide; Incog. they traveled, shuffling side by side; And into the cathedral stole the pair.

The verger met them in his blue silk gown, And humbly bowed his neck with reverence down, Low as an ass to lick a lock of hay: Looking the frightened verger through and through, And with his eye-glass--"Well, sir, who are you? What, what, sir?--hey, sir?" deigned the king to say.

"I am the verger here, most mighty king: In this cathedral I do every thing; Sweep it, an't please ye, sir, and keep it clean." "Hey? verger! verger!--you the verger?--hey?" "Yes, please your glorious majesty, I BE," The verger answered, with the mildest mien.

Then turned the king about toward the peer, And winked, and laughed, then whispered in his ear, "Hey, hey--what, what--fine fellow, 'pon my word: I'll knight him, knight him, knight him--hey, my lord?"

[It is a satire-royal: and if any thing were yet wanting to convince us that Master Pindar is no turncoat, here is proof sufficient.]

Then with his glass, as hard as eye could strain, He kenned the trembling verger o'er again.

"He's a poor verger, sire," his lordship cried: "Sixpence would handsomely requite him." "Poor verger, verger, hey?" the king replied: "No, no, then, we won't knight him--no, won't knight him." Now to the lofty roof the king did raise His glass, and skipped it o'er with sounds of praise! For thus his marveling majesty did speak: "Fine roof this, Master Verger, quite complete; High--high and lofty too, and clean, and neat: What, verger, what? MOP, MOP it once a week?"

"An't please your majesty," with marveling chops, The verger answered, "we have got no mops In Salisbury that will reach so high." "Not mop, no, no, not mop it," quoth the king-- "No, sir, our Salisbury mops do no such thing; They might as well pretend to scrub the sky."

MORAL.

This little anecdote doth plainly show That ignorance, a king too often lurches; For, hid from art, Lord! how should monarchs know The natural history of mops and churches?

STORY THE SECOND.

From Salisbury church to Wilton House, so grand, Returned the mighty ruler of the land-- "My lord, you've got fine statues," said the king. "A few! beneath your royal notice, sir," Replied Lord Pembroke--"Sir, my lord, stir, stir; Let's see them all, all, all, all, every thing,

"Who's this? who's this?--who's this fine fellow here? "Sesostris," bowing low, replied the peer. "Sir Sostris, hey?--Sir Sostris?--'pon my word! Knight or a baronet, my lord?

One of my making?--what, my lord, my making?" This, with a vengeance, was mistaking?

"SE-sostris, sire," so soft, the peer replied-- "A famous king of Egypt, sir, of old." "Oh, poh!" th' instructed monarch snappish cried, "I need not that--I need not that be told."

"Pray, pray, my lord, who's that big fellow there?" "'Tis Hercules," replies the shrinking peer; "Strong fellow, hey, my lord? strong fellow, hey? Cleaned stables!--cracked a lion like a flea; Killed snakes, great snakes, that in a cradle found him-- The queen, queen's coming! wrap an apron around him."

Our moral is not merely water-gruel-- It shows that curiosity's a jewel! It shows with kings that ignorance may dwell: It shows that subjects must not give opinions To people reigning over wide dominions, As information to great folk is hell:

It shows that decency may live with kings, On whom the bold virtu-men turn their backs; And shows (for numerous are the naked things) That saucy statues should be lodged in sacks.

ODE TO THE DEVIL. PETER PINDAR.

The devil is not so black as he is painted.

Ingratum Odi.

Prince of the dark abodes! I ween Your highness ne'er till now hath seen Yourself in meter shine; Ne'er heard a song with praise sincere. Sweet warbled on your smutty ear, Before this Ode of mine.

Perhaps the reason is too plain, Thou triest to starve the tuneful train, Of potent verse afraid! And yet I vow, in all my time, I've not beheld a single rhyme That ever spoiled thy trade.

I've often read those pious whims-- John Wesley's sweet damnation hymns, That chant of heavenly riches. What have they done?--those heavenly strains, Devoutly squeezed from canting brains, But filled John's earthly breeches?

There's not a shoe-black in the land, So humbly at the world's command, As thy old cloven foot; Like lightning dost thou fly, when called, And yet no pickpocket's so mauled As thou, O Prince of Soot!

What thousands, hourly bent on sin, With supplication call thee in, To aid them to pursue it; Yet, when detected, with a lie Ripe at their fingers' ends, they cry, "The Devil made me do it."

Behold the fortunes that are made, By men through rouguish tricks in trade, Yet all to thee are owing-- And though we meet it every day, The sneaking rascals dare not say, This is the Devil's doing.

As to thy company, I'm sure, No man can shun thee on that score; The very best is thine: With kings, queens, ministers of state, Lords, ladies, I have seen thee great, And many a grave divine.

I'm sorely grieved at times to find, The very instant thou art kind, Some people so uncivil, When aught offends, with face awry, With base ingratitude to cry, "I wish it to the Devil."

Hath some poor blockhead got a wife, To be the torment of his life, By one eternal yell-- The fellow cries out coarsely, "Zounds, I'd give this moment twenty pounds To see the jade in hell."

Should Heaven their prayers so ardent grant, Thou never company wouldst want To make thee downright mad; For, mind me, in their wishing mood, They never offer thee what's good, But every thing that's bad.

My honest anger boils to view A sniffling, long-faced, canting crew, So much thy humble debtors, Rushing, on Sundays, one and all, With desperate prayers thy head to maul, And thus abuse their betters.

To seize one day in every week, On thee their black abuse to wreak, By whom their souls are fed Each minute of the other six, With every joy that heart can fix, Is impudence indeed!

Blushing I own thy pleasing art Hath oft seduced my vagrant heart, And led my steps to joy-- The charms of beauty have been mine And let me call the merit thine, Who broughtst the lovely toy.

So, Satan--if I ask thy aid, To give my arms the blooming maid, I will not, though the nation all, Proclaim thee (like a gracless imp) A vile old good-for-nothing pimp, But say, "'Tis thy vocation, Hal."

Since truth must out--I seldom knew What 'twas high pleasure to pursue, Till thou hadst won my heart-- So social were we both together, And beat the hoof in every weather, I never wished to part.

Yet when a child--good Lord! I thought That thou a pair of horns hadst got, With eyes like saucers staring! And then a pair of ears so stout, A monstrous tail and hairy snout, With claws beyond comparing.

Taught to avoid the paths of evil, By day I used to dread the devil, And trembling when 'twas night, Methought I saw thy horns and ears, They sung or whistled to my fears, And ran to chase my fright.

And every night I went to bed, I sweated with a constant dread, And crept beneath the rug; There panting, thought that in my sleep Thou slyly in the dark wouldst creep, And eat me, though so snug.

A haberdasher's shop is thine, With sins of all sorts, coarse and fine, To suit both man and maid: Thy wares they buy, with open eyes; How cruel then, with constant cries, To vilify thy trade!

To speak the truth, indeed, I'm loath-- Life's deemed a mawkish dish of broth, Without thy aid, old sweeper; So mawkish, few will put it down, Even from the cottage to the crown, Without thy salt and pepper.

O Satan, whatsoever geer, Thy Proteus form shall choose to wear, Black, red, or blue, or yellow; Whatever hypocrites may say, They think thee (trust my honest lay) A most bewitching fellow.

'Tis ordered (to deaf ears, alas!) To praise the bridge o'er which we pass Yet often I discover A numerous band who daily make An easy bridge of thy poor back, And damn it when they 're over.

Why art thou, then, with cup in hand, Obsequious to a graceless band, Whose souls are scarce worth taking; O prince, pursue but my advice, I'll teach your highness in a trice To set them all a quaking.

Plays, operas, masquerades, destroy: Lock up each charming fille de joie; Give race-horses the glander-- The dice-box break, and burn each card-- Let virtue be its own reward, And gag the mouth of slander;

In one week's time, I'll lay my life, There's not a man, nor maid, nor wife, That will not glad agree, If thou will chaim'em as before, To show their nose at church no more, But quit their God for thee.

Tis now full time my ode should end: And now I tell thee like a friend, Howe'er the world may scout thee; Thy ways are all so wond'rous winning, And folks so very fond of sinning, They can not do without thee.

THE KING OF SPAIN AND THE HORSE. PETER PINDAR.

In seventeen hundred seventy-eight, The rich, the proud, the potent King of Spain, Whose ancestors sent forth their troops to smite The peaceful natives of the western main, With faggots and the blood-delighting sword, To play the devil, to oblige the Lord!

For hunting, roasting heretics, and boiling, Baking and barbecuing, frying, broiling, Was thought Heaven's cause amazingly to further; For which most pious reason, hard to work, They went, with gun and dagger, knife and fork, To charm the God of mercy with their murther!

I say, this King, in seventy-eight surveyed, In tapestry so rich, portrayed, A horse with stirrups, crupper, bridle, saddle: Within the stirrup, lo, the monarch tried To fix his foot the palfry to bestride; In vain!--he could not o'er the palfry straddle!

Stiff as a Turk, the beast of yarn remained, And every effort of the King disdained, Who, 'midst his labors, to the ground was tumbled, And greatly mortified, as well as humbled.

Prodigious was the struggle of the day, The horse attempted not to run away; At which the poor-chafed monarch now 'gan grin, And swore by every saint and holy martyr He would not yield the traitor quarter, Until he got possession of his skin.

Not fiercer famed La Mancha's knight, Hight Quixote, at a puppet-show, Did with more valor stoutly fight, And terrify each little squeaking foe; When bold he pierced the lines, immortal fray! And broke their pasteboard bones, and stabbed their hearts of hay.

Not with more energy and fury The beauteous street--walker of Drury Attacks a sister of the smuggling trade, Whose winks, and nods, and sweet resistless smile, Ah, me! her paramour beguile, And to her bed of healthy straw persuade; Where mice with music charm, and vermin crawl, And snails with silver traces deck the wall.

And now a cane, and now a whip he used, And now he kicked, and sore the palfry bruised; Yet, lo, the horse seemed patient at each kick, Arid bore with Christian spirit whip and stick; And what excessively provoked this prince, The horse so stubborn scorned even once to wince.

Now rushed the monarch for a bow and arrow To shoot the rebel like a sparrow; And, lo, with shafts well steeled, with all his force, Just like a pincushion, he stuck the horse!

Now with the fury of the chafed wild boar, With nails and teeth the wounded horse he tore, Now to the floor he brought the stubborn beast; Now o'er the vanquish'd horse that dared rebel, Most Indian-like the monarch gave a yell, Pleased on the quadruped his eyes to feast; Blessed as Achilles when with fatal wound He brought the mighty Hector to the ground.

Yet more to gratify his godlike ire, He vengeful flung the palfry in the fire! Showing his pages round, poor trembling things, How dangerous to resist the will of kings.

THE TENDER HUSBAND. PETER PINDAR

Lo, to the cruel hand of fate, My poor dear Grizzle, meek-souled mate, Resigns her tuneful breath-- Though dropped her jaw, her lip though pale, And blue each harmless finger-nail, She's beautiful in death.

As o'er her lovely limbs I weep, I scarce can think her but asleep-- How wonderfully tame! And yet her voice is really gone, And dim those eyes that lately shone With all the lightning's flame.

Death was, indeed, a daring wight, To take it in his head to smite-- To lift his dart to hit her; For as she was so great a woman, And cared a single fig for no man, I thought he feared to meet her.

Still is that voice of late so strong, That many a sweet capriccio sung, And beat in sounds the spheres; No longer must those fingers play "Britons strike home," that many a day Hath soothed my ravished ears,

Ah me! indeed I 'm much inclined To think how I may speak my mind, Nor hurt her dear repose; Nor think I now with rage she'd roar, Were I to put my fingers o'er, And touch her precious nose.

Here let me philosophic pause- How wonderful are nature's laws, When ladies' breath retires, Its fate the flaming passions share, Supported by a little air, Like culinary fires,

Whene'er I hear the bagpipe's note, Shall fancy fix on Grizzle's throat, And loud instructive lungs; O Death, in her, though only one, Are lost a thousand charms unknown, At least a thousand tongues.

Soon as I heard her last sweet sigh, And saw her gently-closing eye, How great was my surprise! Yet have I not, with impious breath, Accused the hard decrees of death, Nor blamed the righteous skies.

Why do I groan in deep despair, Since she'll be soon an angel fair? Ah! why my bosom smite? Could grief my Grizzle's life restore!-- But let me give such ravings o'er-- Whatever is, is right.

O doctor! you are come too late; No more of physic's virtues prate, That could not save my lamb: Not one more bolus shall be given-- You shall not ope her mouth by heaven, And Grizzle's gullet cram.

Enough of boluses, poor heart, And pills, she took, to load a cart, Before she closed her eyes: But now my word is here a law, Zounds! with a bolus in her jaw, She shall not seek the skies.

Good sir, good doctor, go away; To hear my sighs you must not stay, For this my poor lost treasure: I thank you for your pains and skill; When next you come, pray bring your bill I'll pay it; sir, with pleasure.

Ye friends who come to mourn her doom. For God's sake gently tread the room, Nor call her from the blessed-- In softest silence drop the tear, In whispers breathe the fervent prayer, To bid her spirit rest.

Repress the sad, the wounding scream; I can not bear a grief extreme-- Enough one little sigh-- Besides, the loud alarm of grief, In many a mind may start belief, Our noise is all a lie. Good nurses, shroud my lamb with care; Her limbs, with gentlest fingers, spare, Her mouth, ah! slowly close; Her mouth a magic tongue that held-- Whose softest tone, at times, compelled To peace my loudest woes.

And, carpenter, for my sad sake, Of stoutest oak her coffin make-- I'd not be stingy, sure-- Procure of steel the strongest screws, For who could paltry pence refuse To lodge his wife secure?

Ye people who the corpse convey, With caution tread the doleful way, Nor shake her precious head; Since Fame reports a coffin tossed, With careless swing against a post, Did once, disturb the dead.

Farewell, my love, forever lost! Ne'er troubled be thy gentle ghost, That I again will woo-- By all our past delights, my dear, No more the marriage chain I'll wear, Deil take me if I do!

THE SOLDIER AND THE VIRGIN MARY. PETER PINDAR.

A Soldier at Loretto's wondrous chapel, To parry from his soul the wrath Divine, That followed mother Eve's unlucky apple, Did visit oft the Virgin Mary's shrine; Who every day is gorgeously decked out, In silks or velvets, jewels, great and small, Just like a fine young lady for a rout, A concert, opera, wedding, or a ball. At first the Soldier at a distance kept, Begging her vote and interest in heaven-- With seeming bitterness the sinner wept, Wrung his two hands, and hoped to be forgiven: Dinned her two ears with Ave-Mary flummery! Declared what miracles the dame could do, Even with her garter, stocking, or her shoe, And such like wonder-working mummery.

What answer Mary gave the wheedling sinner, Who nearly and more nearly moved to win her, The mouth of history doth not mention, And therefore I can't tell but by invention,

One day, as he was making love and praying, And pious Aves, thick as herring, saying, And sins so manifold confessing; He drew, as if to whisper, very near, And twitched a pretty diamond from her ear, Instead of taking the good lady's blessing.

Then off he set, with nimble shanks, Nor once turned back to give her thanks: A hue and cry the thief pursued, Who, to his cost, soon understood That he was not beyond the claw Of that same long-armed giant, christened Law.

With horror did his judges quake-- As for the tender-conscienced jury, They doomed him quickly to the stake, Such was their devilish pious fury.

However, after calling him hard names, They asked if aught he had in vindication, To save his wretched body from the flames, And sinful soul from terrible damnation.

The Soldier answered them with much sang froid, Which showed, of sin, a conscience void, That if they meant to kill him they might kill: As for the diamond which they found about him, He hoped they would by no means doubt him, That madam gave it him from pure good-will.

The answer turned both judge and jury pale; The punishment was for a time deferred, Until his Holiness should hear the tale, And his infallibility be heard.

The Pope, to all his counselors, made known This strange affair--to cardinals and friars, Good pious gentlemen, who ne'er were known To act like hypocrites, and thieves, and liars. The question now was banded to and fro, If Mary had the power to GIVE, or NO.

That Mary COULD NOT give it, was to say The wonder-working lady wanted power-- This was the stumbling-block that stopped the way-- This made Pope, cardinals, and friars lower.

To save the Virgin's credit, And keep secure the diamonds that were left; They said, she MIGHT, indeed, the gem bestow, And consequently it might be no theft: But then they passed immediately an act, That every one discovered in the fact Of taking presents from the Virgin's hand, Or from the saints of any land, Should know no mercy, but be led to slaughter, Flayed here, and fried eternally hereafter.

Ladies, I deem the moral much too clear To need poetical assistance; Which bids you not let men approach too near, But keep the saucy fellows at a distance; Since men you find, so bold, are apt to seize Jewels from ladies, even upon their knees!

A KING OF FRANCE AND THE FAIR LADY PETER PINDAR

A king of France upon a day, With a fair lady of his court, Was pleased at battledore to play A very fashionable sport,

Into the bosom of this fair court dame, Whose whiteness did the snow's pure whiteness shame, King Louis by odd mischance did knock The shuttlecock, Thrice happy rogue, upon the town of doves, To nestle with the pretty little loves! "Now, sire, pray take it out"--quoth she, With an arch smile,--But what did he? What? what to charming modesty belongs! Obedient to her soft command, He raised it--but not with his hand! No, marveling reader, but the chimney tongs,

What a chaste thought in this good king! How clever! When shall we hear agen of such a thing? Lord! never, Nor were our princes to be prayed To such an act by some fair maid, I'll bet my life not one would mind it: But handy, without more ado, The youths would search the bosom through, Although it took a day to find it!

THE EGGS.

FROM THE SPANISH OF YRIARTE. G. H. DEVEREUX.

Beyond the sunny Philippines An island lies, whose name I do not know; But that's of little consequence, if so You understand that there they had no hens; Till, by a happy chance, a traveler, After a while, carried some poultry there. Fast they increased as any one could wish; Until fresh eggs became the common dish. But all the natives ate them boiled--they say-- Because the stranger taught no other way. At last the experiment by one was tried-- Sagacious man!--of having his eggs fried. And, O! what boundless honors, for his pains, His fruitful and inventive fancy gains! Another, now, to have them baked devised-- Most happy thought I--and still another, spiced. Who ever thought eggs were so delicate! Next, some one gave his friends an omelette. "Ah!" all exclaimed, "what an ingenious feat!" But scarce a year went by, an artiste shouts, "I have it now--ye're all a pack of louts!-- With nice tomatoes all my eggs are stewed." And the whole island thought the mode so good, That they would so have cooked them to this day, But that a stranger, wandering out that way, Another dish the gaping natives taught, And showed them eggs cooked a la Huguenot.

Successive cooks thus proved their skill diverse, But how shall I be able to rehearse All of the new, delicious condiments That luxury, from time to time, invents? Soft, hard, and dropped; and now with sugar sweet, And now boiled up with milk, the eggs they eat: In sherbet, in preserves; at last they tickle Their palates fanciful with eggs in pickle, All had their day--the last was still the best But a grave senior thus, one day, addressed The epicures: "Boast, ninnies, if you will, These countless prodigies of gastric skill-- But blessings on the man WHO BROUGHT THE HENS!"

Beyond the sunny Philippines Our crowd of modern authors need not go New-fangled modes of cooking eggs to show.

THE ASS AND HIS MASTER. FROM THE SPANISH OF YRIARTE. G. H. DEVEREUX.

"On good and bad an equal value sets The stupid mob. From me the worst it gets, And never fails to praise," With vile pretense, The scurrilous author thus his trash excused. A poet shrewd, hearing the lame defense, Indignant, thus exposed the argument abused.

A Donkey's master said unto his beast, While doling out to him his lock of straw, "Here, take it--since such diet suits your taste, And much good may it do your vulgar maw!" Often the slighting speech the man repeated. The Ass--his quiet mood by insult heated--

Replies: "Just what you choose to give, I take, Master unjust! but not because I choose it. Think you I nothing like but straw? Then make The experiment. Bring corn, and see if I refuse it." Ye caterers for the public, hence take heed How your defaults by false excuse you cover! Fed upon straw--straw it may eat, indeed; Try it with generous fare--'t will scorn the other.

THE LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED; OR, HYPOCRISY DETECTED. WILLIAM COWPER.

Thus says the prophet of the Turk, Good Mussulman, abstain from pork; There is a part in every swine No friend or follower of mine May taste, whate'er his inclination, On pain of excommunication. Such Mohammed's mysterious charge, And thus he left the point at large. Had he the sinful part expressed, They might with safety eat the rest; But for one piece they thought it hard From the whole hog to be debarred; And set their wit at work to find What joint the prophet had in mind. Much controversy straight arose, These chose the back, the belly those; By some 'tis confidently said He meant not to forbid the head; While others at that doctrine rail, And piously prefer the tail. Thus, conscience freed from every clog, Mohammedans eat up the hog. You laugh--'tis well--The tale applied May make you laugh on t' other side. Renounce the world--the preacher cries. We do--a multitude replies. While one as innocent regards A snug and friendly game at cards; And one, whatever you may say, Can see no evil in a play; Some love a concert, or a race; And others shooting, and the chase. Reviled and loved, renounced and followed, Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallowed; Each thinks his neighbor makes too free, Yet likes a slice as well as he; With, sophistry their sauce they sweeten, Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.

REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS. WILLIAM COWPER.

Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose, The spectacles set them unhappily wrong; The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, To which the said spectacles ought to belong.

So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning; While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.

In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear, And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, That the Nose has had spectacles always to wear, Which amounts to possession time out of mind.

Then holding the spectacles up to the court-- Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short, Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle.

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose ('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again) That the visage or countenance had not a nose, Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?

On the whole it appears, and my argument shows, With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose, And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.

Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how), He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes; But what were his arguments few people know, For the court did not think they were equally wise.

So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone, Decisive and clear, without one IF or BUT-- That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By daylight or candlelight--Eyes should be shut!

HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. [Footnote: Kennedy gives the following account of the origin of "Holy Willie's Prayer;"--Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Clerk of Ayr, the Poet's friend and benefactor was accosted one Sunday morning by a mendicant, who begged alms of him. Not recollecting that it was the Sabbath, Hamilton set the man to work in his garden, which lay on lay on the public road, and the poor fellow was discovered by the people on their way to the kirk, and they immediately stoned him from the ground. For this offense, Mr. Hamilton was not permitted to have a child christened, which his wife bore him soon afterward, until he applied to the synod. His most officious opponent was William Fisher, one of the elders of the church: and to revenge the insult to his friend, Burns made him the subject of this humorous ballad.] ROBERT BURNS.

O Thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, Wha, as it pleases best thysel', Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, A' for thy glory, And no for ony giud or ill They've done afore thee!

I bless and praise thy matchless might, When thousands thou hast left in night, That I am here, afore thy sight. For gifts an' grace, A burnin' an' a shinin' light To a' this place.

What was I, or my generation, That I should get sic exaltation! I, wha deserve sic just damnation, For broken laws, Five thousand years 'fore my creation Thro' Adam's cause.

When frae my mither's womb I fell, Thou might hae plung'd me into hell, To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, In burnin' lake, Whare damned devils roar and yell, Chain'd to a stake.

Yet I am here a chosen sample; To show thy grace is great and ample; I'm here a pillar in thy temple, Strong as a rock, A guide, a buckler, an example To a' thy flock.

[O L--d, then kens what zeal I bear, When drinkers drink, and swearers swear, And singing there, and dancing here, Wi' great and sma'; For I am keepit by thy fear, Free frae them a'.]

But yet, O L--d! confess I must, At times I 'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust; And sometimes, too, wi' warldly trust, Vile self gets in; But thou remembers we are dust, Defll'd in sin.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

May be thou lets this fleshly thorn Beset thy servant e'en and morn, Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 'Cause he's sae gifted If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne, Until thou lift it. L--d, bless thy chosen in this place, For here thou hast a chosen race: But G-d confound their stubborn face, And blast their name, Wha bring thy elders to disgrace And public shame.

L--d, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts, He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes, Yet has sae mony takin' arts, Wi' great and sma', Frae Gr-d's ain priests the people's hearts He steals awa'.

An' whan we chasten'd him therefore, Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, As set the warld in a roar O' laughin' at us;-- Curse thou his basket and his store, Kail and potatoes.

L--d, hear my earnest cry and pray'r, Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr; Thy strong right hand, L--d, mak' it bare Upo' their heads, L--d, weigh it down, and dinna spare, For their misdeeds.

O L--d my G-d, that glib-tongu'd Aiken, My very heart and saul are quakin' To think how we stood groanin', shakin', And swat wi' dread, While Auld wi' hinging lip gaed snakin', And hid his head.

L--d in the day of vengeance try him, L--d, visit them wha did employ him, And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, Nor hear their pray'r; But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, And dinna spare.

But, L--d, remember me and mine, Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, That I for gear and grace may shine, Excell'd by nane, An' a' the glory shall be thine, Amen, Amen!

EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE

Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay Taks up its last abode; His saul has ta'en some other way, I fear, the left-hand road.

Stop! there he is, as sure's a gun, Poor, silly body, see him; Nae wonder he's as black's the grun-- Observe wha's standing wi him!

Your brunstane devilship, I see, Has got him there before ye; But haud your nine-tail cat a wee, Till ance ye've heard my story.

Your pity I will not implore, For pity ye hae nane! Justice, alas! has gi'en him o'er And mercy's day is gane.

But hear me, sir, deil as ye are, Look something to your credit; A coof like him wad stain your name, If it were kent ye did it.

ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. ROBERT BURNS.

"O Prince! O Chief of many throned Pow'rs, That led th' embattled Seraphim to war!"-- MILTON.

O Thou! whatever title suit thee, Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie, Wha in yon cavern grim and sootie, Closed under hatches, Spairges about the brunstane cootie, To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, An' let poor damned bodies be; I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, E'en to a deil, To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, An' hear us squeel!

Great is thy power, an' great thy fame; Far kenn'd and noted is thy name; An' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, Thou travels far: An,' faith! thou's neither lag nor lame, Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roaring lion, For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin'; Whyles on the strong-wing'd tempest flyin' Tirl in the kirks; Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', Unseen thou lurks.

I've heard my reverend Grannie say, In lanely glens ye like to stray; Or where auld ruin'd castles, gray, Nod to the moon, Ye fright the nightly wand'rer's way Wi' eldritch croon.

When twilight did my Grannie summon To say her prayers, douce, honest woman! Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin', Wi' eerie drone; Or, rustlin, thro' the boortries comin', Wi' heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night, The stars shot down wi' sklentin' light, Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright Ayont the lough; Ye, like a rash-bush, stood in sight, Wi' waving sough.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake, Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick--quack-- Amang the springs, Awa ye squatter'd, like a drake, On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags, They skim the muirs an' dizzy crags, Wi' wicked speed; And in kirk-yards renew their leagues Owre howkit dead.

Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain: For, oh! the yellow treasure's taen By witching skill An' dawtit, twal-pint hawkie's gaen As yell's the bill.

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse On young guidmen, fond, keen, an' crouse; When the best wark-lume i' the house, By cantrip--wit, Is instant made no worth a louse, Just at the bit.

When thows dissolve the snawy hoord, An' float the jinglin icy-boord, Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, By your direction; An' sighted trav'lers are allur'd To their destruction.

An' aft your moss-traversing spunkies Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is: The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys Delude his eyes, Till in some miry slough he sunk is, Ne'er mair to rise.

When masons' mystic word an' grip In storms an' tempests raise you up, Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, Or, strange to tell! The youngest brother ye wad whip Aff straught to hell!

Lang syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, An' all the soul of love they shar'd, The raptur'd hour. Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry sward, In shady bow'r:

Then you, ye auld, snec-drawing dog! Ye came to Paradise incog., An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, (Black be your fa'!) An' gied the infant warld a shog, Maist ruin'd a'.

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, Wi' reekit duds, an' reestit gizz, Ye did present your smoutie phiz 'Mang better folk, An' sklented on the man of Uz Your spitefu' joke?

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, Au' brak him out o' house an' hall, While scabs an' botches did him gall, Wi' bitter claw, And lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked scawl, Was warst ava?

But ai your doings to rehearse, Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce, Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, Down to this time, Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, In prose or rhyme.

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin', A certain Bardie's rantin', drinkin', Some luckless hour will send him linkin' To your black pit; But, faith! he 'll turn a corner jinkin', An' cheat you yet.

But, fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben! O wad ye tak a thought an' men'! Ye aiblins might--I dinna ken-- Still hae a stake-- I'm wae to think upo' yon den, Ev'n for your sake!!

THE DEVIL'S WALK ON EARTH. ROBERT SOUTHEY.

From his brimstone bed at break of day A walking the Devil is gone, To look at his snug little farm of the World, And see how his stock went on.

Over the hill and over the dale, And he went over the plain; And backward and forward he swish'd his tail As a gentleman swishes a cane.

How then was the Devil drest? Oh, he was in his Sunday's best His coat was red and hia breeches were blue, And there was a hole where his tail came through.

A lady drove by in her pride, In whose face an expression he spied For which he could have kiss'd her, Such a flourishing, fine, clever woman was she, With an eye as wicked as wicked can be, I should take her for my Aunt, thought he, If my dam had had a sister.

He met a lord of high degree, No matter what was his name; Whose face with his own when he came to compare The expression, the look, and the air, And the character, too, as it seem'd to a hair-- Such a twin-likeness there was in the pair That it made the Devil start and stare. For he thought there was surely a looking-glass there, But he could not see the frame.

He saw a Lawyer killing a viper, On a dung-hill beside his stable; Ha! quoth he, thou put'st me in mind Of the story of Cain and Abel.

An Apothecary on a white horse Rode by on his vocation; And the Devil thought of his old friend Death in the Revelation.

He pass'd a cottage with a double coach-house, A cottage of gentility, And he own'd with a grin That his favorite sin, Is pride that apes humility

He saw a pig rapidly Down a river float; The pig swam well, but every stroke Was cutting his own throat;

And Satan gave thereat his tail A twirl of admiration; For he thought of his daughter War, And her suckling babe Taxation.

Well enough, in sooth, he liked that truth. And nothing the worse for the jest; But this was only a first thought And in this he did not rest: Another came presently into his head, And here it proved, as has often been said That second thoughts are best

For as Piggy plied with wind and tide, His way with such celerity, And at every stroke the water dyed With his own red blood, the Devil cried, Behold a swinish nation's pride In cotton-spun prosperity.

He walk'd into London leisurely, The streets were dirty and dim: But there he saw Brothers the Prophet, And Brothers the Prophet saw him,

He entered a thriving bookseller's shop; Quoth he, we are both of one college, For I myself sate like a Cormorant once Upon the Tree of Knowledge. As he passed through Cold-Bath Fields he look'd At a solitary cell; And he was well-pleased, for it gave him a hint For improving the prisons of Hell.

He saw a turnkey tie a thief's hands With a cordial tug and jerk; Nimbly, quoth he, a man's fingers move When his heart is in his work.

He saw the same turnkey unfettering a man With little expedition; And he chuckled to think of his dear slave-trade, And the long debates and delays that were made, Concerning its abolition. He met one of his favorite daughters By an Evangelical Meeting: And forgetting himself for joy at her sight, He would have accosted her outright, And given her a fatherly greeting.

But she tipt him the wink, drew back, and cried, Avaunt! my name's Religion! And then she turn'd to the preacher And leer'd like a love-sick pigeon.

A fine man and a famous Professor was he, As the great Alexander now may be, Whose fame not yet o'erpast is: Or that new Scotch performer Who is fiercer and warmer, The great Sir Arch-Bombastes.

With throbs and throes, and ah's and oh's. Far famed his flock for frightning; And thundering with his voice, the while His eyes zigzag like lightning.

This Scotch phenomenon, I trow, Beats Alexander hollow; Even when most tame He breathes more flame Then ten Fire-Kings could swallow

Another daughter he presently met; With music of fife and drum, And a consecrated flag, And shout of tag and rag, And march of rank and file, Which had fill'd the crowded aisle Of the venerable pile, From church he saw her come.

He call'd her aside, and began to chide, For what dost thou here? said he, My city of Rome is thy proper home, And there's work enough there for thee

Thou hast confessions to listen, And bells to christen, And altars and dolls to dress; And fools to coax, And sinners to hoax, And beads and bones to bless; And great pardons to sell For those who pay well, And small ones for those who pay less.

Nay, Father, I boast, that this is my post, She answered; and thou wilt allow, That the great Harlot, Who is clothed in scarlet, Can very well spare me now.

Upon her business I am come here, That we may extend our powers: Whatever lets down this church that we hate, Is something in favor of ours.

You will not think, great Cosmocrat! That I spend my time in fooling; Many irons, my sire, have we in the fire, And I must leave none of them cooling; For you must know state-councils here, Are held which I bear rule in. When my liberal notions, Produce mischievous motions, There's many a man of good intent, In either house of Parliament, Whom I shall find a tool in; And I have hopeful pupils too Who all this while are schooling,

Fine progress they make in our liberal opinions, My Utilitarians,

My all sorts of--inians And all sorts of--arians; My all sorts of--ists, And my Prigs and my Whigs Who have all sorts of twists Train'd in the very way, I know, Father, you would have them go; High and low, Wise and foolish, great and small, March-of-Intellect-Boys all.

Well pleased wilt thou be at no very far day When the caldron of mischief boils, And I bring them forth in battle array And bid them suspend their broils, That they may unite and fall on the prey, For which we are spreading our toils. How the nice boys all will give mouth at the call, Hark away! hark away to the spoils! My Macs and my Quacks and my lawless-Jacks, My Shiels and O'Connells, my pious Mac-Donnells, My joke-smith Sydney, and all of his kidney, My Humes and my Broughams, My merry old Jerry, My Lord Kings, and my Doctor Doyles!

At this good news, so great The Devil's pleasure grew, That with a joyful swish he rent The hole where his tail came through.

His countenance fell for a moment When he felt the stitches go; Ah! thought he, there's a job now That I've made for my tailor below.

Great news! bloody news! cried a newsman; The Devil said, Stop, let me see! Great news? bloody news? thought the Devil, The bloodier the better for me.

So he bought the newspaper, and no news At all for his money he had. Lying varlet, thought he, thus to take in old Nick! But it's some satisfaction, my lad To know thou art paid beforehand for the trick, For the sixpence I gave thee is bad.

And then it came into his head By oracular inspiration, That what he had seen and what he had said In the course of this visitation, Would be published in the Morning Post For all this reading nation.

Therewith in second sight he saw The place and the manner and time, In which this mortal story Would be put in immortal rhyme.

That it would happen when two poets Should on a time be met, In the town of Nether Stowey, In the shire of Somerset.

There while the one was shaving Would he the song begin; And the other when he heard it at breakfast, In ready accord join in.

So each would help the other, Two heads being better than one; And the phrase and conceit Would in unison meet, And so with glee the verse flow free, In ding-dong chime of sing-song rhyme, Till the whole were merrily done.

And because it was set to the razor, Not to the lute or harp, Therefore it was that the fancy Should be bright, and the wit be sharp.

But, then, said Satan to himself As for that said beginner, Against my infernal Majesty, There is no greater sinner.

He hath put me in ugly ballads With libelous pictures for sale; He hath scoff'd at my hoofs and my horns, And has made very free with my tail.

But this Mister Poet shall find I am not a safe subject for whim; For I'll set up a School of my own, And my Poets shall set upon him.

He went to a coffee-house to dine, And there he had soy in his dish; Having ordered some soles for his dinner, Because he was fond of flat fish.

They are much to my palate, thought he, And now guess the reason who can, Why no bait should be better than place, When I fish for a Parliament-man.

But the soles in the bill were ten shillings; Tell your master, quoth he, what I say; If he charges at this rate for all things, He must be in a pretty good way.

But mark ye, said he to the waiter, I'm a dealer myself in this line, And his business, between you and me, Nothing like so extensive as mine.

Now soles are exceedingly cheap, Which he will not attempt to deny, When I see him at my fish-market, I warrant him, by-and-by.

As he went along the Strand Between three in the morning and four He observed a queer-looking person Who staggered from Perry's door.

And he thought that all the world over In vain for a man you might seek, Who could drink more like a Trojan Or talk more like a Greek.

The Devil then he prophesied It would one day be matter of talk, That with wine when smitten, And with wit moreover being happily bitten, The erudite bibber was he who had written The story of this walk.

A pretty mistake, quoth the Devil; A pretty mistake I opine! I have put many ill thoughts in his mouth, He will never put good ones in mine.

And whoever shall say that to Porson These best of all verses belong, He is an untruth-telling whore-son, And so shall be call'd in the song.

And if seeking an illicit connection with fame, Any one else should put in a claim, In this comical competition; That excellent poem will prove A man-trap for such foolish ambition, Where the silly rogue shall be caught by the leg, And exposed in a second edition.

Now the morning air was cold for him Who was used to a warm abode; And yet he did not immediately wish, To set out on his homeward road,

For he had some morning calls to make Before he went back to Hell; So thought he I'll step into a gaming-house, And that will do as well; But just before he could get to the door A wonderful chance befell.

For all on a sudden, in a dark place, He came upon General ----'s burning face; And it struck him with such consternation, That home in a hurry his way did he take, Because he thought, by a slight mistake 'Twas the general conflagration.

CHURCH AND STATE. THOMAS MOORE.

When Royalty was young and bold, Ere, touch'd by Time, he had become-- If't is not civil to say OLD-- At least, a ci-devant jeune homme.

One evening, on some wild pursuit, Driving along, he chanced to see Religion, passing by on foot, And took him in his vis-a-vis.

This said Religion was a friar, The humblest and the best of men, Who ne'er had notion or desire Of riding in a coach till then.

"I say"--quoth Royalty, who rather Enjoy'd a masquerading joke-- "I say, suppose, my good old father, You lend me, for a while, your cloak."

The friar consented--little knew What tricks the youth had in his head; Besides, was rather tempted, too, By a laced coat he got in stead,

Away ran Royalty, slap-dash, Scampering like mad about the town; Broke windows--shiver'd lamps to smash, And knock'd whole scores of watchmen down.

While naught could they whose heads were broke Learn of the "why" or the "wherefore," Except that 't was Religion's cloak The gentleman, who crack'd them, wore.

Meanwhile, the Friar, whose head was turn'd By the laced coat, grew frisky too-- Look'd big--his former habits spurn'd-- And storm'd about as great men do--

Dealt much in pompous oaths and curses-- Said "Damn you," often, or as bad-- Laid claim to other people's purses-- In short, grew either knave or mad.

As work like this was unbefitting, And flesh and blood no longer bore it, The Court of Common Sense then sitting, Summon'd the culprits both before it;

Where, after hours in wrangling spent (As courts must wrangle to decide well), Religion to St. Luke's was sent, And Royalty pack'd off to Bridewell:

With, this proviso--Should they be Restored in due time to their senses, They both must give security In future, against such offenses--

Religion ne'er to LEND HIS CLOAK, Seeing what dreadful work it leads to; And Royalty to crack his joke-- But NOT to crack poor people's heads, too.

LYING. THOMAS MOORE.

I do confess, in many a sigh, My lips have breath'd you many a lie, And who, with such delights in view, Would lose them for a lie or two? Nay--look not thus, with brow reproving: Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving! If half we tell the girls were true, If half we swear to think and do, Were aught but lying's bright illusion, The world would be in strange confusion! If ladies' eyes were, every one, As lovers swear, a radiant sun, Astronomy should leave the skies, To learn her lore in ladies' eyes! Oh no!--believe me, lovely girl, When nature turns your teeth to pearl, Your neck to snow, your eyes to fire, Your yellow locks to golden wire, Then, only then, can heaven decree, That you should live for only me, Or I for you, as night and morn, We've swearing kiss'd, and kissing sworn.

And now, my gentle hints to clear, For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear! Whenever you may chance to meet A loving youth, whose love is sweet, Long as you're false and he believes you, Long as you trust and he deceives you, So long the blissful bond endures; And while he lies, his heart is yours; But, oh! you've wholly lost the youth The instant that he tells you truth!

THE MILLENNIUM. SUGGESTBD BY THE LATE WORK OF THE KEVEKEND MR. IRVING "ON PROPHECY." THOMAS MOORE.

Millennium at hand!--I'm delighted to hear it-- As matters both public and private now go, With multitudes round us, all starving or near it, A good rich millennium will come A PROPOS.

Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold, Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags, A bran-new Jerusalem, built all of gold, Sound bullion throughout, from the roof to the flags--

A city where wine and cheap corn shall abound-- A celestial Cocaigne, on whose butterfly shelves We may swear the best things of this world will be found, As your saints seldom fail to take care of themselves!

Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures elysian, Divine Squintifobus, who, placed within reach Of two opposite worlds by a twist of your vision Can cast, at the same time, a sly look at eaoh;--

Thanks, thanks for the hopes thou hast given us, that we May, even in our times a jubilee share, Which so long has been promised by prophets like thee, And so often has fail'd, we began to despair.

There was Whiston, who learnedly took Prince Eugene For the man who must bring the Millennium about; There's Faber, whose pious predictions have been All belied, ere his book's first edition was out;--

There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M.P., Who discoursed on the subject with signal eclat, And, each day of his life, sat expecting to see A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh!

There was also--but why should I burden my lay With your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less deserving When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way To the last new Millennium of Orator Irv-ng,

Go on, mighty man--doom them all to the shelf-- And, when next thou with prophecy tronblest thy sconce, Oh, forget not, I pray thee, to prove that thyself Art the Beast (chapter 4) that sees nine ways at once!

THE LITTLE GRAND LAMA. A FABLE FOR PRINCES ROYAL THOMAS MOORE

In Thibet once there reign'd, we're told, A little Lama, one year old-- Raised to the throne, that realm to bless, Just when his little Holiness Had cut--as near as can be reckoned-- Some say his FIRST tooth, some his SECOND, Chronologers and verses vary, Which proves historians should be wary We only know the important truth-- His Majesty HAD cut a tooth.

And much his subjects were enchanted, As well all Lamas' subjects may be, And would have given their heads, if wanted, To make tee-totums for the baby As he was there by Eight Divine (What lawyers call Jure Divino Meaning a right to yours and mine, And everybody's goods and rhino)-- Of course his faithful subjects' purses Were ready with their aids and succors-- Nothing was seen but pension'd nurses, And the land groan'd with bibs and tuckers.

Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet Then sitting in the Thibet Senate, Ye gods, what room for long debates Upon the Nursery Estimates! What cutting down of swaddling-clothes And pin-a-fores, in nightly battles! What calls for papers to expose The waste of sugar-plums and rattles? But no--if Thibet NAD M.P.s, They were far better bred than these, Nor gave the slightest opposition, During the Monarch's whole dentition.

But short this calm; for, just when he Had reach'd the alarming age of three, When royal natures--and, no doubt Those of ALL noble beasts--break out, The Lama, who till then was quiet, Show'd symptoms of a taste for riot; And, ripe for mischief, early, late, Without regard for Church or State, Made free with whosoe'er came nigh-- Tweak'd the Lord Chancellor by the nose, Turn'd all the Judges' wigs awry, And trod on the old General's toes-- Pelted the Bishops with hot buns, Rode cock-horse on the city maces, And shot, from little devilish guns, Hard peas into his subjects' faces. In short, such wicked pranks he play'd, And grew so mischievous (God bless him!) That his chief Nurse--though with the aid Of an Archbishop--was afraid, When in these moods, to comb or dress him; And even the persons most inclined For Kings, through thick and thin, to stickle, Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind Which they did NOT) an odious pickle.

At length, some patriot lords--a breed Of animals they have in Thibet, Extremely rare, and fit, indeed, For folks like Pidcock to exhibit-- Some patriot lords, seeing the length To which things went, combined their strength, And penn'd a manly, plain and free Remonstrance to the Nursery; In which, protesting that they yielded, To none, that ever went before 'em-- In loyalty to him who wielded The hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'em--That, as for treason, 't was a thing That made them almost sick to think of-- That they and theirs stood by the King, Throughout his measles and his chin-cough,

When others, thinking him consumptive, Had ratted to the heir Presumptive!-- But still--though much admiring kings (And chiefly those in leading-strings)-- They saw, with shame and grief of soul, There was no longer now the wise And constitutional control Of BIRCH before their ruler's eyes; But that, of late, such pranks and tricks, And freaks occurr'd the whole day long, As all, but men with bishoprics, Allow'd, even in a King, were wrong-- Wherefore it was they humbly pray'd That Honorable Nursery, That such reforms be henceforth made, As all good men desired to see;-- In other words (lest they might seem Too tedious) as the gentlest scheme For putting all such pranks to rest, And in its bud the mischief nipping-- They ventured humbly to suggest His Majesty should have a whipping!

When this was read--no Congreve rocket Discharged into the Gallic trenches, E'er equall'd the tremendous shock it Produc'd upon the Nursery Benches. The Bishops, who, of course had votes, By right of age and petticoats, Were first and foremost in the fuss-- "What, whip a Lama!--suffer birch To touch his sacred---infamous! Deistical!--assailing thus The fundamentals of the Church! No--no--such patriot plans as these (So help them Heaven--and their sees!) They held to be rank blasphemies."

The alarm thus given, by these and other Grave ladies of the Nursery side, Spread through the land, till, such a pother Such party squabbles, far and wide, Never in history's page had been Recorded, as were then between The Whippers and Non-whippers seen. Till, things arriving at a state Which gave some fears of revolution, The patriot lords' advice, though late, Was put at last in execution. The Parliament of Thibet met-- The little Lama call'd before it, Did, then and there, his whipping get,And (as the Nursery Gazette Assures us) like a hero bore it.

And though 'mong Thibet Tories, some Lament that Royal MartyrDom (Please to observe, the letter D In this last word's pronounced like B), Yet to the example of that Prince So much is Thibet's land a debtor, 'Tis said her little Lamas since Have all behaved themselves MUCH better.

ETERNAL LONDON. THOMAS MOORE.

And is there then no earthly place Where we can rest, in dream Elysian, Without some cursed, round English face, Popping up near, to break the vision!

'Mid northern lakes, 'mid southern vines, Unholy cits we're doom'd to meet; Nor highest Alps nor Appenines Are sacred from Threadneedle-street.

If up the Simplon's path we wind, Fancying we leave this world behind, Such pleasant sounds salute one's ear As--"Baddish news from 'Change, my dear-- The Funds--(phew, curse this ugly hill!) Are lowering fast--(what! higher still?)-- And--(zooks, we're mounting up to Heaven!)-- Will soon be down to sixty-seven,"

Go where we may--rest where we will, Eternal London haunts us still, The trash of Almack's or Fleet-Ditch-- And scarce a pin's head difference WHICH-- Mixes, though even to Greece we run, With every rill from Helicon! And if this rage for traveling lasts, If Cockneys of all sets and castes, Old maidens, aldermen, and squires, WILL leave their puddings and coal fires, To gape at things in foreign lands No soul among them understands-- If Blues desert their coteries, To show off 'mong the Wahabees--- If neither sex nor age controls, Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids Young ladies, with pink parasols, To glide among the Pyramids-- Why, then, farewell all hope to find A spot that's free from London-kind! Who knows, if to the West we roam, But we may find some Blue "at home" Among the BLACKS of Carolina-- Or, flying to the eastward, see Some Mrs. HOPKINS, taking tea And toast upon the Wall of China.

OF FACTOTUM NED. THOMAS MOORE.

Here lies Factotum Ned at last: Long as he breath'd the vital air, Nothing throughout all Europe pass'd In which he hadn't some small share.

Whoe'er was IN, whoe'er was OUT-- Whatever statesmen did or said-- If not exactly brought about, Was all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With NAP if Russia went to war, 'Twas owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Czar-- (Vide his pamphlet--price six pence).

If France was beat at Waterloo-- As all, but Frenchmen, think she was-- To Ned, as Wellington well knew, Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news--no envoy's bag E'er pass'd so many secrets through it-- Scarcely a telegraph could wag Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots, With foreign names one's ear to buzz in-- From Russia chefs and ofs in lots, From Poland owskis by the dozen.

When GEORGE, alarm'd for England's creed, Turn'd out the last Whig ministry, And men ask'd--who advised the deed? Ned modestly confess'd 'twas he.

For though, by some unlucky miss, He had not downright SEEN the King, He sent such hints through Viscount THIS, To Marquis THAT, as clench'd the thing.

The same it was in science, arts, The drama, books, MS. and printed-- Kean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts, And Scott's last work by him was hinted.

Childe Harold in the proofs he read, And, here and there, infused some soul in 't-- Nay, Davy's lamp, till seen by Ned, Had--odd enough--a dangerous hole in't.

'Twas thus, all doing and all knowing, Wit, statesman, boxer, chemist, singer, Whatever was the best pie going, In THAT Ned--trust him--had his finger.

LETTERS FROM MISS BIDDY FUDGE AT PARIS TO MISS DOROTHY--IN IRELAND THOMAS MOORE.

What a time since I wrote!--I'm a sad naughty girl-- Though, like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl, Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum Between all its twirls gives a LETTER to note 'em. But, Lord, such a place! and then, Dolly, my dresses, My gowns, so divine!--there's no language expresses, Except just the TWO words "superbe," "magmfique," The trimmings of that which I had home last week! It is call'd--I forget--a la--something which sounded Like alicampane--but, in truth, I'm confounded And bother'd, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's (Bob's) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi's: What with fillets of roses, and fillets of veal, Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel, One's hair, and one's cutlets both en papillote, And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote, I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase, Between beef a la Psyche and curls a la braise.-- But, in short, dear, I'm trick'd out quite a la Francaise, With my bonnet--so beautiful!--high up and poking, Like things that are put to keep chimneys from smoking.

Where SHALL I begin with the endless delights Of this Eden of milliners, monkeys, and sights-- This dear busy place, where there's nothing transacting, But dressing and dinnering, dancing and acting?

Imprimis, the Opera--mercy, my ears! Brother Bobby's remark t'other night was a true one "This MUST be the music," said he, "of the SPEARS, For I'm curst if each note of it doesn't run through one!" Pa says (and you know, love, his book's to make out), 'T was the Jacobins brought every mischief about; That this passion for roaring has come in of late, Since the rabble all tried for a VOICE in the State. What a frightful idea, one's mind to o'erwhelm! What a chorus, dear Dolly, would soon be let loose of it! If, when of age, every man in the realm Had a voice like old Lais, and chose to make use of it! No--never was known in this riotous sphere Such a breach of the peace as their singing, my dear; So bad, too, you'd swear that the god of both arts, Of Music and Physic, had taken a frolic For setting a loud fit of asthma in parts, And composing a fine rumbling base to a cholic!

But, the dancing--ah parlez moi, Dolly, des ca-- There, indeed, is a treat that charms all but Papa. Such beauty--such grace--oh ye sylphs of romance! Fly, fly to Titania, and ask her if SHE has One light-footed nymph in her train, that can dance Like divine Bigottini and sweet Fanny Bias! Fanny Bias in Flora--dear creature!--you'd swear, When her delicate feet in the dance twinkle round, That her steps are of light, that her home is the air, And she only par complaisance touches the ground. And when Bigottini in Psyche dishevels Her black flowing hair, and by demons is driven, Oh! who does not envy those rude little devils, That hold her, and hug her, and keep her from heaven? Then, the music--so softly its cadences die, So divinely--oh, Dolly! between you and I, It's as well for my peace that there's nobody nigh To make love to me then--YOU'VE a soul, and can judge What a crisis 't would be for your friend Biddy Fudge!

The next place (which Bobby has near lost his heart in), They call it the Play-house--I think--of Saint Martin: Quite charming--and VERY religious--what folly To say that the French are not pious, dear Dolly, When here one beholds, so correctly and rightly, The Testament turn'd into melo-drames nightly And, doubtless, so fond they're of scriptural facts, They will soon get the Pentateuch up in five acts. Here Daniel, in pantomime, bids bold defiance To Nebuchadnezzar and all his stuff'd lions, While pretty young Israelites dance round the Prophet, In very thin clothing, and BUT little of it;-- Here Begrand, who shines in this scriptural path, As the lovely Susanna, without even a relic Of drapery round her, comes out of the Bath In a manner, that, Bob says, is quite EVE-ANGELIC!

But, in short, dear, 't would take me a month to recite All the exquisite places we're at, day and night; And, besides, ere I finish, I think you'll be glad Just to hear one delightful adventure I've had.

Last night, at the Beaujon, a place where--I doubt If I well can describe--there are cars that set out From a lighted pavilion, high up in the air, And rattle you down, Doll--you hardly know where. These vehicles, mind me, in which you go through This delightfully dangerous journey, hold TWO. Some cavalier asks, with humility, whether You'll venture down with him--you smile--'tis a match; In an instant you're seated, and down both together Go thundering, as if you went post to old Scratch; Well, it was but last night, as I stood and remark'd On the looks and odd ways of the girls who embark'd, The impatience of some for the perilous flight, The forc'd giggle of others, 'twixt pleasure and fright, That there came up--imagine, dear Doll, if you can-- A fine sallow, sublime, sort of Werter-fac'd man, With mustaches that gave (what we read of so oft), The dear Corsair expression, half savage, half soft As Hyienas in love may be fancied to look, or A something between Abelard and old Bincher! Up he came, Doll, to me, and uncovering his head (Rather bald, but so warlike!) in bad English said, "Ah! my dear--if Ma'maelle vil be so very good-- Just for von little course"--though I scarce understood What he wish'd me to do, I said, thank him, I would.

Off we set--and, though 'faith, dear, I hardly knew whether My head or my heels were the uppermost then, For 't was like heaven and earth, Dolly, coming together-- Yet, spite of the danger, we dared it again. And oh! as I gazed on the features and air Of the man, who for me all this peril defied, I could fancy almost he and I were a pair Of unhappy young lovers, who thus, side by side, Were taking, instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a Desperate dash down the falls of Niagara!

This achiev'd, through the gardens we saunter'd about, Saw the fire-works, exclaim'd "magnifique!" at each cracker And, when 't was all o'er, the dear man saw us out With the air, I WILL say, of a prince, to our fiacre. Now, hear me--this stranger--it may be mere folly-- But WHO do you think we all think it is, Dolly? Why, bless you, no less than the great King of Prussia, Who's here now incog.--he, who made such a fuss, you Remember, in London, with Blucher and Platoff, When Sal was near kissing old Blucher's cravat off! Pa says he's come here to look after his money (Not taking things now as he used under Boney), Which suits with our friend, for Bob saw him, he swore, Looking sharp to the silver received at the door. Besides, too, they say that his grief for his Queen (Which was plain in this sweet fellow's face to be seen) Requires such a stimulant dose as this car is, Used three times a day with young ladies in Paris. Some Doctor, indeed, has declared that such grief Should--unless 't would to utter despairing its folly push-- Fly to the Beaujon, and there seek relief By rattling, as Bob says, "like shot through a holly-bush."

I must now bid adieu--only think, Dolly, think If this SHOULD be the King--I have scarce slept a wink With imagining how it will sound in the papers, And how all the Misses my good luck will grudge, When they read that Count Buppin, to drive away vapors, Has gone down the Beaujon with Miss Biddy Fudge.

Nota Bene.--Papa's almost certain 'tis he-- For he knows the L*git**ate cut, and could see, In the way he went poising, and managed to tower So erect in the car, the true Balance of Power.

SECOND LETTER.

Well, it ISN'T the King, after all, my dear creature! But DON'T you go laugh, now--there's nothing to quiz in 't-- For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature, He MIGHT be a King, Doll, though, hang him, he isn't. At first I felt hurt, for I wish'd it, I own, If for no other cause than to vex MISS MALONE-- (The great heiress, you know, of Shandangan, who's here, Showing off with SUCH airs and a real Cashmere, While mine's but a paltry old rabbit-skin, dear!) But says Pa, after deeply considering the thing, "I am just as well pleased it should NOT be the King; As I think for my BIDDY, so gentilie jolie, Whose charms may their price in an HONEST way fetch, That a Brandenburg--(what IS a Brandenburg, DOLLY?)-- Would be, after all, no such very great catch, If the R--G--T, indeed--" added he, looking sly-- (You remember that comical squint of his eye) But I stopp'd him--"La, Pa, how CAN you say so, When the R--G--T loves none but old women, you know!" Which is fact, my dear Dolly--we, girls of eighteen, And so slim--Lord, he'd think us not fit to be seen; And would like us much better as old--ay, as old As that Countess of Desmond, of whom I've been told That she lived to much more than a hundred and ten, And was kill'd by a fall from a cherry-tree then! What a frisky old girl! but--to come to my lover, Who, though not a king, is a HERO I'll swear-- You shall hear all that's happen'd just briefly run over, Since that happy night, when we whisk'd through the air!

Let me see--'t was on Saturday--yes, Dolly, yes-- From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss; When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage, Whose journey, Bob says, is so like love and marriage, "Beginning gay, desperate, clashing down-hilly; And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!" Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night through, And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you, With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet, Set out with Papa, to see Louis Dix-huit Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys, Who get up a small concert of shrill Vive le Rois-- And how vastly genteeler, my clear, even this is, Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses! The gardens seem'd full--so, of course, we walk'd o'er 'em, 'Mong orange-trees, clipp'd into town-bred decorum, And Daphnes, and vases, and many a statue There staring, with not even a stitch on them, at you! The ponds, too, we view'd--stood awhile on the brink To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes-- "LIVE BULLION" says merciless Bob, "which I think, Would, if COIN'D, with a little MINT sauce, be delicious!"

But WHAT, Dolly, what is the gay orange-grove, Or gold fishes, to her that's in search of her love? In vain did I wildly explore every chair Where a thing LIKE a man was--no lover sat there! In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast At the whiskers, mustaches, and wigs that went past, To obtain, if I could, but a glance at that curl, But a glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl, As the lock that, Pa says, is to Mussulmen given, For the angel to hold by that "lugs them to heaven!" Alas, there went by me full many a quiz, And mustaches in plenty, but nothing like his! Disappointed, I found myself sighing out "well-a-day," Thought of the words of T-H M-RE'S Irish melody, Something about the "green spot of delight," (Which you know, Captain Macintosh sung to us one day) Ah, Dolly! MY "spot" was that Saturday night, And its verdure, how fleeting, had wither'd by Sunday!

We dined at a tavern--La, what do I say? If Bob was to know!--a Restaurateur's, dear; Where your PROPEREST ladies go dine every day, And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer. Fine Bob (for he's really grown SUPER-fine) Condescended, for once, to make one of the party; Of course, though but three, we had dinner for nine, And, in spite of my grief, love, I own I ate hearty; Indeed, Doll, I know not how 'tis, but in grief, I have always found eating a wondrous relief; And Bob, who's in love, said he felt the same QUITE-- "My sighs," said he "ceased with the first glass I drank you, The LAMB made me tranquil, the PUFFS made me light, And now that's all o'er--why, I'm--pretty well, thank you!"

To MY great annoyance, we sat rather late; For Bobby and Pa had a furious debate About singing and cookery--Bobby, of course, Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force; And Pa saying, "God only knows which is worst, The French singers or cooks, but I wish us well over it-- What with old Lais and Very, I'm curst If MY head or my stomach will ever recover it!" 'T was dark when we got to the Boulevards to stroll, And in vain did I look 'mong the street Macaronis, When sudden it struck me--last hope of my soul-- That some angel might take the dear man to Tortoni's! We enter'd--and scarcely had Bob, with an air, For a grappe a la jardiniere call'd to the waiters, When, oh! Dolly, I saw him--my hero was there (For I knew his white small-clothes and brown leather gaiters), A group of fair statues from Greece smiling o'er him, And lots of red currant-juice sparkling before him! Oh Dolly, these heroes--what creatures they are! In the boudoir the same as in fields full of slaughter; As cool in the Beaujon's precipitous car As when safe at Tortoni's, o'er iced currant-water! He joined us--imagine, dear creature my ecstasy-- Join'd by the man I'd have broken ten necks to see! Bob wish'd to treat him with punch a la glace, But the sweet fellow swore that my beaute, my GRACE, And my je-ne-sais-quoi (then his whiskers he twirl'd) Were, to HIM, "on de top of all ponch in de vorld."-- How pretty!--though oft (as, of course, it must be) Both his French and his English are Greek, Doll, to me. But, in short, I felt happy as ever fond heart did: And, happier still, when 't was fix'd, ere we parted, That, if the next day should be PASTORAL weather, We all would set off in French buggies, together, To see Montmorency--that place which, you know, Is so famous for cherries and Jean Jacques Rousseau. His card then he gave us--the NAME, rather creased-- But 't was Calicot--something--a colonel, at least! After which--sure there never was hero so civil--he Saw us safe home to our door in Rue Rivoli, Where his LAST words, as at parting, he threw A soft look o'er his shoulders, were--"how do you do?"

But, Lord--there's Papa for the post---I'm so vex'd-- Montmorency must now, love, be kept for my next. That dear Sunday night!--I was charmingly dress'd, And--SO providential--was looking my best; Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce--and my frills, You've no notion how rich--(though Pa has by the bills)-- And you'd smile had you seen, when we sat rather near, Colonel Calicot eyeing the cambric, my dear. Then the flowers in my bonnet--but, la, it's in vain-- So, good by, my sweet Doll--I shall soon write again,

R.F.

Nota bene--our love to all neighbors about-- Your papa in particular--how is his gout?

P. S.--I 've just open'd my letter to say, In your next you must tell me (now DO, Dolly, pray For I hate to ask Bob, he's so ready to quiz) What sort of a thing, dear, a BRANDENBURG is.

THIRD LETTER.

At last, DOLLY--thanks to a potent emetic Which BOBBY and Pa, with grimace sympathetic, Have swallowed this morning to balance the bliss Of an eel matelote, and a bisque d'ecrevisses-- I've a morning at home to myself, and sit down To describe you our heavenly trip out of town. How agog you must be for this letter, my dear! Lady JANE in the novel less languish'd to hear If that elegant cornet she met at LORD NEVILLE'S Was actually dying with love or--blue devils. But love, DOLLY, love is the theme I pursue; With, blue devils, thank heaven, I've nothing to do-- Except, indeed, dear Colonel CALICOT spies Any imps of that color in CERTAIN blue eyes, Which he stares at till I, DOLL, at HIS do the same; Then he simpers--I blush--and would often exclaim, If I knew but the French for it, "Lord, sir, for shame!"

Well, the morning was lovely--the trees in full dress For the happy occasion--the sunshine EXPRESS-- Had we order'd it dear, of the best poet going, It scarce could be furnish'd more golden and glowing. Though late when we started, the scent of the air Was like GATTIE'S rose-water, and bright here and there On the grass an odd dew-drop was glittering yet, Like my aunt's diamond pin on her green tabinet! And the birds seemed to warble, as blest on the boughs, As if EACH a plumed CALICOT had for her spouse, And the grapes were all blushing and kissing in rows, And--in short, need I tell you, wherever one goes With the creature one loves, 'tis all couleur de rose; And ah, I shall ne'er, lived I ever so long, see A day such as that at divine Montmorency!

There was but ONE drawback---at first when we started, The Colonel and I were inhumanly parted; How cruel--young hearts of such moments to rob! He went in Pa's buggy, and I went with BOB: And, I own, I felt spitefully happy to know That Papa and his comrade agreed but so-so, For the Colonel, it seems, is a stickler of BONEY'S-- Served with him, of course--nay, I'm sure they were cronies; So martial his features, dear DOLL, you can trace Ulm, Austerlitz, Lodi, as plain in his face As you do on that pillar of glory and brass Which the poor Duc de B**RI must hate so to pass, It appears, too, he made--as most foreigners do-- About English affairs an odd blunder or two. For example--misled by the names. I dare say-- He confounded JACK CASTLES with Lord CASTLEREAGH, And--such a mistake as no mortal hit ever on-- Fancied the PRESENT Lord CAMDEN the CLEVER one!

But politics ne'er were the sweet fellow's trade; 'T was for war and the ladies my Colonel was made. And, oh, had you heard, as together we walk'd Through that beautiful forest, how sweetly he talk'd; And how perfectly well he appear'd, DOLL, to know All the life and adventures of JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU!-- "'T was there," said he--not that his WORDS I can state-- 'T was a gibberish that Cupid alone could translate;-- But "there," said he (pointing where, small and remote, The dear Hermitage rose), "there his JULIE he wrote, Upon paper gilt-edged, without blot or erasure, Then sanded it over with silver and azure, And--oh, what will genius and fancy not do?- Tied the leaves up together with nomparsille blue!" What a trait of Rousseau! what a crowd of emotions From sand and blue ribbons are conjured up here! Alas! that a man of such exquisite notions, Should send his poor brats to the Foundling, my dear!

"'T was here, too, perhaps," Colonel CALICOT said-- As down the small garden he pensively led-- (Though once I could see his sublime forehead wrinkle With rage not to find there the loved periwinkle)-- "'T was here he received from the fair D'EPINAY, (Who call'd him so sweetly HER BEAR, every day), That dear flannel petticoat, pull'd off to form A waistcoat to keep the enthusiast warm!"

Such, DOLL, were the sweet recollections we ponder'd, As, full of romance, through that valley we wander'd, The flannel (one's train of ideas, how odd it is) Led us to talk about other commodities, Cambric, and silk, and I ne'er shall forget, For the sun way then hastening in pomp to its set, And full on the Colonel's dark whiskers shone down, When he ask'd ne, with eagerness--who made my gown? The question confused me--for, DOLL, you must know, And I OUGHT to have told my best friend long ago, That, by Pa's strict command, I no longer employ That enchanting couturiere, Madame LE ROI, But am forc'd, dear, to have VICTORINE, who--deuce take her-- It seems is, at present, the king's mantua-maker-- I mean OF HIS PARTY--and, though much the smartest, LE ROI is condemned as a rank B*n*pa*t*st.

Think, DOLL, how confounded I look'd--so well knowing The Colonel's opinions--my cheeks were quite glowing; I stammer'd out something--nay, even half named The LEGITIMATE semptress, when, loud, he exclaimed, "Yes, yes, by the stiching 'tis plain to be seen It was made by that B*rb*n**t b--h, VIOTORINE!" What a word for a hero, but heroes WILL err, And I thought, dear, I'd tell you things JUST as they were, Besides, though the word on good manners intrench, I assure you, 'tis not HALF so shocking in French.

But this cloud, though embarrassing, soon pass'd away, And the bliss altogether, the dreams of that day, The thoughts that arise when such dear fellows woo us-- The NOTHINGS that then, love, are EVERYTHING to us-- That quick correspondence of glances and sighs, And what BOB calls the "Twopenny-Post of the Eyes"-- Ah DOLL, though I KNOW you've a heart, 'tis in vain To a heart so unpracticed these things to explain, They can only be felt in their fullness divine By her who has wander'd, at evening's decline, Through a valley like that, with a Colonel like mine!

But here I must finish--for BOB, my dear DOLLY, Whom physic, I find, always makes melancholy, Is seized with a fancy for church-yard reflections; And full of all yesterday's rich recollections, Is just setting off for Montmartre--"for THERE is," Said he, looking solemn, "the tomb of the VERYS! Long, long have I wisn'd, as a votary true, O'er the grave of such talents to utter my moans; And to-day, as my stomach is not in good cue For the FLESH of the VERYS--I'll visit their BONES!" He insists upon MY going with him--how teasing! This letter, however, dear DOLLY, shall lie Unseal'd in my drawer, that if any thing pleasing Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you--Good-by. B. F.

Four o'clock. Oh, DOLLY, dear DOLLY, I'm ruin'd forever-- I ne'er shall be happy again, DOLLY, never; To think of the wretch!--what a victim was I! 'Tis too much to endure--I shall die, I shall die! My brain's in a fever--my pulses beat quick-- I shall die, or, at least, be exceedingly sick! Oh what do you think? after all my romancing, My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing, This Colonel--I scarce can commit it to paper-- This Colonel's no more than a vile linen-draper!! 'Tis true as I live--I had coax'd brother BOB so (You'll hardly make out what I'm writing, I sob so), For some little gift on my birth-day--September The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you remember-- That BOB to a shop kindly order'd the coach (Ah, little thought I who the shopman would prove), To bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs de poche, Which, in happier hours, I have sighed for, my love-- (The most beautiful things--two Napoleons the price-- And one's name in the corner embroidered so nice!) Well, with heart full of pleasure, I enter'd the shop, But--ye gods, what a phantom!--I thought I should drop-- There he stood, my dear DOLLY--no room for a doubt-- There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him stand, With a piece of French cambric before him roll'd out, And that horrid yard-measure upraised in his hand! Oh--Papa all along knew the secret, 'tis clear-- 'T was a SHOPMAN he meant by a "Brandenburg," dear! The man, whom I fondly had fancied a King, And when THAT too delightful illusion was past, As a hero had worship'd--vile treacherous thing-- To turn out but a low linen-draper at last! My head swam round--the wretch smil'd, I believe, But his smiling, alas! could no longer deceive-- I fell back on BOB--my whole heart seem'd to wither, And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back hither!

I only remember that BOB, as I caught him, With cruel facetiousness said--"Curse the Kiddy, A staunch Revolutionist always I've thought him, But now I find out he's a COUNTER one, BIDDY!" Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known To that saucy satirical thing, MISS MALONE! What a story 't will be at Shandangen forever! What laughs and what quizzing she'll have with the men! It will spread through the country--and never, oh never Can BIDDY be seen at Kilrandy again!

Farewell--I shall do something desperate, I fear-- And ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear, One tear of compassion my DOLL will not grudge To her poor--broken-hearted--young friend, BIDDY FUDGE

Nota Bene,--I'm sure you will hear with delight, That we're going, all three, to see BRUNET to-night A laugh will revive me--and kind Mr. Cox (Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box.

THE LITERARY LADY. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex, Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex! In studious dishabille behold her sit, A lettered gossip and a household wit; At once invoking, though for different views, Her gods, her cook, her milliner and muse. Bound her strewed room a frippery chaos lies, A checkered wreck of notable and wise, Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass, Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass; Unfinished here an epigram is laid, And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid. There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause, There dormant patterns pine for future gauze. A moral essay now is all her care, A satire next, and then a bill of fare. A scene she now projects, and now a dish; Here Act the First, and here, Remove with Fish. Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls, That soberly casts up a bill for coals; Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks, And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix.

NETLEY ABBEY. [Footnote: A noted ruin, much frequented by pleasure-parties.] R. HARRIS RARHAM

I saw thee, Netley, as the sun Across the western wave Was sinking slow, And a golden glow To thy roofless towers he gave; And the ivy sheen With its mantle of green That wrapt thy walls around, Shone lovehly bright In that glorious light, And I felt 't was holy ground.

Then I thought of the ancient time-- The days of thy monks of old,-- When to matin, and vesper, and compline chime, The loud Hosanna roll'd, And, thy courts and "long-drawn aisles" among, Swell'd the full tide of sacred song.

And then a vision pass'd Across my mental eye; And silver shrines, and shaven crowns, And delicate ladies, in bombazeen gowns, And long white vails, went by; Stiff, and staid, and solemn, and sad,-- --But one, methought, wink'd at the Gardener-lad!

Then came the Abbot, with miter and ring, And pastoral staff, and all that sort of thing, And a monk with a book, and a monk with a bell, And "dear linen souls," In clean linen stoles, Swinging their censers, and making a smell.-- And see where the Choir-master walks in the rear With front severe And brow austere, Now and then pinching a little boy's ear When he chants the responses too late or too soon, Or his Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La's not quite in tune. (Then you know They'd a "movable Do," Not a fix'd one as now--and of course never knew How to set up a musical Hullah-baloo.) It was, in sooth, a comely sight, And I welcom'd the vision with pure delight.

But then "a change came o'er" My spirit--a change of fear-- That gorgeous scene I beheld no more, But deep beneath the basement floor A dungeon dark and drear! And there was an ugly hole in the wall-- For an oven too big,--for a cellar too small! And mortar and bricks All ready to fix, And I said, "Here's a Nun has been playing some tricks!-- That horrible hole!--it seems to say, 'I'm a grave that gapes for a living prey!'" And my heart grew sick, and my brow grew sad-- And I thought of that wink at the Gardener-lad. Ah me! ah me!--'tis sad to think That maiden's eye, which was made to wink, Should here be compelled to grow blear and blink, Or be closed for aye In this kind of way, Shut out forever from wholesome day, Wall'd up in a hole with never a chink, No light,--no air,--no victuals,--no drink!-- And that maiden's lip, Which was made to sip, Should here grow wither'd and dry as a chip! --That wandering glance and furtive kiss, Exceedingly naughty, and wrong, I wis, Should yet be considered so much amiss As to call for a sentence severe as this!-- And I said to myself, as I heard with a sigh The poor lone victim's stifled cry, "Well, I can't understand How any man's hand COULD wall up that hole in a Christian land! Why, a Mussulman Turk Would recoil from the work, And though, when his ladies run after the fellows, he Stands not on trifles, if madden'd by jealousy, Its objects, I'm sure, would declare, could they speak, In their Georgian, Circassian, or Turkish, or Greek, 'When all's said and done, far better it was for us, Tied back to back And sewn up in a sack, To be pitch'd neck-and-heels from a boat in the Bosphorus!' Oh! a saint 't would vex To think that the sex Should be no better treated than Combe's double X! Sure some one might run to the Abbess, and tell her A much better method of stocking her cellar."

If ever on polluted walls Heaven's right arm in vengeance falls,-- If e'er its justice wraps in flame The black abodes of sin and shame, That justice, in its own good time, Shall visit, for so foul a crime, Ope desolation's floodgate wide, And blast thee, Netley, in thy pride!

Lo where it comes!--the tempest lowers,-- It bursts on thy devoted towers; Ruthless Tudor's bloated form Rides on the blast, and guides the storm I hear the sacrilegious cry, "Down--with the nests, and the rooks will fly!"

Down! down they come--a fearful fall-- Arch, and pillar, and roof-tree, and all, Stained pane, and sculptured stone, There they lie on the greensward strown-- Moldering walls remain alone! Shaven crown Bombazeen gown, Miter, and crosier, and all are flown!

And yet, fair Netley, as I gaze Upon that gray and moldering wall. The glories of thy palmy days Its very stones recall!-- They "come like shadows, so depart"-- I see thee as thou wert--and art--

Sublime in ruin!--grand in woe! Lone refuge of the owl and bat; No voice awakes thine echoes now! No sound--good gracious!--what was that? Was it the moan, The parting groan Of her who died forlorn and alone, Embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone?-- Full and clear On my listening ear It comes--again--near and more near-- Why zooks! it's the popping of Ginger Beer --I rush to the door-- I tread the floor, By abbots and abbesses trodden before, In the good old chivalric days of yore, And what see I there?-- In a rush-bottom'd chair A hag surrounded by crockery-ware, Vending, in cups, to the credulous throng A nasty decoction miscall'd Souchong,-- And a squeaking fiddle and "wry-necked fife" Are screeching away, for the life!--for the life! Danced to by "All the World and his Wife."

Tag, Rag, and Bobtail, are capering there, Worse scene, I ween, than Bartlemy Fair!-- Two or three chimney-sweeps, two or three clowns, Playing at "pitch and toss," sport their "Browns," Two or three damsels, frank and free, Are ogling, and smiling, and sipping Bohea. Parties below, and parties above, Some making tea, and some making love. Then the "toot--toot--toot" Of that vile demi-flute,-- The detestable din Of that cracked violin, And the odors of "Stout," and tobacco, and gin! "--Dear me!" I exclaim'd, "what a place to be in!" And I said to the person who drove my "shay" (A very intelligent man, by the way), "This, all things considered, is rather too gay! It don't suit my humor,--so take me away! Dancing! and drinking!--cigar and song! If not profanation, it's 'coming it strong,' And I really consider it all very wrong.-- --Pray, to whom does this property now belong?"-- He paus'd, and said, Scratching his head, "Why I really DO think he's a little to blame, But I can't say I knows the gentleman's name!"

"Well--well!" quoth I, As I heaved a sigh, And a tear-drop fell from my twinkling eye, "My vastly good man, as I scarcely doubt That some day or other you'll find it out, Should he come in your way, Or ride in your 'shay' (As perhaps he may), Be so good as to say That a Visitor whom you drove over one day, Was exceedingly angry, and very much scandalized, Finding these beautiful ruins so Vandalized, And thus of their owner to speak began, As he ordered you home in haste, No DOUBT HE'S A VERY RESPECTABLE MAN, But--'I CAN'T SAY MUCH FOR HIS TASTE!'"

FAMILY POETRY. R. HARRIS BARHAM

Zooks! I must woo the Muse to-day, Though line before I never wrote! "On what occasion?" do you say? Our Dick has got a long-tail'd coat!!

Not a coatee, which soldiers wear Button'd up high about the throat, But easy, flowing, debonair, In short a CIVIL long-tail'd coat.

A smarter you'll not find in town, Cut by Nugee, that snip of note; A very quiet olive brown 's the color of Dick's long-tail'd coat.

Gay jackets clothe the stately Pole, The proud Hungarian, and the Croat, Yet Esterhazy, on the whole Looks best when in a long-tail'd coat

Lord Byron most admired, we know, The Albanian dress, or Suliote, But then he died some years ago, And never saw Dick's long-tail'd coat;

Or past all doubt the poet's theme Had never been the "White Capote," Had he once view'd in Fancy's dream, The glories of Dick's long-tail'd coat!

We also know on Highland kilt Poor dear Glengarry used to dote, And had esteem'd it actual guilt I' "the Gael" to wear a long-tail'd coat!

No wonder 'twould his eyes annoy, Monkbarns himself would never quote "Sir Robert Sibbald," "Gordon," "Ray," Or "Stukely" for a long-tail'd coat.

Jackets may do to ride or race, Or row in, when one's in a boat, But in the boudoir, sure, for grace There's nothing like Dick's long-tail'd cost,

Of course in climbing up a tree, On terra-firma, or afloat, To mount the giddy topmast, he Would doff awhile his long-tail'd coat.

What makes you simper, then, and sneer? From out your own eye pull the mote! A PRETTY thing for you to jeer-- Haven't YOU, too, got a long-tail'd coat?

Oh! "Dick's scarce old enough," you mean. Why, though too young to give a note, Or make a will, yet, sure Fifteen 's a ripe age for a long-tail'd coat.

What! would you have him sport a chin Like Colonel Stanhope, or that goat O' German Mahon, ere begin To figure in a long-tail'd coat?

Suppose he goes to France--can he Sit down at any table d' hote, With any sort of decency, Unless he's got a long-tail'd coat?

Why Louis Philippe, Royal Cit, There soon may be a sans culotte, And Nugent's self may then admit The advantage of a long-tail'd coat.

Things are not now as when, of yore, In tower encircled by a moat, The lion-hearted chieftain wore A corselet for a long-tail'd coat;

Then ample mail his form embraced, Not like a weasel or a stoat, "Cribb'd and confined" about the waist, And pinch'd in like Dick's long-tail'd coat

With beamy spear or biting ax, To right and left he thrust and smote-- Ah! what a change! no sinewy thwacks Fall from a modern long-tail'd coati

More changes still! now, well-a-day! A few cant phrases learned by rote, Each beardless booby spouts away, A Solon, in a long-tail'd coat!

Prates of the "March of Intellect"-- "The Schoolmaster." A PATRIOTE So noble, who could e'er suspect Had just put on a long-tail'd coat?

Alack! alack! that every thick- Skull'd lad must find an antidote For England's woes, because, like Dick, He has put on a long-tail'd coat!

But lo! my rhyme's begun to fail, Nor can I longer time devote; Thus rhyme and time cut short the TALE, The long tale of Dick's long-tail'd coat.

THE SUNDAY QUESTION. THOMAS HOOD.

"It is the king's highway that we are in, and in this way it is that thou hast placed the lions,"--BUNYAN.

What! shut the Gardens! lock the latticed gate! Refuse the shilling and the fellow's ticket! And hang a wooden notice up to state, On Sundays no admittance at this wicket! The Birds, the Beasts, and all the Reptile race, Denied to friends and visitors till Monday! Now, really, this appears the common case Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The Gardens--so unlike the ones we dub Of Tea, wherein the artisan carouses-- Mere shrubberies without one drop of shrub-- Wherefore should they be closed like public-houses? No ale is vended at the wild Deer's Head-- No rum--nor gin--not even of a Monday-- The Lion is not carved--or gilt--or red, And does not send out porter of a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The Bear denied! the Leopard under looks! As if his spots would give contagious fevers! The Beaver close as hat within its box; So different from other Sunday beavers! The Birds invisible--the Gnaw-way Rats-- The Seal hermetically sealed till Monday-- The Monkey tribe--the Family of Cats-- We visit other families on Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy

What is the brute profanity that shocks The super-sensitively serious feeling? The Kangaroo--is he not orthodox To bend his legs, the way he does, in kneeling? Was strict Sir Andrew, in his Sabbath coat, Struck all a-heap to see a Coati mundi? Or did the Kentish Plumtree faint to note The Pelicans presenting bills on Sunday?-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What feature has repulsed the serious set? What error in the bestial birth or breeding, To put their tender fancies on the fret? One thing is plain--it is not in the feeding! Some stiffish people think that smoking joints Are carnal sins 'twixt Saturday and Monday-- But then the beasts are pious on these points, For they all eat cold dinners on a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What change comes o'er the spirit of the place, As if transmuted by some spell organic? Turns fell Hyena of the Ghoulish race? The Snake, pro tempore, the true Satanic? Do Irish minds--(whose theory allows That now and then Good Friday falls on Monday)-- Do Irish minds suppose that Indian Cows Are wicked Bulls of Bashan on a Sunday?-- But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?

There are some moody Fellows, not a few, Who, turned by nature with a gloomy bias, Renounce black devils to adopt the blue, And think when they are dismal they are pious: Is't possible that Pug's untimely fun Has sent the brutes to Coventry till Monday?-- Or perhaps some animal, no serious one, Was overheard in laughter on a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What dire offense have serious Fellows found To raise their spleen against the Regent's spinney? Were charitable boxes handed round, And would not Guinea Pigs subscribe their guinea? Perchance, the Demoiselle refused to molt The feathers in her head--at least till Monday; Or did the Elephant, unseemly, bolt A tract presented to be read on Sunday?-- But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?

At whom did Leo struggle to get loose? Who mourns through Monkey-tricks his damaged clothing? Who has been hissed by the Canadian Goose? On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing? Some Smithfield Saint did jealous feelings tell To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday, Because he preyed extempore as well As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

To me it seems that in the oddest way (Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius) Our would-be Keepers of the Sabbath-day Are like the Keepers of the brutes ferocious-- As soon the Tiger might expect to stalk About the grounds from Saturday till Monday, As any harmless man to take a walk, If Saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all hypocrisy can spin, As surely as I am a Christian scion, I cannot think it is a mortal sin-- (Unless he's loose)--to look upon a lion. I really think that one may go, perchance, To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday-- (That is, provided that he did not dance)-- Bruin's no worse than bakin' on a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all the fanatic compiles, I can not think the day a bit diviner, Because no children, with forestalling smiles, Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor-- It is not plain, to my poor faith at least, That what we christen "Natural" on Monday, The wondrous history of Bird and Beast, Can be unnatural because it's Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Whereon is sinful fantasy to work? The Dove, the winged Columbus of man's haven? The tender Love-Bird--or the filial Stork? The punctual Crane--the providential Raven? The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young? Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Monday That feathered marvel with a human tongue, Because she does not preach upon a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The busy Beaver--that sagacious beast! The Sheep that owned an Oriental Shepherd-- That Desert-ship, the Camel of the East, The horned Rhinoceros--the spotted Leopard-- The Creatures of the Great Creator's hand Are surely sights for better days than Monday-- The Elephant, although he wears no band, Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday?-- But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?

What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil, Weary of frame, and worn and wan of feature, Seek once a week their spirits to assoil, And snatch a glimpse of "Animated Nature?" Better it were if, in his best of suits, The artisan, who goes to work on Monday, Should spend a leisure-hour among the brutes, Than make a beast of his own self on Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Why, zounds! what raised so Protestant a fuss (Omit the zounds! for which I make apology) But that the Papists, like some Fellows, thus Had somehow mixed up Deus with their Theology? Is Brahma's Bull--a Hindoo god at home-- A Papal Bull to be tied up till Monday?-- Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome, That there is such a dread of them on Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Spirit of Kant! have we not had enough To make Religion sad, and sour, and snubbish, But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff, As vessels cant their ballast-rattling rubbish! Once let the sect, triumphant to their text, Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday, And sure as fate they will deny us next To see the Dandelions on a Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?

ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE [Footnote: Who had, in one of his books, characterized some of Hood's verses as "profaneness and ribaldry."] THOMAS HOOD.

"Close, close your eyes with holy dread, And weave a circle round him thrice; For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise!"--Coleridge.

"It's very hard them kind of men Won't let a body be."--Old Ballad.

A wanderer, Wilson, from my native land, Remote, O Rae, from godliness and thee, Where rolls between us the eternal sea, Besides some furlongs of a foreign sand-- Beyond the broadest Scotch of London Wall; Beyond the loudest Saint that has a call; Across the wavy waste between us stretched, A friendly missive warns me of a stricture, Wherein my likeness you have darkly etched, And though I have not seen the shadow sketched, Thus I remark prophetic on the picture.

I guess the features:--in a line to paint Their moral ugliness, I'm not a saint, Not one of those self-constituted saints, Quacks--not physicians--in the cure of souls, Censors who sniff out moral taints, And call the devil over his own coals-- Those pseudo Privy Councillors of God, Who write down judgments with a pen hard-nibbed: Ushers of Beelzebub's Black Rod, Commending sinners not to ice thick-ribbed, But endless flames, to scorch them like flax-- Yet sure of heaven themselves, as if they'd cribbed The impression of St. Peter's keys in wax!

Of such a character no single trace Exists, I know, in my fictitious face; There wants a certain cast about the eye; A certain lifting of the nose's tip; A certain curling of the nether lip, In scorn of all that is, beneath the sky; In brief, it is an aspect deleterious, A face decidedly not serious, A face profane, that would not do at all To make a face at Exeter Hall-- That Hall where bigots rant, and cant, and pray, And laud each other face to face, Till every farthing-candle RAY Conceives itself a great gas-light of grace!

Well!--be the graceless lineaments confest I do enjoy this bounteous beauteous earth; And dote upon a jest "Within the limits of becoming mirth;"-- No solemn sanctimonious face I pull, Nor think I'm pious when I'm only bilious-- Nor study in my sanctum supercilious To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull, I pray for grace--repent each sinful act-- Peruse, but underneath the rose, my Bible; And love my neighbor, far too well, in fact, To call and twit him with a godly tract That's turned by application to a libel. My heart ferments not with the bigot's leaven, All creeds I view with toleration thorough, And have a horror of regarding heaven As any body's rotten borough.

What else? No part I take in party fray, With tropes from Billingsgate's slang-whanging Tartars, I fear no Pope--and let great Ernest play At Fox and Goose with Fox's Martyrs! I own I laugh at over-righteous men, I own I shake my sides at ranters, And treat sham Abr'am saints with wicked banters, I even own, that there are times--but then It's when I 've got my wine--I say d---- canters!

I've no ambition to enact the spy On fellow-souls, a spiritual Pry-- 'Tis said that people ought to guard their noses Who thrust them into matters none of theirs And, though no delicacy discomposes Your saint, yet I consider faith and prayers Among the privatest of men's affairs.

I do not hash the Gospel in my books, And thus upon the public mind intrude it, As if I thought, like Otahei-tan cooks, No food was fit to eat till I had chewed it.

On Bible stilts I don't affect to stalk; Nor lard with Scripture my familiar talk-- For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat; 'Tis not so plain as the old Hill of Howth, A man has got his belly full of meat Because he talks with victuals in his mouth!

Mere verbiage--it is not worth a carrot! Why, Socrates or Plato--where 's the odds?-- Once taught a Jay to supplicate the gods, And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot!

A mere professor, spite of all his cant, is Not a whit better than a Mantis-- An insect, of what clime I can't determine, That lifts its paws most parson-like, and thence, By simple savages--through sheer pretense-- Is reckoned quite a saint among the vermin. But where's the reverence, or where the nous, To ride on one's religion through the lobby, Whether as stalking-horse or hobby, To show its pious paces to "the house."

I honestly confess that I would hinder The Scottish member's legislative rigs, That spiritual Pindar, Who looks on erring souls as straying pigs, That must be lashed by law, wherever found, And driven to church as to the parish pound.

I do confess, without reserve or wheedle, I view that groveling idea as one Worthy some parish clerk's ambitious son, A charity-boy who longs to be a beadle. On such a vital topic sure 'tis odd How much a man can differ from his neighbor, One wishes worship freely given to God, Another wants to make it statute-labor-- The broad distinction in a line to draw, As means to lead us to the skies above, You say--Sir Andrew and his love of law, And I--the Saviour with his law of love.

Spontaneously to God should tend the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the Pole; But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's college, Should nail the conscious needle to the north? I do confess that I abhor and shrink Prom schemes, with a religious willy-nilly, That frown upon St. Giles' sins, but blink The peccadilloes of all Piccadilly-- My soul revolts at such bare hypocrisy, And will not, dare not, fancy in accord The Lord of hosts with an exclusive lord Of this world's aristocracy, It will not own a nation so unholy, As thinking that the rich by easy trips May go to heaven, whereas the poor and lowly Must work their passage as they do in ships.

One place there is--beneath the burial-sod, Where all mankind are equalized by death; Another place there is--the Fane of God, Where all are equal who draw living breath;-- Juggle who will ELSEWHERE with his own soul, Playing the Judas with a temporal dole-- He who can come beneath that awful cope, In the dread presence of a Maker just, Who metes to every pinch of human dust One even measure of immortal hope-- He who can stand within that holy door, With soul unbowed by that pure spirit-level, And frame unequal laws for rich and poor,-- Might sit for Hell, and represent the Devil!

Such are the solemn sentiments, O Rae, In your last journey-work, perchance, you ravage, Seeming, but in more courtly terms, to say I'm but a heedless, creedless, godless, savage; A very Guy, deserving fire and faggots,-- A scoffer, always on the grin, And sadly given to the mortal sin Of liking Mawworms less than merry maggots!

The humble records of my life to search, I have not herded with mere pagan beasts: But sometimes I have "sat at good men's feasts," And I have been "where bells have knolled to church." Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim! Now loud as welcomes! faint, now, as farewells! And trembling all about the breezy dells, As fluttered by the wings of Cherubim. Meanwhile the bees are chanting a low hymn; And lost to sight the ecstatic lark above Sings, like a soul beatified, of love, With, now and then, the coo of the wild pigeon:-- O pagans, heathens, infidels, and doubters! If such sweet sounds can't woo you to religion, Will the harsh voices of church cads and touters?

A man may cry Church! Church! at every word, With no more piety than other people-- A daw's not reckoned a religious bird Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple; The Temple is a good, a holy place, But quacking only gives it an ill savor; While saintly mountebanks the porch disgrace, And bring religion's self into disfavor!

Behold yon servitor of God and Mammon, Who, binding up his Bible with his ledger, Blends Gospel texts with trading gammon, A black-leg saint, a spiritual hedger, Who backs his rigid Sabbath, so to speak, Against the wicked remnant of the week, A saving bet against, his sinful bias-- "Rogue that I am," he whispers to himself, "I lie--I cheat--do any thing for pelf, But who on earth can say I am not pious!"

In proof how over-righteousness re-acts, Accept an anecdote well based on facts; On Sunday morning--(at the day don't fret)-- In riding with a friend to Ponder's End Outside the stage, we happened to commend A certain mansion that we saw To Let. "Ay," cried our coachman, with our talk to grapple, "You're right! no house along the road comes nigh it! 'T was built by the same man as built yon chapel, And master wanted once to buy it,-- But t' other driv' the bargain much too hard,-- He axed sure-LY a sum prodigious! But being so particular religious, Why, THAT you see, put master on his guard!" Church is "a little heaven below, I have been there and still would go," Yet I am none of those who think it odd A man can pray unbidden from the cassock, And, passing by the customary hassock Kneel down remote upon the simple sod, And sue in forma pauperis to God.

As for the rest,--intolerant to none, Whatever shape the pious rite may bear, Even the poor Pagan's homage to the sun I would not harshly scorn, lest even there I spurned some elements of Christian prayer-- An aim, though erring, at a "world ayont"-- Acknowledgment of good--of man's futility, A sense of need, and weakness, and indeed That very thing so many Christians want-- Humilty.

Such, unto Papists, Jews or Turbaned Turks, Such is my spirit--(I don't mean my wraith!) Such, may it please you, is my humble faith; I know, full well, you do not like my WORKS!

I have not sought, 'tis true, the Holy Land, As full of texts as Cuddie Headrigg's mother, The Bible in one hand, And my own common-place-book in the other-- But you have been to Palestine--alas Some minds improve by travel--others, rather, Resemble copper wire or brass, Which gets the narrower by going further!

Worthless are all such pilgrimages--very! If Palmers at the Holy Tomb contrive The humans heats and rancor to revive That at the Sepulcher they ought to bury. A sorry sight it is to rest the eye on, To see a Christian creature graze at Sion, Then homeward, of the saintly pasture full, Rush bellowing, and breathing fire and smoke, At crippled Papistry to butt and poke, Exactly as a skittish Scottish bull Haunts an old woman in a scarlet cloak.

Why leave a serious, moral, pious home, Scotland, renewned for sanctity of old, Far distant Catholics to rate and scold For--doing as the Romans do at Rome? With such a bristling spirit wherefore quit The Land of Cakes for any land of wafers, About the graceless images to flit, And buzz and chafe importunate as chafers, Longing to carve the carvers to Scotch collops?-- People who hold such absolute opinions Should stay at home in Protestant dominions, Not travel like male Mrs. Trollopes.

Gifted with noble tendency to climb, Yet weak at the same time, Faith is a kind of parasitic plant, That grasps the nearest stem with tendril rings; And as the climate and the soil may grant, So is the sort of tree to which it clings. Consider, then, before, like Hurlothrumbo, You aim your club at any creed on earth, That, by the simple accident of birth, YOU might have been High Priest to Mungo Jumbo.

For me--through heathen ignorance perchance, Not having knelt in Palestine,--I feel None of that griffinish excess of zeal, Some travelers would blaze with here in France. Dolls I can see in Virgin-like array, Nor for a scuffle with the idols hanker Like crazy Quixotte at the puppet's play, If their "offense be rank," should mine be RANCOR?

Mild light, and by degrees, should be the plan To cure the dark and erring mind; But who would rush at a benighted man, And give him, two black eyes for being blind?

Suppose the tender but luxuriant hop Around a cankered stem should twine, What Kentish boor would tear away the prop So roughly as to wound, nay, kill the bine?

The images, 'tis true, are strangely dressed, With gauds and toys extremely out of season; The carving nothing of the very best, The whole repugnant to the eye of Reason, Shocking to Taste, and to Fine Arts a treason-- Yet ne'er o'erlook in bigotry of sect One truly CATHOLIC, one common form, At which unchecked All Christian hearts may kindle or keep warm.

Say, was it to my spirit's gain or loss One bright and balmy morning, as I went From Liege's lovely environs to Ghent, If hard by the wayside I found a cross, That made me breathe a prayer upon the spot-- While Nature of herself, as if to trace The emblem's use, had trailed around its base The blue significant Forget-Me-Not? Methought, the claims of Charity to urge More forcibly along with Faith and Hope, The pious choice had pitched upon the verge Of a delicious slope, Giving the eye much variegated scope!-- "Look round," it whispered, "on that prospect rare, Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue; Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh, and fair, But"--(how the simple legend pierced me through!) "PRIEZ POUR LES MALHEUREUX."

With sweet kind natures, as in honeyed cells, Religion lives and feels herself at home; But only on a formal visit dwells Where wasps instead of bees have formed the comb.

Shun pride, O Rae!--whatever sort beside You take in lieu, shun spiritual pride! A pride there is of rank--a pride of birth, A pride of learning, and a pride of purse, A London pride--in short, there be on earth A host of prides, some better and some worse; But of all prides, since Lucifer's attaint, The proudest swells a self-elected Saint.

To picture that cold pride so harsh and hard, Fancy a peacock in a poultry-yard. Behold him in conceited circles sail, Strutting and dancing, and now planted stiff, In all his pomp of pageantry, as if He felt "the eyes of Europe" on his tail! As for the humble breed retained by man, He scorns the whole domestic clan-- He bows, he bridles, He wheels, he sidles, As last, with stately dodgings in a corner, He pens a simple russet hen, to scorn her Full in the blaze of his resplendent fan!