Part IV (part 2 of 2)

Part IV (part 2 of 2)

And then men mark and deduce Differently

"THE BLANKET IS ENGLAND: THE BOA THE POPE, WILL THE POPE DISGORGE HIS BULL?"

"THE BLANKET'S FREE TRADE: THE CORN-GORGED FOLK IS THE BOA WITH PLENTY STIFLED!"

"THE BLANKET'S REFORM TO GAG THE MOB, AND NAUGHT TO SATISFY!"

But I, a lofty and an abstract man, A creature of a higher element Than ever nourished the wood Ordained for ballot-boxes--I Say nothing; until a Keeper comes to me, and, Hooking his fore-finger in his forehead's lock, Says--"What's your opinion, Sir? If Boas will bolt Blankets, Boas must: If Snakes will rush upon their end, why not?" "My friend," said I, "The Blanket and the Boa-- You will conceive me--are a type, yes, just a type, Of this our day. The dumb and monstrous, tasteless appetite Of stupid Boa, to gobble up for food What needs must scour or suffocate, Not nourish! My friend, let the wool of that one blanket Warm but the back of one live sheep, And the Boa would bolt the animal entire, And flourish on his meal, transmuting flesh and bones, And turning them to healthful nutriment! Believe this vital truth; The stomach may take down and digest And sweetly, too, a leg of mutton; That would turn at and reject One little ball of worsted!"

On saying this I turned away, Feeling adown the small-o'-the back That gentle warmth that waits upon us, when WE KNOW We have said a good thing; Knowing it better than the vain world Ever can or ever will Reader, I have sung my song! The BOA AND THE B----, like new-found star, Is mine no longer; but the world's!-- Tell me, how have I sung it? With what note? With note akin that immortal bard The snow-white Swan of Avon? Or haply, to that --RARA AVIS, --That has --"Tried WARREN'S?"

THE DILLY AND THE D'S. [Footnote: Burlesque of Warren's Poem of "The Lily and the Bee," published at the home of the great Exhibition of 1851.] [AN APOLOGUE OF THE OXFORD INSTALLATION.] BY S--L W--RR--N, Q.S., LL.D., F.R.S PUNCH.

PART FIRST.

Oh, Spirit! Spirit of Literature, Alien to Law! Oh, Muse! ungracious to thy sterner sister, THEMIS, Whither away?--Away! Far from my brief--Brief with a fee upon it, Tremendous! And probably--before my business is concluded-- A REFRESHER--nay, several!! Whither whirlest thou thy thrall? Thy willing thrall? "NOW AND THEN;" But not just at this moment, If you please, Spirit! No, let me read and ponder on THE PLEADINGS. Declaration! Plea!! Replication!!! Rejoinder!!!! Surrejoinder!!!!! Rebutter!!!!!! Surrebutter!!!!!!! ETC! ETC!! ETC!!! It may not be. The Muse-- As ladies often are-- Though lovely, is obstinate, And will have her own way! * * * * And am I not As well as a Q.S., An F.R.S. And LL.D.? Ask BLACKWOOD The reason why, and he will tell you, So will the Mayor-- The MAYOR OF HULL! I obey, Spirit. Hang my brief--'tis gone!-- To-morrow let my junior cram me in Court. Whither away? Where am I? What is it I behold? In space, or out of space? I know not. In fact I've not the least idea if I'm crazy. Or sprung--sprung? I've only had a pint of Port at dinner And can't be sprung-- Oh, no!--Shame on the thought! I see a coach!-- Is it a coach? Not exactly. Yet it has wheels-- Wheels within wheels--and on the box A driver, and a cad behind, And Horses--Horses?-- Bethink thee--Worm!-- Are they Horses? or that race Lower than Horses, but with longer ears And less intelligence-- In fact--"EQUI ASINI," Or in vernacular JACKASSES? 'Tis not a coach exactly-- Now I see on the panels-- Pricked out and flourished-- A word! A magic word-- "THE DILLY!"--"THE DERBY DILLY!" Oh Dilly! Dilly!--all thy passengers Are outsiders-- The road is rough and rutty-- And thy driver, like NIMSHI'S son-- Driveth Furiously! And the cad upon the monkey-board The monkey-board behind, Scorneth the drag--but goes Downhill like mad. He hath a Caucasian brow! A son of SHEM, is he, Not of HAM-- Nor JAPHETH-- In fact a Jew-- But see, the pace Grows faster--and more fast--in fact-- I may say A case of Furious driving! Take care, you'll be upset-- Look out! Holloa! * * * * Horrible! Horrible!! Horrible!! The Dilly-- With all its precious freight Of men and Manners-- Is gone! Gone to immortal SMASH! Pick up the pieces! Let me wipe my eyes! Oh Muse--lend me my scroll To do it with, for I have lost My wipe!

PART SECOND

* * * Again upon the road The road to where? To nowhere in particular! Ah, no--I thank thee, Muse-- That hint--'tis a finger-post, And "he that runs may read"-- He that runs? But I am not running-- I am riding-- How came I here?--what am I riding on? Who are my fellow-passengers? Ah, ha! I recognize them now! The Coach-- The Box-- The Driver-- And the Cad-- I'm on the Dilly, and the Dilly Is on the road again And now I see That finger-post! It saith "To Oxford Fifty-two miles." And, hark! a chorus! From all the joyous load, Driver and cad, and all! "We go," they sing-- To OXFORD TO BE DOCTORED." To be Doctored? Then, wherefore Are ye so cheerful? I was not cheerful in my early days-- Days of my buoyant boyhood-- When, after inglutition Of too much Christmas pudding, Or Twelfth cake saccharine, I went, as we go now, To be Doctored! Salts! Senna and Rhubarb!! Jalap and Ipecacuanha!!! And Antimonial Wine!!!! "WORM! IDIOT!! DONKEY!!!" Said the free-spoken Muse "With them thou goest to be doctored, too, Not in medicine--but in Law-- All these--and thou-- Are going to be made HONORARY LL.D.s! Behold! And know thy company Be thou familiar with them, But by no means vulgar-- For familiarity breeds contempt; And no man is a hero To his VALET-DE-CHAMBRE! So ponder and perpend." DERBY! The wise, the meek, the chivalrous-- Mirror of knightly graces And daily dodges; Who always says the right things At the right time, And never forgets himself as others-- Nor changes his side Nor his opinion-- A STANLEY to the core, as ready To fight As erst on FLODDEN FIELD His mail-clad ancestor.-- See the poem Of MARMION, By SIR WALTER SOOTT! DIZZY! Dark--supple--subtle-- With mind lithe as the limbs Of ISHMAEL'S sons, his swart progenitors-- With tongue sharp as the spear That o'er Sahara Flings the blue shadow Of the crown of ostrich feathers-- As described so graphically By LAYARD, in his recent book On Nineveh! With tongue as sharp As aspic's tooth of NILUS, Or sugary Upon the occasion As is the date Of TAFILAT. DIZZY, the bounding Arab Of the political arena-- As swift to whirl Right about face-- As strong to leap From premise to conclusion-- As great in balancing A budget-- Or flinging headlong His somersets Over sharp swords of adverse facts, As were his brethren of EL-ARISH, Who Some years ago exhibited-- With rapturous applause-- At Astley's Amphitheater-- And subsequently At Vauxhall Gardens! * * * * * Clustering, front and back On box and knife-board, See, petty man; Behold! and thank thy stars That led thee--Worm-- THEE, that art merely a writer And a barrister, Although a man of elegant acquirements, A gentleman and a scholar-- Nay, F.R.S. to boot-- Into such high society, Among such SWELLS, And REAL NOBS! Behold! ten live LORDS! and lo *! no end Of Ex-Cabinet Ministers! Oh! happy, happy, happy, Oh, happy SAM! Say, isn't this worth, at the least "TEN THOUSAND A YEAR!" * * * * * And these are all, to day at least--- Thy fellows! Going to be made LL.D.s, even as thyself-- And thou shalt walk in silk attire. And hob and nob with all the mighty of the earth, And lunch in Hall-- In Hall! Where lunched before thee, But on inferior grub, That first great SAM-- SAM JOHNSON! And LAUD, and ROGER BACON, And CRANMER, LATIMER, And RIDLEY, And CYRIL JACKSON--and a host besides, Whom at my leisure I will look up In WOOD'S "ATHENAE OXONIENSES" Only to think! How BLACKWOOD Is honored! ALISON! AYTOUN! BULWER!!! And last, not least The great SAM GANDERAM!!!! Oh EBONY! Oh MAGA! And oh Our noble selves!

"A BOOK IN A BUSTLE." A TRUE TALE OF THE WARWICK ASSIZES. BY THE GHOST OF CRABBE. PUNCH.

The partial power that to the female race Is charged to apportion gifts of form and grace, With liberal hand molds beauty's curves in one, And to another gives as good as none: But woman still for nature proves a match, And grace by her denied, from art will snatch. Hence, great ELIZA, grew thy farthingales; Hence, later ANNA, swelled thy hoops' wide pales; To this we must refer the use of stays; Nor less the bustle of more modern days.

Artful device! whose imitative pad Into good figures roundeth off the bad-- Whether of simple sawdust thou art seen, Or tak'st the guise of costlier crinoline-- How oft to thee the female form doth owe A grace rotund, a line of ampler flow, Than flesh and blood thought fit to clothe it with below!

There dwelt in Liverpool a worthy dame, Who had a friend--JAMES TAYLOR was his name. He dealt in glass, and drove a thriving trade And still saved up the profits that he made, Till when a daughter blessed his marriage bed, The father in the savings-bank was led In his child's name a small sum to invest, From which he drew the legal interest. Years went and came; JAMES TAYLOR came and went, Paid in, and drew, his modest three per cent, Till, by the time his child reach'd girlhood's bounds, The sum had ris'n to two-and-twenty pounds.

Our cautious legislature--well 'tis known-- Round savings-banks a guardian fence has thrown: 'Tis easy to pay into them, no doubt, Though any thing but easy to draw out. And so JAMES TAYLOR found; for on a day He wanted twenty pounds a bill to pay, And, short of cash, unto the bank applied; Failing some form of law, he was denied!

JAMES TAYLOR humm'd and haw'd--look'd blank and blue;-- In short, JAMES TAYLOR knew not what to do: His creditor was stern--the bill was over due. As to a friend he did his plight deplore-- The worthy dame of whom I spoke before-- (It might cause pain to give the name she owns, So let me use the pseudonym of JONES); "TAYLOR," said MRS. JONES, "as I'm a friend, I do not care if I the money lend. But even friends security should hold: Give me security--I'll lend the gold." "This savings-bank deposit-book!" he cries. "See--in my daughter's name the sum that lies!" She saw--and, satisfied, the money lent; Wherewith JAMES TAYLOR went away content. But now what cares seize MRS. JONES'S breast! What terrors throng her once unbroken rest! Cash she could keep, in many a secret nook-- But where to stow away JAMES TAYLOR'S book? Money is heavy: where 'tis put 't will stay; Paper--as WILLIAM COBBETT used to say-- Will make wings to itself, and fly away! Long she devised: new plans the old ones chase, Until at last she hit upon a place. Was't VENUS that the strange concealment planned, Or rather PLUTUS'S irreverent hand? Good MRS. JONES was of a scraggy make; But when did woman vanity forsake? What nature sternly to her form denied, A Bustle's ample aid had well supplied, Within whose vasty depths the book might safely hide!

'Twas thought--'twas done! by help of ready pin, The sawdust was let out, the book put in. Henceforth--at home--abroad--where'er she moved, Behind her lurk'd the volume that she loved. She laughed to scorn the cut-purse and his sleight: No fear of burglars scared her through the night;

But ah, what shrine is safe from greed of gold, What fort against cupidity can hold? Can stoutest buckram's triple fold keep in, The ODOR LUCRI--the strong scent of TIN? For which CHUBB's locks are weak, and MILNER's safes are thin.

Some time elapsed--the time required by law, Which past, JAMES TAYLOR might the money draw, His kind but cautious creditor to pay, So to the savings-bank they took their way. There MRS. JONES with modesty withdrew-- To do what no rude eye might see her do-- And soon returning--with a blushing look, Unmarked by TAYLOR, she produced the book. Which he, presenting, did the sum demand Of MR. TOMKINS, the cashier so bland.

What can there be upon the red-lined page That TOMKINS's quick eye should so engage? What means his invitation to J.T., To "Walk in for a moment"--"he would see"-- "Only a moment"--"'twas all right, no doubt," "It could not be"--"and yet"--here he slipped out, Leaving JAMES TAYLOR grievously perplexed, And MRS. JONES by his behavior vexed. "What means the man by treating people so?" Said TAYLOR, "I am a loss to know." Too soon, alas, the secret cause they knew! TOMKINS return'd, and, with him, one in blue-- POLICEMAN X, a stern man and a strong, Who told JAMES TAYLOR he must "come along"-- And TOMKINS, seeing MRS. JONES aghast, Revealed the book was forged--from first to last!

Who can describe the wrath of MRS. JONES? The chill of fear that crept through TAYLOR'S bones? The van--the hand-cuffs--and the prison cell Where pined JAMES TAYLOR--wherefore pause to tell? Soon came the Assizes--and the legal train; In form the clerk JAMES TAYLOR did arraign; And though his council mustered tears at will, And made black white with true Old Bailey skill, TAYLOR, though MRS. JONES for mercy sued, Was doomed to five years' penal servitude; And in a yellow suit turned up with gray, To Portland prison was conveyed away!

Time passed: forgot JAMES TAYLOR and his shame-- When lo--one day unto the bank there came A new JAMES TAYLOR--a new MRS. JONES-- And a new book, which TOMKINS genuine owns! "Two TAYLORS and two JONESES and two books"-- Thought wary TOMKINS, "this suspicious looks-- "The former TAYLOR, former JONES I knew-- These are imposters-yet the book is true!" When like a flash upon his mind it burst-- Who brought the second book had forged the first!

Again was summon'd X, the stern, the strong-- Again that pair were bid to "Come along!" The truth before the justices appear'd, And wrong'd JAMES TAYLOR'S character was clear'd.

In evil hour--by what chance ne'er was known, Whether the bustle's seam had come unsewn, Or MRS. JONES by chance had laid aside The artificial charms that decked her side-- But so it was, how or whene'er assailed-- The treacherous hiding-place was tried--and failed!

The book was ta'en--a forged one fill'd its place;- And MRS. JONES was robb'd--not to her face-- And poor JAMES TAYLOE doom'd to trial and disgrace!

Who shall describe her anguish--her remorse? James Taylor was at once released, of course; And Mrs. Jones, repentant, inly swore Henceforth to carry, what she'd keep, before.

My tale is told--and, what is more, 'tis true: I read it in the papers--so may you. And this its moral: Mrs. Joneses all-- Though reticules may drop, and purses fall, Though thieves may unprotected females hustle, Never invest your money in a bustle.

STANZAS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL. PUNCH.

I.

ON A TEAR WHICH ANGELINA OBSERVED TRICKLING DOWN MY NOSE AT DINNER TIME.

Nay, fond one I will ne'er reveal Whence flowed that sudden tear: The truth 't were kindness to conceal From thy too anxious ear.

How often when some hidden spring Of recollected grief Is rudely touched, a tear will bring The bursting breast relief!

Yet 't was no anguish of the soul, No memory of woes, Bade that one lonely tearlet roll Adown my chiseled nose:

But, ah! interrogation's note Still twinkles in thine eye; Know then that I have burnt my throat With this confounded pie!

II.

OM MY REFUSING ANGELINA A KISS UNDER THE MISTLETOE

Nay, fond one, shun that misletoe, Nor lure me 'neath its fatal bough: Some other night 't were joy to go, But ah! I must not, dare not now! 'Tis sad, I own, to see thy face Thus tempt me with its giggling glee, And feel I can not now embrace The opportunity--and thee.

'Tis sad to think that jealousy's Sharp scissors may our true love sever; And that my coldness now may freeze Thy warm affection, love, forever. But ah! to disappoint our bliss, A fatal hind'rance now is stuck:'Tis not that I am loath to kiss, But, dearest, list--I DINED OFF DUCK!

III.

ON MY FINDING ANGELINA STOP SUDDENLY IN A RAPID AFTER-SUPPER POLKA AT MRS. TOMPKINS'S BALL.

EDWIN. "Maiden, why that look of sadness? Whence that dark o'erclouded brow? What hath stilled thy bounding gladness, Changed thy pace from fast to slow? Is it that by impulse sudden Childhood's hours thou paus'st to mourn? Or hath thy cruel EDWIN trodden Right upon thy favorite corn?

"Is it that for evenings wasted Some remorse thou 'gin'st to feel? Or hath that sham champagne we tasted Turned thy polka to a reel? Still that gloom upon each feature? Still that sad reproachful frown?" ANGELINA. "Can't you see, you clumsy creature, All my back hair's coming down!"

COLLOQUY ON A CAB-STAND. ADAPTED FOR THE BOUDOIR. PUNCH.

"OH! WILLIAM," JAMES was heard to say-- JAMES drove a hackney cabriolet: WILLIAM, the horses of his friend, With hay and water used to tend. "Now, tell me, WILLIAM, can it be, That MAYNE has issued a decree, Severe and stern, against us, planned Of comfort to deprive our Stand?"

"I fear the tale is all too true," Said WILLIAM, "on my word I do." "Are we restricted to the Row And from the footpath?" "Even so."

"Must our companions be resigned, We to the Rank alone confined?" "Yes; or they apprehend the lads Denominated Bucks and Cads."

"Dear me!" cried JAMES, "how very hard And are we, too, from beer debarred?" Said WILLIAM, "While remaining here We also are forbidden beer."

"Nor may we breathe the fragrant weed?" "That's interdicted too." "Indeed!" "Nor in the purifying wave Must we our steeds or chariots lave."

"For private drivers, at request, It is SIR RICHARD MAYNE'S behest That we shall move, I understand?" "Such, I believe, IS the command"

"Of all remains of food and drink Left by our animals I think, We are required to clear the ground?" "Yes: to remove them we are bound."

"These mandates should we disobey--" "They take our licenses away." "That were unkind. How harsh our lot!" "It is indeed." "Now is it not?"

"Thus strictly why are we pursued?" "It is alleged that we are rude; The people opposite complain, Our lips that coarse expressions stain."

"Law, how absurd!" "And then, they say We smoke and tipple all the day, Are oft in an excited state, Disturbance, noise, and dirt create."

"What shocking stories people tell! I never! Did you ever?--Well-- Bless them!" the Cabman mildly sighed. "May they be blest!" his Friend replied.

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. AN ENGLISH CRITICISM PUNCH.

You, who hold in grace and honor, Hold, as one who did you kindness When he publish'd former poems, Sang Evangeline the noble, Sang the golden Golden Legend, Sang the songs the Voices utter Crying in the night and darkness, Sang how unto the Red Planet Mars he gave the Night's First Watches, Henry Wadsworth, whose adnomen (Coming awkward, for the accents, Into this his latest rhythm) Write we as Protracted Fellow, Or in Latin, LONGUS COMES-- Buy the Song of Hiawatha.

Should you ask me, Is the poem Worthy of its predecessors, Worthy of the sweet conception, Of the manly nervous diction, Of the phrase, concise or pliant, Of the songs that sped the pulses, Of the songs that gemm'd the eyelash, Of the other works of Henry? I should answer, I should tell you, You may wish that you may get it-- Don't you wish that you may get it?

Should you ask me, Is it worthless, Is it bosh and is it bunkum, Merely facile flowing nonsense, Easy to a practiced rhythmist, Fit to charm a private circle, But not worth the print and paper David Bogue hath here expended? I should answer, I should tell you, You're a fool and most presumptuous. Hath not Henry Wadsworth writ it? Hath not PUNCH commanded "Buy it?"

Should you ask me, What's its nature? Ask me, What's the kind of poem? Ask me in respectful language, Touching your respectiful beaver, Kicking back your manly hind-leg, Like to one who sees his betters; I should answer, I should tell you, 'Tis a poem in this meter, And embalming the traditions, Fables, rites, and suspepstitions, Legends, charms, and ceremonials Of the various tribes of Indians, From the land of the Ojibways, From the land of the Dacotahs, From the mountains, moors, and fenlands, Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah, Finds its sugar in the rushes: From the fast-decaying nations, Which our gentle Uncle Samuel Is improving, very smartly, From the face of all creation, Off the face of all creation.

Should you ask me, By what story, By what action, plot, or fiction, All these matters are connected? I should answer, I should tell you, Go to Bogue and buy the poem, Publish'd neatly, at one shilling, Publish'd sweetly, at five shillings. Should you ask me, Is there music In the structure of the verses, In the names and in the phrases? Pleading that, like weaver Bottom, You prefer your ears well tickled; I should answer, I should tell you, Henry's verse is very charming; And for names--there's Hiawatha, Who's the hero of the poem; Mudjeekeewis, that's the West Wind, Hiawatha's graceless father; There's Nokomis, there's Wenonah-- Ladies both, of various merit; Puggawangum, that's a war-club; Pau-puk-keewis, he's a dandy, "Barr'd with streaks of red and yellow; And the women and the maidens Love the handsome Pau-puk-keewis," Tracing in him PUNCH'S likeness. Then there's lovely Minnehaha-- Pretty name with pretty meaning-- It implies the Laughing-water; And the darling Minnehaha Married noble Hiawatha; And her story's far too touching To be sport for you, yon donkey, With your ears like weaver Bottom's, Ears like booby Bully Bottom.

Once upon a time in London, In the days of the Lyceum, Ages ere keen Arnold let it To the dreadful Northern Wizard, Ages ere the buoyant Mathews Tripp'd upon its boards in briskness-- I remember, I remember How a scribe, with pen chivalrous, Tried to save these Indian stories From the fate of chill oblivion. Out came sundry comic Indians Of the tribe of Kut-an-hack-um. With their Chief, the clean Efmatthews, With the growling Downy Beaver, With the valiant Monkey's Uncle, Came the gracious Mari-Kee-lee, Firing off a pocket-pistol, Singing, too, that Mudjee-keewis (Shorten'd in the song to "Wild Wind,") Was a spirit very kindly. Came her Sire, the joyous Kee-lee, By the waning tribe adopted, Named the Buffalo, and wedded To the fairest of the maidens, But repented of his bargain, And his brother Kut-an-hack-ums Very nearly ohopp'd his toes off-- Serve him right, the fickle Kee-lee. If you ask me, What this memory Hath to do with Hiawatha, And the poem which I speak of? I should answer, I should tell you, You're a fool, and most presumptuous; 'Tis not for such humble cattle To inquire what links and unions Join the thoughts, and mystic meanings, Of their betters, mighty poets, Mighty writers--PUNCH the mightiest; I should answer, I should tell you, Shut your mouth, and go to David, David, MR. PUNCH'S neighbor, Buy the Song of Hiawatha, Read, and learn, and then be thankful Unto PUNCH and Henry Wadsworth, PUNCH and noble Henry Wadsworth, Truer poet, better fellow, Than to be annoyed at jesting, From his friend, great PUNCH, who loves him.

COMFORT IN AFFLICTION. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

"Wherefore starts my bosom's lord? Why this anguish in thine eye? Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord Had broken with that sigh!

"Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray, Rest thee on my bosom now! And let me wipe the dews away, Are gathering on thy brow.

"There, again! that fevered start! What, love! husband! is thy pain? There is a sorrow in thy heart, A weight upon thy brain!

"Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er Deceive affection's searching eye; 'Tis a wife's duty, love, to share Her husband's agony.

"Since the dawn began to peep, Have I lain with stifled breath; Heard thee moaning in thy sleep, As thou wert at grips with death.

"Oh, what joy it was to see My gentle lord once more awake! Tell me, what is amiss with thee? Speak, or my heart will break!"

"Mary, thou angel of my life, Thou ever good and kind; 'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife, The anguish of the mind!

"It is not in my bosom, dear, No, nor my brain, in sooth; But Mary, oh, I feel it here, Here in my wisdom tooth!

"Then give,--oh, first, best antidote,-- Sweet partner of my bed! Give me thy flannel petticoat To wrap around my head!"

THE HUSBAND'S PETITION. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

Come hither, my heart's darling, Come, sit upon my knee, And listen, while I whisper, A boon I ask of thee. You need not pull my whiskers So amorously, my dove; 'Tis something quite apart from The gentle cares of love.

I feel a bitter craving-- A dark and deep desire, That glows beneath my bosom Like coals of kindled fire. The passion of the nightingale, When singing to the rose, Is feebler than the agony That murders my repose!

Nay, dearest! do not doubt me, Though madly thus I speak-- I feel thy arms about me, Thy tresses on my cheek: I know the sweet devotion That links thy heart with mine-- I know my soul's emotion Is doubly felt by thine:

And deem not that a shadow Hath fallen across my love: No, sweet, my love is shadowless, As yonder heaven above. These little taper fingers-- Ah! Jane, how white they be!-- Can well supply the cruel want That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me My first and fond request; I pray thee, by the memory Of all we cherish best-- By all the dear remembrance Of those delicicious days, When, hand in hand, we wandered Along the summer braes:

By all we felt, unspoken, When 'neath the early moon, We sat beside the rivulet, In the leafy month of June; And by the broken whisper, That fell upon my ear, More sweet than angel-music, When first I woo'd thee, dear!

By that great vow which bound thee Forever to my side, And by the ring that made thee My darling and my bride! Thou wilt not fail nor falter, But bend thee to the task-- A BOILED SHEEP'S HEAD ON SUNDAY Is all the boon I ask.

THE BITER BIT. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me!

They are going to the church, mother--I hear the marriage bell It booms along the upland--oh! it haunts me like a knell; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely to his side she clings--she does, the demirep!

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.

He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed; And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again; But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!

He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold, He said I did not love him--he said my words were cold; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game-- And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same?

I did not know my heart, mother--I know it now too late; I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate; But no nobler suitor sought me--and he has taken wing, And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.

You may lay me in my bed, mother--my head is throbbing sore; And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and, mother, draw it mild!

A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION. BY SIR E------- B------- L-------. WILLIAM AYTOUN

Fill me once more the foaming pewter up! Another board of oysters, ladye mine! To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup. These mute inglorious Miltons are divine; And as I here in slippered ease recline, Quaffing of Perkins' Entire my fill, I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill. A nobler inspiration fires my brain, Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink, I snatch the pot again and yet again, And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink! This makes strong hearts--strong heads attest its charm-- This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm!

But these remarks are neither here nor there. Where was I? Oh, I see--old Southey's dead! They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, And drain the annual butt--and oh, what head More fit with laurel to be garlanded Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil?

I know a grace is seated on my brow, Like young Apollo's with his golden beams; There should Apollo's bays be budding now: And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams That marks the poet in his waking dreams. When as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.

They throng around me now, those things of air, That from my fancy took their being's stamp: There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; Their pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, Where all is every thing, and every thing is naught.

Yes, I am he, who sung how Aram won The gentle ear of pensive Madeline! How love and murder hand in hand may run, Cemented by philosophy serene, And kisses bless the spot where gore has been! Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime, And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!

Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed Obscure philosophy's enchanting light! Until the public, wildered as they read, Believed they saw that which was not in sight-- Of course 'twas not for me to set them right; For in my nether heart convinced I am, Philosophy's as good as any other bam.

Novels three-volumed I shall write no more-- Somehow or other now they will not sell; And to invent new passions is a bore-- I find the Magazines pay quite as well. Translating's simple, too, as I can tell, Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own.

Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed, Battered and broken are their early lyres. Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, And, worth a plum, nor bays, nor butt desires. But these are things would suit me to the letter, For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better.

A fice for your small poetic ravers, Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these! Shall they compete with him who wrote "Maltravers," Prologue to "Alice or the Mysteries?" No! Even now, my glance prophetic sees My own high brow girt with the bays about. What ho, within there, ho! another pint of STOUT!

THE DIRGE OF THE DRINKER. BY W------ E------ A------, ESQ. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down; He has dropp'd--that star of honor--on the field of his renown! Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees, If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please. Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurraing sink, Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink! Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor; See how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door! Widely o'er the earth I've wander'd; where the drink most freely flow'd, I have ever reel'd the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode. Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dream'd o'er heavy wet, By the fountains of Damascus I have quaff'd the rich Sherbet, Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock, On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccup'd o'er my hock; I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er Monsoon, Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon; In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman blind, I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined; Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter's rum, Drank with Highland dhuinie-wassels till each gibbering Gael grew dumb; But a stouter, bolder drinker--one that loved his liquor more-- Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor! Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir, He has fallen, who rarely stagger'd--let the rest of us beware! We shall leave him, as we found him--lying where his manhood fell, 'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well. Better't were we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare, Pulled his Hobi's off, and turn'd his toes to taste the breezy air. Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas, Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass, We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy, Large supplies of soda water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy, So when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of his, Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as he is!

FRANCESCA DA RIMINI. TO BON GAULTIER. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

ARGUMENT-An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus:

Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball, Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness! Dost thou remember, when with stately prance, Our heads went crosswise in the country dance; How soft, warm fingers, tipp'd like buds of balm, Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm; And how a cheek grew flush'd and peachy-wise At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes? Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing, Who like a dove, with its scarce-feather'd wing, Flutter'd at the approach of thy quaint swaggering! There's wont to be, at conscious times like these, An affectation of a bright-eyed ease-- A crispy-cheekiness, if so I dare Describe the swaling of a jaunty air; And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel, You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille. That smiling voice, although it made me start, Boil'd in the meek o'erlifting of my heart; And, picking at my flowers, I said with free And usual tone, "Oh yes, sir, certainly!"

Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear, I heard the music burning in my ear, And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me, If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis. So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came, And took his place against us with his dame, I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk From the stern survey of the soldier-monk, Though rather more than full three-quarters drunk; But threading through the figure, first in rule, I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule. Ah, what a sight was that? Not prurient Mars, Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars-- Not young Apollo, beamily array'd In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade-- Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth, Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth, Look'd half so bold, so beautiful and strong, As thou when pranking thro' the glittering throng! How the calm'd ladies looked with eyes of love On thy trim velvet doublet laced above; The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river, Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver! So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black So lightsomely dropp'd on thy lordly back. So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet, So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it, That my weak soul took instant flight to thee, Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery!

But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm (The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm), We pass'd to the great refreshment hall, Where the heap'd cheese-cakes and the comfits small Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, to burn Around the margin of the negus urn; When my poor quivering hand you finger'd twice, And, with inquiring accents, whisper'd "Ice, Water, or cream?" I could no more dissemble, But dropp'd upon the couch all in a tremble. A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain, The corks seem'd starting from the brisk champagne, The custards fell untouch'd upon the floor, Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more!

LOUIS NAPOLEON'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY WILLIAM AYTOUN.

Guards! who at Smolensko fled-- No--I beg your pardon--bled! For my Uncle blood you've shed, Do the same for me.

Now's the day and now's the hour, Heads to split and streets to scour; Strike for rank, promotion, power, Sawg, and eau de vie.

Who's afraid a child to kill? Who respects a shopman's till? Who would pay a tailor's bill? Let him turn and flee.

Who would burst a goldsmith's door, Shoot a dun, or sack a store? Let him arm, and go before-- That is, follow me!

See the mob, to madness riled, Up the barricades have piled; In among them, man and child, Unrelentingly!

Shoot the men! there's scarcely one In a dozen's got a gun: Stop them, if they try to run, With artillery!

Shoot the boys! each one may grow Into--of the state--a foe (Meaning by the state, you know, My supremacy!)

Shoot the girls and women old! Those may bear us traitors bold-- These may be inclined to scold Our severity.

Sweep the streets of all who may Rashly venture in the way, Warning for a future day Satisfactory.

Then, when still'd is ev'ry voice, We, the nation's darling choice, Calling on them to rejoice, Tell them, FRANCE IS FREE.

THE BATTLE OF THE BOULEVARD WILLIAM AYTOUN.

On Paris, when the sun was low, The gay "Comique" made goodly show, Habitues crowding every row To hear Limnandier's opera.

But Paris showed another sight, When, mustering in the dead of night, Her masters stood, at morning light, The crack shasseurs of Africa

By servants in my pay betrayed, Cavaignac, then, my prisoner made, Wrote that a circumstance delayed His marriage rite and revelry.

Then shook small Thiers, with terror riven; Then stormed Bedeau, while gaol-ward driven; And, swearing (not alone by Heaven), Was seized bold Lamoriciere.

But louder rose the voice of woe When soldiers sacked each cit's depot, And tearing down a helpless foe, Flashed Magnan's red artillery.

More, more arrests! Changarnier brave Is dragged to prison like a knave: No time allowed the swell to shave, Or use the least perfumery.

'Tis morn, and now Hortense's son (Perchance her spouse's too) has won The imperial crown. The French are done, Chawed up most incontestably.

Few, few shall write, and none shall meet; Suppressed shall be each journal-sheet; And every serf beneath my feet Shall hail the soldier's Emperor.

PUFFS POETICAL. WILLIAM AYTOUM

I.

PARIS AND HELEN.

As the youthful Paris presses Helen to his ivory breast, Sporting with her golden tresses, Close and ever closer pressed.

He said: "So let me quaff the nectar, Which thy lips of ruby yield; Glory I can leave to Hector, Gathered in the tented field.

"Let me ever gaze upon thee, Look into thine eyes so deep; With a daring hand I won thee, With a faithful heart I'll keep.

"Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder, Who was ever like to thee? Jove would lay aside his thunder, So he might be blest like me.

"How mine eyes so fondly linger On thy soft and pearly skin; Scan each round and rosy finger, Drinking draughts of beauty in!

"Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest! Whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom! Whence the rosy hue thou wearest, Breathing round thee rich perfume?"

Thus he spoke, with heart that panted, Clasped her fondly to his side, Gazed on her with look enchanted, While his Helen thus replied:

"Be no discord, love, between us, If I not the secret tell! 'Twas a gift I had of Venus,-- Venus who hath loved me well.

"And she told me as she gave it, 'Let not e'er the charm be known, O'er thy person freely lave it, Only when thou art alone.'

"'Tis inclosed in yonder casket-- Here behold its golden key; But its name--love, do not ask it, Tell't I may not, e'en to thee!"

Long with vow and kiss he plied her, Still the secret did she keep, Till at length he sank beside her, Seemed as he had dropped to sleep.

Soon was Helen laid in slumber, When her Paris, rising slow, Did his fair neck disencumber From her rounded arms of snow;

Then her heedless fingers oping, Takes the key and steals away, To the ebon table groping, Where the wondrous casket lay;

Eagerly the lid uncloses, Sees within it, laid aslope, Pear's Liquid Bloom of Roses, Cakes of his Transparent Soap!

II.

TARQUIN AND THE AUGUR.

Gingerly is good King Tarquin shaving, Gently glides the razor o'er his chin, Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving, And with nasal whine he pitches in, Church Extension hints, Till the monarch squints, Snicks his chin, and swears--a deadly sin!

"Jove confound thee, thou bare-legged impostor! From my dressing table get thee gone! Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo'ster? There again! That cut was to the bone! Get ye from my sight; I'll believe you're right When my razor cuts the sharping hone!"

Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness; But the Augur, eager for his fees, Answered--"Try it, your Imperial Highness, Press a little harder, if you please. There! the deed is done!" Through the solid stone Went the steel as glibly as through cheese.

So the Augur touched the tin of Tarquin, Who suspected some celestial aid: But he wronged the blameless Gods; for hearken! Ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid, With his searching eye Did the priest espy RODGER'S name engraved upon the blade.

REFLECTIONS OF A PROUD PEDESTRIAN. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

I saw the curl of his waving lash, And the glance of his knowing eye, And I knew that he thought he was cutting a dash, As his steed went thundering by.

And he may ride in the rattling gig, Or flourish the Stanhope gay, And dream that he looks exceeding big To the people that walk in the way;

But he shall think, when the night is still, On the stable-boy's gathering numbers, And the ghost of many a veteran bill Shall hover around his slumbers;

The ghastly dun shall worry his sleep, And constables cluster around him, And he shall creep from the wood-hole deep Where their specter eyes have found him!

Ay! gather your reins, and crack your thong, And bid your steed go faster; He does not know as he scrambles along, That he has a fool for his master;

And hurry away on your lonely ride, Nor deign from the mire to save me; I will paddle it stoutly at your side With the tandem that nature gave me!

EVENING. BY A TAILOR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Day hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, That is like padding to earth's meager ribs, And hold communion with the things about me. Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid, That binds the skirt of night's descending robe! The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads, Do make a music like to rustling satin, As the light breezes smooth their downy nap.

Ha! what is this that rises to my touch, So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage? It is, it is that deeply injured flower, Which boys do flout us with;--but yet I love thee, Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout. Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright As these, thy puny brethren; and thy breath Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air; But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau, Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences, And growing portly in his sober garments.

Is that a swan that rides upon the water? O no, it is that other gentle bird, Which is the patron of our noble calling. I well remember, in my early years, When these young hands first closed upon a goose I have a scar upon my thimble finger, Which chronicles the hour of young ambition My father was a tailor, and his father, And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors; They had an ancient goose,--it was an heir-loom From some remoter tailor of our race. It happened I did see it on a time When none was near, and I did deal with it, And it did burn me,--oh, most fearfully!

It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs, And leap elastic from the level counter, Leaving the petty grievances of earth, The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears, And all the needles that do wound the spirit, For such a pensive hour of soothing silence. Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress, Lays bare her shady bosom; I can feel With all around me;--I can hail the flowers That sprig earth's mantle,--and yon quiet bird, That rides the stream, is to me as a brother. The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets, Where Nature stows away her loveliness. But this unnatural posture of my legs Cramps my extended calves, and I must go Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion.

PHAETHON; OR, THE AMATEUR COACHMAN. JOHN G. SAXX

DAN PHAETHON--so the histories run-- Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the SUN; Or rather of PHOEBUS--but as to his mother, Genealogists make a deuce of a pother, Some going for one, and some for another! For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer, This roaring young blade was the son of AURORA!

Now old Father PHOEBUS, ere railways begun To elevate funds and depreciate fun, Drove a very fast coach by the name of "THE SUN;" Running, they say, Trips every day (On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way). And lighted up with a famous array Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display, And dashing along like a gentleman's "shay." With never a fare, and nothing to pay!

Now PHAETHON begged of his doting old father, To grant him a favor, and this the rather, Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy, That he wasn't by any means PHOEBUS'S boy! Intending, the rascally son of a gun, To darken the brow of the son of the SUN! "By the terrible Styx!" said the angry sire, While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire, "To prove your reviler an infamous liar, I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire!" "Then by my head," The youngster said, "I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed!-- For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive, Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive!" "Nay, PHAETHON, don't-- I beg you won't-- Just stop a moment and think upon't! You're quite too young," continued the sage, "To tend a coach at your tender age! Besides, you see, 'T will really be Your first appearance on any stage! Desist, my child, The cattle are wild, And when their mettle is thoroughly 'riled,' Depend upon't, the coach'll be 'spiled'-- They're not the fellows to draw it mild! Desist, I say, You'll rue the day-- So mind, and don't be foolish, PHA!" But the youth was proud, And swore aloud, 'T was just the thing to astonish the crowd-- He'd have the horses and wouldn't be cowed! In vain the boy was cautioned at large, He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge, And vowed that any young fellow of force, Could manage a dozen coursers, of course! Now PHOEBUS felt exceedingly sorry He had given his word in such a hurry, But having sworn by the Styx, no doubt He was in for it now, and couldn't back out.

So calling Phaethon up in a trice, He gave the youth a bit of advice:-- "'Parce stimulis, utere loris!' (A "stage direction," of which the core is, Don't use the whip--they're ticklish things-- But, whatever you do, hold on to the strings!) Remember the rule of the Jehu-tribe is, 'Medio tutissimus ibis' (As the Judge remarked to a rowdy Scotchman, Who was going to quod between two watchmen!) So mind your eye, and spare your goad, Be shy of the stones, and keep in the road!"

Now Phaethon, perched in the coachman's place, Drove off the steeds at a furious pace, Fast as coursers running a race, Or bounding along in a steeple-chase! Of whip and shout there was no lack, "Crack--whack-- Whack--crack" Resounded along the horses' back!-- Frightened beneath the stinging lash, Cutting their flanks in many a gash, On--on they sped as swift as a flash, Through thick and thin away they dash, (Such rapid driving is always rash!) When all at once, with a dreadful crash, The whole "establishment" went to smash! And Phaethon, he, As all agree, Off the coach was suddenly hurled, Into a puddle, and out of the world!

MORAL.

Don't rashly take to dangerous courses-- Nor set it down in your table of forces, That any one man equals any four horses! Don't swear by the Styx!-- It's one of Old Nick's Diabolical tricks To get people into a regular "fix," And hold 'em there as fast as bricks!

THE SCHOOL-HOUSE. [AFTER GOLDSMITH.] JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

Propt on the marsh, a dwelling now, I see The humble school-house of my A, B, C, Where well-drilled urchins, each behind his tire, Waited in ranks the wished command to fire, Then all together, when the signal came, Discharged their A-B ABS against the dame, Who, 'mid the volleyed learning, firm and calm, Patted the furloughed ferule on her palm, And, to our wonder, could detect at once Who flashed the pan, and who was downright dunce.

There young Devotion learned to climb with ease The gnarly limbs of Scripture family-trees, And he was most commended and admired Who soonest to the topmost twig perspired; Each name was called as many various ways As pleased the reader's ear on different days, So that the weather, or the ferule's stings, Colds in the head, or fifty other things, Transformed the helpless Hebrew thrice a week To guttural Pequot or resounding Greek, The vibrant accent skipping here and there Just as it pleased invention or despair; No controversial Hebraist was the Dame; With or without the points pleased her the same. If any tyro found a name too tough, And looked at her, pride furnished skill enough; She nerved her larynx for the desperate thing, And cleared the five-barred syllables at a spring.

Ah, dear old times! there once it was my hap, Perched on a stool, to wear the long-eared cap; From books degraded, there I sat at ease, A drone, the envy of compulsory bees.

EPIGRAMMATIC

EPIGRAMS OF BEN JONSON.

TO FINE GRAND.

What is't Fine Grand, makes thee my friendship fly, Or take an Epigram so fearfully, As't were a challenge, or a borrower's letter? The world must know your greatness is my debtor. IMPRIMIS, Grand, you owe me for a jest I lent you, on mere acquaintance, at a feast. ITEM, a tale or two some fortnight after, That yet maintains you, and your house in laughter. ITEM, the Babylonian song you sing; ITEM, a fair Greek poesy for a ring, With which a learned madam you bely. ITEM, a charm surrounding fearfully Your partie-per-pale picture, one half drawn In solemn cyprus, th' other cobweb lawn. ITEM, a gulling impress for you, at tilt. ITEM, your mistress' anagram, in your hilt. ITEM, your own, sew'd in your mistress' smock. ITEM, an epitaph on my lord's cock, In most vile verses, and cost me more pain, Than had I made 'em good, to fit your vein. Forty things more, dear Grand, which you know true, For which, or pay me quickly, or I'll pay you.

TO BRAINHARDY.

Hardy, thy brain is valiant, 'tis confest, Thou more; that with it every day dar'st jest Thyself into fresh brawls; when call'd upon, Scarce thy week's swearing brings thee off of one; So in short time, thou art in arrearage grown Some hundred quarrels, yet dost thou fight none; Nor need'st thou; for those few, by oath released, Make good what thou dar'st in all the rest. Keep thyself there, and think thy valor right, He that dares damn himself, dares more than fight.

TO DOCTOR EMPIRIC.

When men a dangerous disease did 'scape, Of old, they gave a cock to Aesculape; Let me give two, that doubly am got free; From my disease's danger, and from thee.

TO SIR ANNUAL FILTER.

Filter, the most may admire thee, though not I; And thou, right guiltless, may'st plead to it, why? For thy late sharp device. I say 'tis fit All brains, at times of triumph, should run wit; For then our water-conduits do run wine; But that's put in, thou'lt say. Why, so is thine.

ON BANKS THE USURER. Banks feels no lameness of his knotty gout, His moneys travel for him in and out, And though the soundest legs go every day, He toils to be at hell, as soon as they.

ON CHEVRIL THE LAWYER

No cause, nor client fat, will Cheveril leese, But as they come, on both sides he takes fees, And pleaseth both; for while he melts his grease For this; that wins, for whom he holds his peace.

EPIGRAMATIC VERSES BY SAMUEL BUTLER.

OPINION.

Opinion governs all mankind, Like the blind's leading of the blind; For he that has no eyes in 's head, Must be by a dog glad to be led; And no beasts have so little in 'em As that inhuman brute, Opinion. "Tis an infectious pestilence, The tokens upon wit and sense, That with a venomous contagion Invades the sick imagination: And, when it seizes any part, It strikes the poison to the heart." This men of one another catch, By contact, as the humors match. And nothing's so perverse in nature As a profound opiniator.

CRITICS.

Critics are like a kind of flies, that breed In wild fig-trees, and when they're grown up, feed Upon the raw fruit of the nobler kind, And, by their nibbling on the outward rind, Open the pores, and make way for the sun To ripen it sooner than he would have done.

HYPOCRISY.

Hypocrisy will serve as well To propagate a church, as zeal; As persecution and promotion Do equally advance devotion: So round white stones will serve, they pay, As well as eggs to make hens lay.

POLISH.

All wit and fancy, like a diamond, The more exact and curious 'tis ground, Is forced for every carat to abate, As much in value as it wants in weight.

THE GODLY.

A godly man, that has served out his time In holiness, may set up any crime; As scholars, when they've taken their degrees May set up any faculty they please.

PIETY.

Why should not piety be made, As well as equity, a trade, And men get money by devotion, As well as making of a motion? B' allow'd to pray upon conditions, As well as suitors in petitions? And in a congregation pray, No less than Chancery, for pay?

MARRIAGE.

All sorts of vot'ries, that profess To bind themselves apprentices To Heaven, abjure, with solemn vows, Not Cut and Long-tail, but a Spouse As the worst of all impediments To hinder their devout intents.

POETS.

It is not poetry that makes men poor; For few do write that were not so before; And those that have writ best, had they been rich. Had ne'er been clapp'd with a poetic itch; Had loved their ease too well to take the pains To undergo that drudgery of brains; But, being for all other trades unfit, Only t' avoid being idle, set up wit.

PUFFING.

They that do write in authors' praises, And freely give their friends their voices Are not confined to what is true; That's not to give, but pay a due: For praise, that's due, does give no more To worth, than what it had before; But to commend without desert, Requires a mastery of art, That sets a gloss on what's amiss, And writes what should be, not what is.

POLITICIANS.

All the politics of the great Are like the cunning of a cheat, That lets his false dice freely run, And trusts them to themselves alone, But never lets a true one stir, Without some fingering trick or slur; And, when the gamester doubts his play, Conveys his false dice safe away, And leaves the true ones in the lurch T' endure the torture of the search.

FEAR.

There needs no other charm, nor conjurer To raise infernal spirits up, but fear; That makes men pull their horns in, like a snail That's both a pris'ner to itself, and jail; Draws more fantastic shapes, than in the grains Of knotted wood, in some men's crazy brains; When all the cocks they think they see, and bulls, Are only in the insides of their skulls.

THE LAW.

The law can take a purse in open court While it condemns a less delinquent for't.

THE SAME.

Who can deserve, for breaking of the laws, A greater penance than an honest cause.

THE SAME.

All those that do but rob and steal enough, Are punishment and court-of-justice proof, And need not fear, nor be concerned a straw In all the idle bugbears of the law; But confidently rob the gallows too, As well as other sufferers, of their due.

CONFESSION.

In the Church of Rome to go to shrift Is but to put the soul on a clean shift.

SMATTERERS

All smatterers are more brisk and pert Than those that understand an art; As little sparkles shine more bright Than glowing coals, that give them light.

BAD WRITERS.

As he that makes his mark is understood To write his name, and 'tis in law as good, So he, that can not write one word of sense Believes he has as legal a pretense To scribble what he does not understand, As idiots have a title to their land.

THE OPINIONATIVE.

Opinionators naturally differ From other men; as wooden legs are stiffer Than those of pliant joints, to yield and bow, Which way soever they're design'd to go.

LANGUAGE OF THE LEARNED.

Were Tully now alive, he'd be to seek In all our Latin terms of art and Greek; Would never understand one word of sense The most irrefragable schoolman means: As if the Schools design'd their terms of art, Not to advance a science, but to divert; As Hocus Pocus conjures to amuse The rabble from observing what he does.

GOOD WRITING.

As 'tis a greater mystery in the art Of painting, to foreshorten any part, Than draw it out; so 'tis in books the chief Of all perfections to be plain and brief.

COURTIERS.

As in all great and crowded fairs Monsters and puppet-play are wares, Which in the less will not go off, Because they have not money enough; So men in princes' courts will pass That will not in another place.

INVENTIONS.

All the inventions that the world contains, Were not by reason first found out, nor brains, But pass for theirs who had the luck to light Upon them by mistake or oversight.

LOGICIANS.

Logicians used to clap a proposition, As justices do criminals, in prison, And, in as learn'd authentic nonsense, writ The names of all their moods and figures fit; For a logician's one that has been broke To ride and pace his reason by the book; And by their rules, and precepts, and examples, To put his wits into a kind of trammels.

LABORIOUS WRITERS.

Those get the least that take the greatest pains, But most of all i' th' drudgery of the brains, A natural sign of weakness, as an ant Is more laborious than an elephant; And children are more busy at their play, Than those that wiseliest pass their time away.

ON A CLUB OF SOTS.

The jolly members of a toping club, Like pipestaves, are but hoop'd into a tub; And in a close confederacy link, For nothing else but only to hold drink.

HOLLAND.

A country that draws fifty feet of water, In which men live as in the hold of Nature; And when the sea does in upon them break, And drown a province, does but spring a leak; That always ply the pump, and never think They can be safe, but at the rate they stink; That live as if they had been run a-ground, And, when they die, are cast away and drown'd; That dwell in ships, like swarms of rats, and prey Upon the goods all nations' fleets convey; And, when their merchants are blown up and cracked, Whole towns are cast away and wrecked; That feed, like cannibals, on other fishes, And serve their cousin-germans up in dishes: A land that rides at anchor, and is moor'd, In which they do not live, but go a-board.

WOMEN.

The souls of women are so small, That some believe they've none at all; Or if they have, like cripples, still They've but one faculty, the will; The other two are quite laid by To make up one great tyranny; And though their passions have most pow'r, They are, like Turks, but slaves the more To th' abs'lute will, that with a breath Has sovereign pow'r of life and death, And, as its little int'rests move, Can turn 'em all to hate or love; For nothing, in a moment, turn To frantic love, disdain, and scorn; And make that love degenerate T' as great extremity of hate; And hate again, and scorn, and piques, To flames, and raptures, and love-tricks.

EPIGRAMS OF EDMUND WALLEB.

A PAINTED LADY WITH ILL TEETH.

Were men so dull they could not see That Lyce painted; should they flee, Like simple birds, into a net, So grossly woven, and ill set, Her own teeth would undo the knot, And let all go that she had got. Those teeth fair Lyce must not show, If she would bite: her lovers, though Like birds they stoop at seeming grapes, Are dis-abus'd, when first she gapes: The rotten bones discover'd there, Show 'tis a painted sepulcher.

OF THE MARRIAGE OF THE DWARFS.

Design, or chance, makes others wive; But nature did this match contrive: EVE might as well have ADAM fled, As she denied her little bed To him, for whom heav'n seem'd to frame, And measure out, this only dame. Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly Of sad distrust, and jealousy: Secured in as high extreme, As if the world held none but them. To him the fairest nymphs do show Like moving mountains, topp'd with snow: And ev'ry man a POLYPHEME Does to his GALATEA seem; None may presume her faith to prove; He proffers death that proffers love. Ah CHLORIS! that kind nature thus From all the world had sever'd us: Creating for ourselves us two, As love has me for only you!

EPIGRAMS OF MATTHEW PRIOR.

A SIMILE.

Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop Thy head into a tin-man's shop? There, Thomas, didst thou never see ('Tis but by way of simile) A squirrel spend his little rage, In jumping round a rolling cage? The cage, as either side turn'd up, Striking a ring of bells a-top?-- Mov'd in the orb, pleas'd with the chimes, The foolish creature thinks he climbs: But here or there, turn wood or wire, He never gets two inches higher. So fares it with those merry blades, That frisk it under Pindus' shades. In noble songs, and lofty odes, They tread on stars, and talk with gods; Still dancing in an airy round, Still pleased with their own verses' sound; Brought back, how fast soe'er they go, Always aspiring, always low.

THE FLIES.

Say, sire of insects, mighty Sol, (A Fly upon the chariot pole Cries out), what Blue-bottle alive Did ever with such fury drive? Tell Belzebub, great father, tell (Says t' other, perch'd upon the wheel), Did ever any mortal Fly Raise such a cloud of dust as I? My judgment turn'd the whole debate: My valor sav'd the sinking state. So talk two idle buzzing things; Toss up their heads, and stretch their wings. But let the truth to light be brought; This neither spoke, nor t' other fought: No merit in their own behavior: Both rais'd, but by their party's favor.

PHILLIS'S AGE.

How old may Phillis be, you ask, Whose beauty thus all hearts engages? To answer is no easy task: For she has really two ages.

Stiff in brocade, and pinch'd in stays, Her patches, paint, and jewels on; All day let envy view her face, And Phillis is but twenty-one.

Paint, patches, jewels laid aside, At night astronomers agree, The evening has the day belied; And Phillis is some forty-three.

TO THE DUKE DE NOALLES.

Vain the concern which you express, That uncall'd Alard will possess Your house and coach, both day and night, And that Macbeth was haunted less By Banquo's restless sprite.

With fifteen thousand pounds a-year, Do you complain, you can not bear An ill, you may so soon retrieve? Good Alard, faith, is modester By much, than you believe.

Lend him but fifty louis-d'or; And you shall never see him more: Take the advice; probatum est. Why do the gods indulge our store, But to secure our rest?

ON BISHOP ATTERBURY.

Meek Francis lies here, friend: without stop or stay, As you value your peace, make the best of your way. Though at present arrested by death's caitiff paw, If he stirs, he may still have recourse to the law. And in the King's Bench should a verdict be found, That by livery and seisin his grave is his ground, He will claim to himself what is strictly his due, And an action of trespass will straightway ensue, That you without right on his premises tread, On a simple surmise that the owner is dead.

FORMA BONUM FRAGILE.

What a frail thing is beauty! says baron Le Cras, Perceiving his mistress had one eye of glass: And scarcely had he spoke it, When she more confus'd as more angry she grew, By a negligent rage prov'd the maxim too true: She dropt the eye, and broke it.

EARNING A DINNER.

Full oft doth Mat. with Topaz dine, Eateth baked meats, drinketh Greek wine; But Topaz his own werke rehearseth; And Mat. mote praise what Topaz verseth. Now sure as priest did e'er shrive sinner, Full hardly earneth Mat. his dinner.

BIBO AND CHARON.

When Bibo thought fit from the world to retreat, And full of champagne as an egg's full of meat, He waked in the boat; and to Charon he said, He would be row'd back, for he was not yet dead. Trim the boat, and sit quiet, stern Charon replied: You may have forgot, you were drunk when you died.

THE PEDANT.

Lysander talks extremely well; On any subject let him dwell, His tropes and figures will content ye He should possess to all degrees The art of talk; he practices Full fourteen hours in four-and-twenty

EPIGRAMS OF JOSEPH ADDISON. THE COUNTESS OF MANCHESTER.

Written on his admission to the Kit-Cat Club, in compliance with the rule that every new member should name his toast, and write a verse in her praise.

While haughty Gallia's dames, that spread O'er their pale cheeks an artful red, Beheld this beauteous stranger there, In nature's charms divinely fair; Confusion in their looks they showed, And with unborrowed blushes glowed.

TO AN ILL-FAVORED LADY. [IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.]

While in the dark on thy soft hand I hung, And heard the tempting syren in thy tongue, What flames, what darts, what anguish I endured! But when the candle entered I was cured.

TO A CAPBICIOUS FEIEND. [IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.]

In all thy humors, whether grave or mellow, Thou 'rt such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow; Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen about thee, There is no living with thee, nor without thee.

TO A ROGUE. [IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.]

Thy beard and head are of a different dye: Short of one foot, distorted in an eye: With all these tokens of a knave complete, Should'st thou be honest, thou 'rt a dev'lish cheat.

EPIGRAMS OF ALEXANDER POPE.

ON MRS. TOFTS. (A CELEBRATED OPERA SINGER.)

So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song, As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along; But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride. That the beasts must have starved, and the poet have died.

TO A BLOCKHEAD.

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come: Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.

THE FOOL AND THE POET.

Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool, But you yourself may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet.

EPIGRAMS OF DEAN SWIFT.

ON BURNING A DULL POEM.

An ass's hoof alone can hold That poisonous juice, which kills by cold. Methought when I this poem read, No vessel but an ass's head Such frigid fustian could contain; I mean the head without the brain. The cold conceits, the chilling thoughts, Went down like stupefying draughts; I found my head begin to swim, A numbness crept through every limb. In haste, with imprecations dire, I threw the volume in the fire; When (who could think?) though cold as ice, It burnt to ashes in a trice. How could I more enhance its fame? Though born in snow, it died in flame.

TO A LADY, On hearing her praise her husband.

You always are making a god of your spouse; But this neither Reason nor Conscience allows; Perhaps you will say, 'tis in gratitude due, And you adore him because he adores you. Your argument's weak, and so you will find, For you, by this rule, must adore all mankind.

THE CUDGELED HUSBAND.

As Thomas was cudgel'd one day by his wife, He took to his heels and fled for his life: Tom's three dearest friends came by in the squabble, And saved him at once from the shrew and the rabble; Then ventured to give him some sober advice- But Tom is a person of honor so nice, Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take warning, That he sent to all three a challenge next morning. Three duels he fought, thrice ventured his life; Went home, and was cudgeled again by his wife.

ON SEEING VERSES WRITTEN UPON WINDOWS AT INNS

The sage, who said he should be proud Of windows in his breast, Because he ne'er a thought allow'd That might not be confest; His window scrawled by every rake, His breast again would cover, And fairly bid the devil take The diamond and the lover.

ON SEEING THE BUSTS OP NEWTON, LOCKE, AND OTHERS, Placed by Queen Caroline in Richmond Hermitage.

Louis the living learned fed, And raised the scientific head; Our frugal queen, to save her meat, Exalts the heads that cannot eat.

ON THE CHURCH'S DANGER.

Good Halifax and pious Wharton cry, The Church has vapors; there's no danger nigh. In those we love not, we no danger see, And were they hang'd, there would no danger be. But we must silent be, amid our fears, And not believe our senses, but the Peers. So ravishers that know no sense of shame, First stop her mouth, and then debauch the dame.

ON ONE DELACOURT'S COMPLIMENTING CARTHY ON HIS POETRY.

Carthy, you say, writes well--his genius true, You pawn your word for him--he'll vouch for you. So two poor knaves, who find their credit fail, To cheat the world, become each other's bail.

ON A USURER.

Beneath this verdant hillock lies, Demar, the wealthy and the wise. His heirs, that he might safely rest, Have put his carcass in a chest, The very chest in which, they say, His other self, his money lay. And, if his heirs continue kind To that dear self he left behind, I dare believe, that four in five Will think his better half alive.

TO MRS. BIDDY FLOYD; OR, THE RECEIPT TO FORM A BEAUTY.

When Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat To form some Beauty by a new receipt, Jove sent, and found, far in a country scene, Truth, innocence, good nature, look serene: From which ingredients first the dext'rous boy Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy. The Graces from the court did next provide Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride: These Venus cleans from every spurious grain Of nice coquet, affected, pert, and vain. Jove mix'd up all, and the best clay employ'd; Then call'd the happy composition FLOYD.

THE REVERSE; OR, MRS. CLUDD.

Venus one day, as story goes, But for what reason no man knows, In sullen mood and grave deport, Trudged it away to Jove's high court; And there his Godship did entreat, To look out for his best receipt: And make a monster strange and odd, Abhorr'd by man and every god. Jove, ever kind to all the fair, Nor e'er refused a lady's prayer, Straight oped 'scrutoire, and forth he took A neatly bound and well-gilt book; Sure sign that nothing enter'd there, But what was very choice and rare. Scarce had he turn'd a page or two-- It might be more, for aught I know; But, be the matter more or less, 'Mong friends 't will break no squares, I guess. Then, smiling, to the dame quoth he, Here's one will fit you to a T. But, as the writing doth prescribe, 'Tis fit the ingredients we provide. Away he went, and search'd the stews, And every street about the Mews; Diseases, impudence, and lies, Are found and brought him in a trice From Hackney then he did provide, A clumsy air and awkward pride; From lady's toilet next he brought Noise, scandal, and malicious thought. These Jove put in an old close-stool, And with them mix'd the vain, the fool.

But now came on his greatest care, Of what he should his paste prepare; For common clay or finer mold Was much too good, such stuff to hold At last he wisely thought on mud; So raised it up, and call'd it--CLUDD. With this, the lady well content, Low curtsey'd, and away she went.

THE PLACE OF THE DAMNED.

All folks who pretend to religion and grace, Allow there's a HELL, but dispute of the place: But if HELL may by logical rules be defined The place of the damn'd--I'll tell you my mind. Wherever the damn'd do chiefly abound, Most certainly there is HELL to be found: Damn'd poets, damn'd critics, damn'd blockheads, damn'd knaves; Damn'd senators bribed, damn'd prostitute slaves; Damn'd lawyers and judges, damn'd lords and damn'd squires; Damn'd spies and informers, damn'd friends and damn'd liars; Damn'd villains, corrupted in every station; Dama'd time-serving priests all over the nation; And into the bargain I'll readily give you Damn'd ignorant prelates, and councillors privy. Then let us no longer by parsons be flamm'd, For we know by these marks the place of the damn'd: And HELL to be sure is at Paris or Rome. How happy for us that it is not at home!

THE DAY OF JUDGMENT.

With a world of thought oppress'd, I sunk from reverie to rest. A horrid vision seized my head, I saw the graves give up their dead! Jove, arm'd with terrors, bursts the skies, And thunder roars and lightning flies; Amazed, confused, its fate unknown, The world stands trembling at his throne! While each pale sinner hung his head, Jove, nodding, shook the heavens, and said: "Offending race of human kind, By nature, reason, learning, blind; You who, through frailty, stepp'd aside; And you, who never fell from pride: You who in different sects were shamm'd, And come to see each other damn'd; (So some folk told you, but they knew No more of Jove's designs than you); --The world's mad business now is o'er, And I resent these pranks no more. --I to such blockheads set my wit! I damn such fools!--Go, go, you're bit."

PAULUS THE LAWYER. LINDSAY.

"A slave to crowds, scorch'd with the summer's heats, In courts the wretched lawyer toils and sweats; While smiling Nature, in her best attire, Regales each sense, and vernal joys inspire. Can he, who knows that real good should please Barter for gold his liberty and ease?" This Paulus preach'd:--When, entering at the door, Upon his board the client pours the ore: He grasps the shining gifts, pores o'er the cause, Forgets the sun, and dozes o'er the laws.

EPIGRAMS BY THOMAS SHERIDAN.

ON A CARICATURE.

If you say this was made for friend Dan, you belie it, I'll swear he's so like it that he was made by it.

ON DEAN SWIFT'S PROPOSED HOSPITAL FOR LUNATICS

Great wits to madness nearly are allied, This makes the Dean for kindred THUS provide.

TO A DUBLIN PUBLISHER. Who displayed a bust of Dean Swift in his window, while publishing Lord Orrery's offensive remarks upon the Dean.

Faulkner! for once thou hast some judgment shown, By representing Swift transformed to stone; For could he thy ingratitude have known, Astonishment itself the work had done!

WHICH IS WHICH. BYRON.

"God bless the King! God bless the faith's defender! God bless--no harm in blessing--the Pretender. But who that pretender is, and who that king, God bless us all, is quite another thing."

ON SOME LINES OF LOPEZ DE VEGA. DR. JOHNSON.

If the man who turnips cries, Cry not when his father dies, 'Tis a proof that he had rather Have a turnip than his father.

ON A FULL-LENGTH PORTRAIT OF BEAU MARSH. Placed between the busts of Newton and Pope. LORD CHESTERFIELD

"Immortal Newton never spoke More truth than here you'll find; Nor Pope himself e'er penn'd a joke More cruel on mankind.

"The picture placed the busts between, Gives satire all its strength; Wisdom and Wit are little seen-- But Folly at full length."

ON SCOTLAND. CLEVELAND.

"Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom; Nor forced him wander, but confined him home."

EPIGRAMS OF PETER PINDAR.

EDMUND BURKE'S ATTACK ON WARREN HASTINGS

Poor Edmund sees poor Britain's setting sun: Poor Edmund GROANS--and Britain is UNDONE!

Reader! thou hast, I do presume (God knows though) been in a snug room, By coals or wood made comfortably warm, And often fancied that a storm WITHOUT, Hath made a diabolic rout-- Sunk ships, tore trees up--done a world of harm.

Yes, thou hast lifted up thy tearful eyes, Fancying thou heardst of mariners the cries; And sigh'd, "How wretched now must thousands be! Oh! how I pity the poor souls at sea!" When, lo! this dreadful tempest, and his roar, A ZEPHYR--in the key-hole of the door!

Now may not Edmund's howlings be a sigh Pressing through Edmund's lungs for loaves and fishes, On which he long hath looked with LONGING eye To fill poor Edmund's not o'erburden'd dishes?

Give Mun a sup--forgot will be complaint; Britain be safe, and Hastings prove a SAINT.

ON AN ARTIST Who boasted that his pictures had hung near those of Sir Joshua Reynolds in the Exhibition.

A shabby fellow chanc'd one day to meet The British Roscius in the street, Garrick, on whom our nation justly brags-- The fellow hugg'd him with a kind embrace-- "Good sir, I do not recollect your face," Quoth Garrick--"No!" replied the man of rags.

"The boards of Drury you and I have trod Full many a time together, I am sure--" "When?" with an oath, cried Garrick--"for by G-- I never saw that face of yours before!-- What characters, I pray, Did you and I together play?"

"Lord!" quoth the fellow, "think not that I mock-- When you play'd Hamlet, sir--I play'd the cock"

ON THE CONCLUSION OF HIS ODES

"FINISH'D!" a disappointed artist cries, With open mouth, and straining eyes; Gaping for praise like a young crow for meat-- "Lord! why have you not mentioned ME!" Mention THEE! Thy IMPUDENCE hath put me in a SWEAT-- What rage for fame attends both great and small Better be D--N'D, than mention'd NOT AT ALL!

THE LEX TALIONIS UPON BENJAMIN WEST

West tells the world that Peter can not rhyme-- Peter declares, point blank, that West can't paint. West swears I've not an atom of sublime-- I swear he hath no notion of a saint;

And that his cross-wing'd cherubim are fowls, Baptized by naturalists, owls: Half of the meek apostles, gangs of robbers; His angels, sets of brazen-headed lubbers.

The Holy Scripture says, "All flesh is grass," With Mr. West, all flesh is brick and brass; Except his horse-flesh, that I fairly own Is often of the choicest Portland stone. I've said it too, that this artist's faces Ne'er paid a visit to the graces:

That on expression he can never brag: Yet for this article hath he been studying, But in it never could surpass a pudding- No, gentle reader, nor a pudding-bag.

I dare not say, that Mr. West Can not sound criticism impart: I'm told the man with technicals is blest, That he can talk a deal upon the art; Yes, he can talk, I do not doubt it-- "About it, goddess, and about it."

Thus, then, is Mr. West deserving praise-- And let my justice the fair laud afford; For, lo! this far-fam'd artist cuts both ways, Exactly like the angel Gabriel's sword; The beauties of the art his CONVERSE shows, His CANVAS almost ev'ry thing that's bad! Thus at th' Academy, we must suppose, A man more useful never could be had: Who in himself, a host, so much can do; Who is both precept and example too!

BARRY'S ATTACK UPON SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS

When Barry dares the President to fly on, 'Tis like a mouse, that, work'd into a rage Daring some dreadful war to wage, Nibbles the tail of the Nemaean lion.

Or like a louse, of mettle full, Nurs'd in some giant's skull-- Because Goliath scratch'd him as he fed, Employs with vehemence his angry claws, And gaping, grinning, formidable jaws, To CARRY OFF the GIANT'S HEAD!

ON THE DEATH OP MR. HONE, R. A.

There's one R. A. more dead! stiff is poor Hone-- His works be with him under the same stone: I think the sacred art will not bemoan 'em; But, Muse!--DE MORTUIS NIL NISI BONUM-- As to his host, a TRAV'LER, with a sneer, Said of his DEAD SMALL-BEER. Go, then, poor Hone! and join a numerous train Sunk in OBLIVION'S wide pacific ocean; And may its WHALE-LIKE stomach feel no motion To cast thee, like a Jonah, up again.

ON GEORGE THE THIRD'S PATRONAGE OF BENJAMIN WEST.

Thus have I seen a child, with smiling face, A little daisy in the garden place, And strut in triumph round its fav'rite flow'r; Gaze on the leaves with infant admiration, Thinking the flow'r the finest in the nation, Then pay a visit to it ev'ry hour: Lugging the wat'ring-pot about, Which John the gard'ner was oblig'd to fill; The child, so pleas'd, would pour the water out, To show its marvelous gard'ning skill;

Then staring round, all wild for praises panting, Tell all the world it was its own sweet planting; And boast away, too happy elf, How that it found the daisy all itself!

ANOTHER ON THE SAME.

In SIMILE if I may shine agen- Thus have I seen a fond old hen With one poor miserable chick, Bustling about a farmer's yard; Now on the dunghill laboring hard, Scraping away through thin and thick, Flutt'ring her feathers--making such a noise! Cackling aloud such quantities of joys, As if this chick, to which her egg gave birth, Was born to deal prodigious knocks, To shine the Broughton of game cocks, And kill the fowls of all the earth!

EPITAPH ON PETER STAGGS.

Poor Peter Staggs, now rests beneath this rail, Who loved his joke, his pipe, and mug of ale; For twenty years he did the duties well, Of ostler, boots, and waiter at the "Bell." But Death stepp'd in, and order'd Peter Staggs To feed his worms, and leave the farmers' nags. The church clock struck one--alas! 't was Peter's knell, Who sigh'd, "I'm coming--that's the ostler's bell!"

TRAY'S EPITAPH.

Here rest the relics of a friend below, Blest with more sense than half the folks I know: Fond of his ease, and to no parties prone, He damn'd no sect, but calmly gnaw'd his bone; Perform'd his functions well in ev'ry way- Blush, CHRISTIANS, if you can, and copy Tray.

ON A STONE THROWN AT A VERY GREAT MAN, BUT WHICH MISSED HIM.

Talk no more of the lucky escape of the head From a flint so unluckily thrown- I think very different, with thousands indeed, 'T was a lucky escape for the stone.

[The following stanza, on the death of Lady Mount E---'s favorite pig Cupid, is verily exceeded by nothing in the annals of impertinence.--P. P.]

A CONSOLATORY STANZA TO LADY MOUNT E---, ON THE DEATH OF HER PIG CUPID.

O dry that tear, so round and big, Nor waste in sighs your precious wind! Death only takes a single pig-- Your lord and son are still behind.

EPIGRAMS BY ROBERT BURNS.

THE POET'S CHOICE.

I murder hate, by field or flood, Though glory's name may screen us; In wars at hame I'll spend my blood, Life-giving wars of Venus.

The Jeities that I adore, Are social peace and plenty; I'm better pleased to make one more, Than be the death of twenty.

ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER.

Here souter Hood in death does sleep;-- To h-ll, if he's gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, He'll haud it weel thegither.

ON JOHN DOVE

INNKEEPER OF MAUCHLINE.

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon; What was his religion? Wha e'er desires to ken, To some other warl' Maun follow the carl, For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane!

Strong ale was ablution-- Small beer, persecution, A dram was MEMENTO MORI: But a full flowing bowl Was the saving his soul, And port was celestial glory.

ON ANDREW TURNER.

In se'enteen hunder an' forty-nine, Satan took stuff to mak' a swine, And cuist it in a corner; But wilily he chang'd his plan, And shaped it something like a man. And ca'd it Andrew Turner.

ON A SCOTCH COXCOMB

Light lay the earth on Billy's breast, His chicken heart so tender; But build a castle on his head, His skull will prop it under.

ON GRIZZEL GRIM.

Here lies with death auld Grizzel Grim. Lineluden's ugly witch; O death, how horrid is thy taste, To lie with such a b----!

ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE.

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', He aften did assist ye; For had ye stayed whole years awa, Your wives they ne'er had missed ye. Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass To school in bands thegither, O tread ye lightly on his grass-- Perhaps he was your father.

EPITAPH ON W---.

Stop, thief! dame Nature cried to Death, As Willie drew his latest breath; You have my choicest model ta'en; How shall I make a fool again?

ON A SUICIDE.

Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell, Planted by Satan's dibble-- Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsel' To save the Lord the trouble.

EPIGRAMS FROM THE GERMAN OF LESSING.

NIGER.

"He's gone at last--old Niger's dead!" Last night 'twas said throughout the city; Each quidnunc gravely shook his head, And HALF the town cried, "What a pity!"

The news proved false--'t was all a cheat-- The morning came the fact denying; And ALL the town to-day repeat What HALF the town last night was crying.

A NICE POINT.

Say which enjoys the greater blisses, John, who Dorinda's picture kisses, Or Tom, his friend, the favor'd elf, Who kisses fair Dorinda's self? Faith, 'tis not easy to divine, While both are thus with raptures fainting, To which the balance should incline, Since Tom and John both kiss a painting. THE POINT DECIDED.

Nay, surely John's the happier of the twain, Because--the picture can not kiss again!

TRUE NOBILITY.

Young Stirps as any lord is proud, Vain, haughty, insolent, and loud, Games, drinks, and in the full career Of vice, may vie with any peer; Seduces daughters, wives, and mothers, Spends his own cash, and that of others, Pays like a lord--that is to say, He never condescends to pay, But bangs his creditor in requital-- And yet this blockhead wants a title!

TO A LIAR.

Lie as long as you will, my fine fellow, believe me, Your rhodomontading will never deceive me; Though you took me in THEN, I confess, my good youth, When moved by caprice you once told me the truth.

MENDAX.

See yonder goes old Mendax, telling lies To that good easy man with whom he's walking; How know I that? you ask, with some surprise; Why, don't you see, my friend, the fellow's talking.

THE BAD-WIFE.

SAVANS have decided, that search the globe round, One only bad wife in the world can be found; The worst of it is, as her name is not known, Not a husband but swears that bad wife is his own.

THE DEAD MISER.

From the grave where dead Gripeall, the miser, reposes, What a villainous odor invades all our noses! It can't be his BODY alone--in the hole They have certainly buried the usurer's SOUL.

ON FELL.

While Fell was reposing himself on the hay, A reptile conceal'd bit his leg as he lay; But all venom himself, of the wound he made light, And got well, while the scorpion died of the bite.

THE BAD ORATOR.

So vile your grimace, and so croaking your speech, One scarcely can tell if you're laughing or crying; Were you fix'd on one's funeral sermon to preach, The bare apprehension would keep one from dying.

THE WISE CHILD.

How plain your little darling says "Mamma," But still she calls you "Doctor," not "Papa." One thing is clear: your conscientious rib Has not yet taught the pretty dear to fib.

SPECIMEN OF THE LACONIC.

"Be less prolix," says Grill. I like advice-- "Grill, you're an ass!" Now surely that's concise.

CUPID AND MERCURY, OR THE BARGAIN.

Sly Cupid late with Maia's son Agreed to live as friend and brother; In proof, his bow and shafts the one Chang'd for the well-fill'd purse of t'other. And now, the transfer duly made, Together through the world they rove; The thieving god in arms array'd, And gold the panoply of love!

FRITZ.

Quoth gallant Fritz, "I ran away To fight again another day." The meaning of his speech is plain, He only fled to fly again.

ON DORILIS.

That Dorilis thus, on her lap as he lies, Should kiss little Pompey, excites no surprise; But the lapdog whom thus she keeps fondling and praising, Licks her face in return--that I own is amazing!

TO A SLOW WALKER AND QUICK EATER.

So slowly you walk, and so quickly you eat, You should march with your mouth, and devour with your feet.

ON TWO BEAUTIFUL ONE-EYED SISTERS

Give up one eye, and make your sister's two, Venus she then would be, and Cupid you.

THE PER-CONTRA, OR MATRIMONIAL BALANCE

How strange, a deaf wife to prefer! True, but she's also dumb, good sir.

EPIGRAMS S. T. COLERIDGE.

AN EXPECTORATION, Or Spienetic Extempore, on my joyful departure from the city of Cologne.

As I am rhymer, And now, at least, a merry one, Mr. Mum's Eudesheimer, And the church of St. Geryon, Are the two things alone, That deserve to be known, In the body-and-soul-stinking town of Cologne.

EXPECTORATION THE SECOND.

In Clon, the town of monks and bones, And pavements fanged with murderous stones, And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches, I counted two-and-seventy stenches, All well defined and separate stinks! Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, The river Rhine, it is well known, Doth wash your city of Cologne. But tell me, nymphs, what power divine Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?

TO A LADY, Offended by a sportive observation that women have no souls.

Nay, dearest Anna, why so grave? I said you had no soul,'tis true, For what you ARE you can not HAVE; 'Tis I that have one since I first had you.

AVARO. [STOLEN FROM LESSING.]

There comes from old Avaro's grave A deadly stench--why sure they have Immured his SOUL within his grave.

BEELZEBUB AND JOB.

Sly Beelzebub took all occasions To try Job's constancy and patience. He took his honor, took his health, He took his children, took his wealth, His servants, oxen, horses, cows-- But cunning Satan did not take his spouse.

But Heaven, that brings out good from evil, And loves to disappoint the devil, Had predetermined to restore Twofold all he had before; His servants, horses, oxen, cows-- Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse!

SENTIMENTAL.

The rose that blushes like the morn, Bedecks the valleys low: And so dost thou, sweet infant corn, My Angelina's toe.

But on the rose there grows a thorn, That breeds disastrous woe: And so dost thou, remorseless corn, On Angelina's toe.

AN ETERNAL POEM.

Your poem must ETERNAL be, Dear sir, it can not fail, For 'tis incomprehensible, And wants both head and tail.

BAD POETS.

Swans sing before they die--'t were no bad thing; Did certain persons die before they sing.

TO MR. ALEXANDRE, THE VENTRILOQUIST. SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Of yore, in Old England, it was not thought good, To carry two visages under one hood: What should folks say to YOU? who have faces so plenty, That from under one hood you last night showed us twenty! Stand forth, arch deceiver, and tell us in truth, Are you handsome or ugly, in age or in youth? Man, woman or child--a dog or a mouse? Or are you, at once, each live thing in the house? Each live thing did I ask?--each dead implement too, A workshop in your person--saw, chisel, and screw! Above all, are you one individual?--I know You must be, at least, Alexandre and Co. But I think you're a troop, an assemblage, a mob, And that I, as the sheriff, should take up the job: And, instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse, Must read you the riot-act, and bid you disperse!

THE SWALLOWS. R. BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. The Prince of Wales came into Brooke's one day, and complained of cold, but after drinking three glasses of brandy and water, said he felt comfortable.

The prince came in and said't was cold, Then put to his head the rummer, Till SWALLOW after SWALLOW came, When he pronounced it summer.

FRENCH AND ENGLISH. ERSKINE

The French have taste in all they do, Which we are quite without; For Nature, that to them gave GOUT To us gave only gout.

EPIGRAMS BY THOMAS MOORE.

TO SIR HUDSON LOWE.

Sir Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson LOW (By name, and ah! by nature so), As thou art fond of persecutions, Perhaps thou'st read, or heard repeated, How Captain Gulliver was treated, When thrown among the Lilliputians.

They tied him down-these little men did-- And having valiantly ascended Upon the Mighty Man's protuberance, They did so strut!--upon my soul, It must have been extremely droll To see their pigmy pride's exuberance!

And how the doughty mannikins Amused themselves with sticking pins And needles in the great man's breeches; And how some VERY little things, That pass'd for Lords, on scaffoldings Got up and worried him with speeches.

Alas! alas! that it should happen To mighty men to be caught napping!-- Though different, too, these persecutions For Gulliver, THERE, took the nap, While, HERE, the NAP, oh sad mishap, Is taken by the Lilliputians!

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.

Said his Highness to NED, with that grim face of his, "Why refuse us the VETO, dear Catholic NEDDY?"-- "Because, sir" said NED, looking full in his phiz, "You're FORBIDDING enough, in all conscience, already!"

TO MISS -----

With woman's form and woman's tricks So much of man you seem to mix, One knows not where to take you; I pray you, if 'tis not too far, Go, ask of Nature WHICH you are, Or what she meant to make you.

Yet stay--you need not take the pains With neither beauty, youth, nor brains, For man or maid's desiring: Pert as female, fool as male, As boy too green, as girl too stale The thing's not worth inquiring!

TO -----

Die when you will, you need not wear At heaven's court a form more fair Than Beauty here on earth has given; Keep but the lovely looks we see The voice we hear and you will be An angel READY-MADE for heaven!

UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN.

Between Adam and me the great difference is, Though a paradise each has been forced to resign, That he never wore breeches till turn'd out of his, While, for want of my breeches, I'm banish'd from mine

WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?

QUEST.-Why is a Pump like Viscount CASTLEREAGH? ANSW.-Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout, and spout, and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!

FROM THE FRENCH.

Of all the men one meets about, There's none like Jack--he's everywhere: At church--park--auction--dinner--rout-- Go when and where you will, he's there. Try the West End, he's at your back-- Meets you, like Eurus, in the East-- You're call'd upon for "How do, Jack?" One hundred times a-day, at least. A friend of his one evening said, As home he took his pensive way, "Upon my soul, I fear Jack's dead-- I've seen him but three times to-day!"

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life, There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake-- It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife."-- "Why, so it is, father--whose wife shall I take?"

THE SURPRISE.

Doloris, I swear, by all I ever swore, That from this hour I shall not love thee more.-- "What! love no more? Oh! why this alter'd vow? Because I CAN NOT love thee MORE--than NOW!"

ON ----.

Like a snuffers, this loving old dame, By a destiny grievous enough, Though so oft she has snapp'd at the flame, Hath never more than the snuff.

ON A SQUINTING POETESS.

To no ONE Muse does she her glance confine, But has an eye, at once to ALL THE NINE!

ON A TUET-HUNTER.

Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard, Put mourning round thy page, Debrett, For here lies one, who ne'er preferr'd A Viscount to a Marquis yet.

Beside his place the God of Wit, Before him Beauty's rosiest girls, Apollo for a STAR he'd quit, And Love's own sister for an Earl's.

Did niggard fate no peers afford, He took, of course, to peers' relations; And, rather than not sport a lord, Put up with even the last creations.

Even Irish names, could he but tag 'em With "Lord" and "Duke," were sweet to call, And, at a pinch, Lord Ballyraggum Was better than no Lord at all.

Heaven grant him now some noble nook, For, rest his soul, he'd rather be Genteelly damn'd beside a Duke, Than saved in vulgar company.

THE KISS.

Give me, my love, that billing kiss I taught you one delicious night, When, turning epicures in bliss, We tried inventions of delight.

Come, gently steal my lips along, And let your lips in murmurs move Ah, no!--again--that kiss was wrong How can you be so dull, my love?

"Cease, cease!" the blushing girl replied And in her milky arms she caught me "How can you thus your pupil chide; You know 'T WAS IN THE DARK you taught me!"

EPITAPH ON A WELL-KNOWN POET--(ROBERT SOUTHEY.)

Beneath these poppies buried deep, The bones of Bob the bard lie hid; Peace to his manes; and may he sleep As soundly as his readers did!

Through every sort of verse meandering, Bob went without a hitch or fall, Through Epic, Sapphic, Alexandrine, To verse that was no verse at all;

Till fiction having done enough, To make a bard at least absurd, And give his readers QUANTUM SUFF., He took to praising George the Third: And now, in virtue of his crown, Dooms us, poor whigs, at once to slaughter, Like Donellan of bad renown, Poisoning us all with laurel-water.

And yet at times some awkward qualms he Felt about leaving honor's track; And though he's got a butt of Malmsey, It may not save him from a sack.

Death, weary of so dull a writer, Put to his works a FINIS thus. Oh! may the earth on him lie lighter Than did his quartos upon us!

WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK, Called the "Book of Follies."

This journal of folly's an emblem of me; But what book shall we find emblematic of thee? Oh! shall we not say thou art LOVE'S DUODECIMO? None can be prettier, few can be less, you know. Such a volume in SHEETS were a volume of charms; Or if BOUND, it should only be BOUND IN OUR ARMS!

THE RABBINICAL ORIGIN OF WOMEN.

They tell us that Woman was made of a rib Just pick'd from a corner so snug in the side; But the Rabbins swear to you that this is a fib, And 't was not so at all that the sex was supplied.

For old Adam was fashion'd, the first of his kind, With a tail like a monkey, full a yard and a span; And when Nature cut off this appendage behind, Why--then woman was made of the tail of the man.

If such is the tie between women and men, The ninny who weds is a pitiful elf; For he takes to his tail, like an idiot, again, And makes a most damnable ape of himself!

Yet, if we may judge as the fashions prevail, Every husband remembers the original plan, And, knowing his wife is no more than his tail, Why--he leaves her behind him as much as he can.

ANACREONTIQUE.

Press the grape, and let it pour Around the board its purple shower; And while the drops my goblet steep, I'll think--in WOE the clusters weep.

Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine! Heaven grant no tears but tears of wine. Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow, I'll taste the LUXURY OF WOE!

SPECULATION.

Of all speculations the market holds forth, The best that I know for a lover of pelf, Is to buy --- up at the price he is worth, And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.

ON BUTLER'S MONUMENT. REV. SAMUEL WESLEY.

While Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive, No generous patron would a dinner give. See him, when starved to death and turn'd to dust, Presented with a monumental bust. The poet's fate is here in emblem shown-- He ask'd for BREAD, and he received a STONE.

ON THE DISAPPOINTMENT OF THE WHIG ASSOCIATES OP THE PRINCE REGENT, AT NOT OBTAINING OFFICE. CHARLES LAMB.

Ye politicians, tell me, pray, Why thus with woe and care rent? This is the worst that you can say, Some wind has blown the wig away, And left the HAIR APPARENT.

TO PROFESSOR AIREY, On his marrying a beautiful woman. SIDNEY SMITH

Airey alone has gained that double prize, Which forced musicians to divide the crown; His works have raised a mortal to the skies, His marriage-vows have drawn a mortal down.

ON LORD DUDLEY AND WARD. SAMUEL ROGERS

"They say Ward has no heart, but I deny it; He has a heart--and gets his speeches by it."

EPIGRAMS OF LORD BYRON.

TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING "'SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, 'AND YET NO TEAR.'"

Thy verse is "sad" enough, no doubt, A devilish deal more sad than witty! Why should we weep, I can't find out, Unless for THEE we weep in pity.

Yet there is one I pity more, And much, alas! I think he needs it-- For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore, Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.

The rhymes, without the aid of magic, May ONCE be read--but never after; Yet their effect's by no means tragic, Although by far too dull for laughter.

But would you make our bosoms bleed, And of no common pang complain? If you would make us weep indeed, Tell us you'll read them o'er again.

WINDSOR POETICS.

On the Prince Regent being seen standing between the coffins of Henry VIII. and Charles I, in the royal vault at Windsor.

Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies; Between them stands another sceptered thing-- It moves, it reigns--in all but name, a king; Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, --In him the double tyrant starts to life; Justice and death have mixed their dust in vain, Each royal vampyre wakes to life again. Ah! what can tombs avail, since these disgorge The blood and dust of both to mold a George?

ON A CARRIER WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS.

John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, A carrier who carried his can to his mouth well; He carried so much, and he carried so fast, He could carry no more--so was carried at last; For the liquor he drank, being too much for one, He could not carry off--so he's now carriON.

EPIGRAMS OF BARHAM.

ON THE WINDOWS OF KING'S COLLEGE REMAINING BOARDED.

Loquitur Discipulus Esuriens.

Professors, in your plan there seems A something not quite right: 'Tis queer to cherish learning's beams By shutting out the light.

While thus we see your windows block'd, If nobody complains; Yet everybody must be shock'd, To see you don't take pains.

And tell me why should bodily Succumb to mental meat? Or why should Pi-ra, Beta Pi-ra, Pi-c, Be all the pie we eat?

No HELLUO LIBRORUM I, No literary glutton, Would veal with Virgil like to try, With metaphysics, mutton.

Leave us no longer in the lurch, With Romans, Greeks, and Hindoos: But give us beef instead of birch, And BOARD US--not your windows.

NEW-MADE HONOR. [IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.]

A friend I met, some half hour since-- "GOOD-MORROW JACK!" quoth I; The new-made Knight, like any Prince, Frown'd, nodded, and pass'd by; When up came Jem--"Sir John, your slave!" "Ah, James; we dine at eight-- Fail not--(low bows the supple knave) Don't make my lady wait." The king can do no wrong? As I'm a sinner, He's spoilt an honest tradesman and my dinner.

EHEU FUGACES.

What Horace says is, Eheu fugaces Anni labunter, Postume, Postume! Years glide away, and are lost to me, lost to me I Now, when the folks in the dance sport their merry toes, Taglionis, and Ellslers, Duvernays and Ceritos, Sighing, I murmur, "O mihi praeteritos !"

ANONYMOUS EPIGRAMS

ON A PALE LADY WITH A RED-NOSED HUSBAND.

Whence comes it that, in Clara's face, The lily only has its place? Is it because the absent rose Has gone to paint her husband's nose?

UPON POPE'S TRANSLATION OF HOMER

So much, dear Pope, thy English Homer charms, As pity melts us, or as passion warms, That after ages will with wonder seek Who 'twas translated Homer into Greek.

RECIPE FOR A MODERN BONNET.

Two scraps of foundation, some fragments of lace, A shower of French rose-buds to droop o'er the face; Fine ribbons and feathers, with crage and illusions, Then mix and DErange them in graceful confusion; Inveigle some fairy, out roaming for pleasure, And beg the slight favor of taking her measure, The length and the breadth of her dear little pate, And hasten a miniature frame to create; Then pour, as above, the bright mixture upon it, And lo! you possess "such a love of a bonnet!"

MY WIFE AND I

As my wife and I, at the window one day, Stood watching a man with a monkey, A cart came by, with a "broth of a boy," Who was driving a stout little donkey. To my wife I then spoke, by way of a joke, "There's a relation of yours in that carriage." To which she replied, as the donkey she spied, "Ah, yes, a relation--BY MARRIAGE!"

ON TWO GENTLEMEN,

One of whom, O'Connell, delayed a duel on the plea of his wife's illness; the other declined on account of the illness of his daughter.

Some men, with a horror of slaughter, Improve on the Scripture command, And honor their wife and their daughter, That their days may be long in the land.

WELLINGTON'S NOSE.

"Pray, why does the great Captain's nose Resemble Venice?" Duncomb cries. "Why," quoth Sam Rogers, "I suppose. Because it has a bridge of size (sighs)."

THE SMOKER.

All dainty meats I do defy Which feed men fat as swine, He is a frugal man indeed That on a leaf can dine! He needs no napkin for his hands, His finger's ends to wipe, That keeps his kitchen in a box, And roast meat in his pipe!

AN ESSAY ON THE UNDERSTANDING.

"Harry, I can not think," says Dick, "What makes my ANKLES grow so thick:" "You do not recollect," says Harry, "How great a CALF they have to carry."

TO A LIVING AUTHOR.

Your comedy I've read, my friend, And like the half you pilfer'd best; But sure the piece you yet may mend: Take courage, man! and steal the rest.

EPIGRAMS BY THOMAS HOOD.

ON THE ART-UNIONS.

That picture-raffles will conduce to nourish Design, or cause good coloring to flourish, Admits of logic-chopping and wise sawing, But surely lotteries encourage drawing.

THE SUPERIORITY OF MACHINERY.

A mechanic his labor will often discard If the rate of his pay he dislikes: But a clock--and its case is uncommonly hard-- Will continue to work though it STRIKES.

EPIGRAMS BY W. SAVAGE LANDOR

ON OBSERVING A VULGAR NAME ON THE PLINTH OF AN ANCIENT STATUE.

Barbarians must we always be? Wild hunters in pursuit of fame? Must there be nowhere stone or tree Ungashed with some ignoble name. O Venus! in thy Tuscan dome May every god watch over thee! Apollo I bend thy bow o'er Rome, And guard thy sister's chastity. Let Britons paint their bodies blue As formerly, but touch not you.

LYING IN STATE.

Now from the chamber all are gone Who gazed and wept o'er Wellington; Derby and Dis do all they can To emulate so great a man: If neither can be quite so great, Resolved is each to LIE IN STATE.

EPIGRAMS FROM PUNCH.

THE CAUSE.

Lisette has lost her wanton wiles-- What secret care consumes her youth, And circumscribes her smiles?-- A SPECK ON A FRONT TOOTH?

IRISH PARTICULAR.

Shiel's oratory's like bottled Dublin stout-- For, draw the cork, and only froth comes out.

ONE GOOD TURN DESERVES ANOTHER

A poor man went to hang himself, But treasure chanced to find: He pocketed the miser's pelf And left the rope behind.

His money gone, the miser hung Himself in sheer despair: Thus each the other's wants supplied, And that was surely fair.

STICKY.

I'm going to seal a letter, Dick, Some WAX pray give to me. I have not got a SINGLE STICK, Or WHACKS I'd give to thee.

THE POET FOILED.

To win the maid the poet tries, And sometimes writes to Julia's eye She likes a VERSE--but, cruel whim, She still appears A-VERSE to him.

BLACK AND WHITE

The Tories vow the Whigs are black as night, And boast that they are only blessed with light. Peel's politics to both sides so incline, His may be called the EQUINOCTIAL LINE.

INQUEST--NOT EXTRAORDINARY.

Great Bulwer's works fell on Miss Basbleu's head, And, in a moment, lo! the maid was dead! A jury sat, and found the verdict plain-- She died of MILK and WATER ON THE BRAIN.

DOMESTIC ECONOMY.

Said Stiggins to his wife, one day, "We've nothing left to eat; If things go on in this queer way, We shan't make BOTH ENDS MEET."

The dame replied, in words discreet, "We're not so badly fed, If we can make but ONE end MEAT, And make the other BREAD."

ON SEEING AN EXECUTION.

One morn, two friends before the Newgate drop, To see a culprit throttled, chanced to stop: "Alas!" cried one, as round in air he spun, "That miserable wretch's RACE IS RUN." "True," said the other, drily, "to his cost, The race is run--but, by a NECK 'tis lost."

A VOICE, AND NOTHING ELSE.

"I wonder if Brougham thinks as much as he talks," Said a punster, perusing a trial: "I vow, since his lordship was made Baron Vaux, He's been VAUX ET PRAETEREA NIHIL!"

THE AMENDE HONORABLE.

Quoth Will, "On that young servant-maid My heart its life-string stakes." "Quite safe!" cries Dick, "don't be afraid-- She pays for all she breaks."

THE CZAR.

CZAR NICHOLAS is so devout, they say, His majesty does nothing else than prey.

BAS BLEU.

Ma'amselle Bas Bleu, erudite virgin, With learned zeal is ever urging The love and reverence due From modern men to things antique, Egyptian, British, Roman, Greek, Relic of Gaul or Jew.

No wonder that, Ma'amselle, the love Due to antiquity to prove And urge is ever prone; She knows where'er there cease to be Admirers of Antiquity, She needs must lose her own!

TO A RICH YOUNG WIDOW.

I will not ask if thou canst touch The tuneful ivory key? Those silent notes of thine are such As quite suffice for me.

I'll make no question if thy skill The pencil comprehends, Enough for me, love, if thou still Canst draw thy dividends!

THE RAILWAY OP LIFE.

Short was the passage through this earthly vale, By turnpike roads when mortals used to wend; But now we travel by the way of rail, As soon again we reach the journey's end.

A CONJUGAL CONUNDRUM.

Which is of greater value, prythee, say, The Bride or Bridegroom?--must the truth be told? Alas, it must! The Bride is given away-- The Bridegroom's often regularly sold.

NUMBERS ALTERED.

The lounger must oft, as he walks through the streets, Be struck with the grace of some girl that he meets; So graceful behind in dress--ringlets--all that-- But one gaze at the front--what a horrid old cat! You then think of the notice you've seen on a door, Which informs you, of "70 late 24."

GRAMMAR FOR THE COURT OF BERLIN

His majesty you should not say of FRITZ, That king is neuter; so for HIS, use ITS.

THE EMPTY BOTTLE. WILLIAM AYTOUN

Ah, liberty! how like thou art To this large bottle lying here, Which yesterday from foreign mart, Came filled with potent English beer!

A touch of steel--a hand--a gush-- A pop that sounded far and near-- A wild emotion--liquid rush-- And I had drunk that English beer!

And what remains?--An empty shell! A lifeless form both sad and queer, A temple where no god doth dwell-- The simple memory of beer!

THE DEATH OF DOCTOR MORRISON. BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY.

What's the news?--Why, they say Death has killed Dr. Morrison. The Pill-maker? Yes. Then Death will be sorry soon.

EPIGRAMS BY JOHN G. SAXE.

ON A RECENT CLASSIC CONTROVERSY.

Nay, marvel not to see these scholars fight, In brave disdain of certain scath and scar; 'Tis but the genuine, old, Hellenic spite,-- "When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war!"

ANOTHER.

Quoth David to Daniel--"Why is it these scholars Abuse one another whenever they speak?" Quoth Daniel to David--"it nat'rally follers Folks come to hard words if they meddle with Greek!"

ON AN ILL-READ LAWYER.

An idle attorney besought a brother For "something to read--some novel or other, That was really fresh and new." "Take Chitty!" replied his legal friend, "There isn't a book that I could lend Would prove more 'novel' to you!"

ON AN UGLY PERSON SITTING FOR A DAGUERREOTYPE

Here Nature in her glass--the wanton elf-- Sits gravely making faces at herself; And while she scans each clumsy feature o'er, Repeats the blunders that she made before!

WOMAN'S WILL.

Men dying make their wills--but wives Escape a work so sad; Why should they make what all their lives The gentle dames have had?

FAMILY QUARRELS.

"A fool," said Jeanette, "is a creature I hate!" "But hating," quoth John, "is immoral; Besides, my dear girl, it's a terrible fate To be found in a family quarrel!"

A REVOLUTIONARY HERO. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

Old Joe is gone, who saw hot Percy goad His slow artillery up the Concord road, A tale which grew in wonder year by year; As every time he told it, Joe drew near To the main fight, till faded and grown gray, The original scene to bolder tints gave way; Then Joe had heard the foe's scared double-quick Beat on stove drum with one uncaptured stick, And, ere death came the lengthening tale to lop, Himself had fired, and seen a red-coat drop; Had Joe lived long enough, that scrambling fight Had squared more nearly to his sense of right, And vanquished Perry, to complete the tale, Had hammered stone for life in Concord jail.

EPIGRAMS OF HALPIN

THE LAST RESORT.

A dramatist declared he had got So many people in his plot, That what to do with half he had Was like to drive him drama-mad! "The hero and the heroine Of course are married--very fine! But with the others, what to do Is more than I can tell--can you?" His friend replied--"'Tis hard to say, But yet I think there is a way. The married couple, thank their stars And half the 'others' take the cars, The other half you put on board An Erie steamboat--take my word, They'll never trouble you again!" The dramatist resumed his pen.

FEMININE ARITHMETIC.

LAURA.

On me he shall ne'er put a ring, So, mamma, 'tis in vain to take trouble-- For I was but eighteen in spring, While his age exactly is double.

MAMMA

He's but in his thirty-sixth year, Tall, handsome, good-natured and witty, And should you refuse him, my dear, May you die an old maid without pity!

LAURA

His figure, I grant you, will pass, And at present he's young enough plenty; But when I am sixty, alas! Will not he be a hundred and twenty?

THE MUSHROOM HUNT.

In early days, ere Common Sense And Genius had in anger parted, They made to friendship some pretense, Though each, Heaven knows! diversely hearted. To hunt for mushrooms once they went, Through nibbled sheepwalks straying onward, Sense with his dull eyes earthward bent, While Genius shot his glances sunward! Away they go! On roll the hours, And toward the west the day-god edges; See! Genius holds a wreath of flowers, Fresh culled from all the neighboring hedges! Alas! ere eve their bright hues flit, While Common Sense (whom I so doat on!) Thanked God "that he had little wit," And drank his ketchup with his mutton.

JUPITER AMANS. DEDICATED TO VICTOR HUGO. LONDON LEADER

"Le petit" call not him who by one act Has turned old fable into modern fact Nap Louis courted Europe: Europe shied: Th' imperial purple was too newly dyed. "I'll have her though," thought he, "by rape or rapine; Jove nods sometimes, but catch a Nap a napping! And now I think of Jove, 't was Jove's own fix, And so I'll borrow one of Jove's own tricks: Old itching Palm I'll tickle with a joke, And he shall lend me England's decent cloak." 'Twas said and done, and his success was full; He won Europa with the guise of Bull!

THE ORATOR'S EPITAPH. LORD BROUGHAM.

"Here, reader, turn your weeping eyes, My fate a useful moral teaches; The hole in which my body lies Would not contain one-half my speeches."

ECCENTRIC AND NONDESCRIPT.

THE JOVIAL PRIEST'S CONFESSION. TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF WALTER DE MAPES, TIME OF HENRY II. LEIGH HUNT.

I devise to end my days--in a tavern drinking, May some Christian hold for me--the glass when I am shrinking. That the cherubim may cry--when they see me sinking, God be merciful to a soul--of this gentleman's way of thinking. A glass of wine amazingly--enlighteneth one's intervals; 'Tis wings bedewed with nectar--that fly up to supernals; Bottles cracked in taverns--have much the sweeter kernels, Than the sups allowed to us--in the college journals.

Every one by nature hath--a mold which he was cast in; I happen to be one of those--who never could write fasting; By a single little boy--I should be surpass'd in Writing so: I'd just as lief--be buried; tomb'd and grass'd in.

Every one by nature hath--a gift too, a dotation: I, when I make verses--do get the inspiration Of the very best of wine--that comes into the nation: It maketh sermons to astound--for edification.

Just as liquor floeth good--floweth forth my lay so; But I must moreover eat--or I could not say so; Naught it availeth inwardly--should I write all day so; But with God's grace after meat--I beat Ovidius Naso.

Neither is there given to me--prophetic animation, Unless when I have eat and drank--yea, ev'n to saturation, Then in my upper story--hath Bacchus domination And Phoebus rushes into me, and beggareth all relation.

TONIS AD RESTO MARE. ANONYMOUS

AIR--"Oh, Mary, heave a sigh for me."

O MARE aeva si forme; Forme ure tonitru; Iambicum as amandum, Olet Hymen promptu; Mihi is vetas an ne se, As humano erebi; Olet mecum marito te, Or eta beta pi.

Alas, plano more meretrix, Mi ardor vel uno; Inferiam ure artis base, Tolerat me urebo. Ah me ve ara silicet, Vi laudu vimin thus? Hiatu as arandum sex-- Illuc Ionicus.

Heu sed heu vix en imago, My missis mare sta; O cantu redit in mihi Hibernas arida? A veri vafer heri si, Mihi resolves indu: Totius olet Hymen cum-- Accepta tonitru.

DIC. DEAN SWIFT.

Dic, heris agro at, an da quar to fine ale, Fora ringat ure nos, an da stringat ure tale. [Footnote: Dick, here is a groat, a quart o' fine ale. For a ring at your nose, and a string at your tail.]

MOLL. DEAN SWIFT.

Mollis abuti, Has an acuti, No lasso finis, Molli divinis. [Footnote: Moll is a beauty, Has an acute eye; No lass so fine is, Molly divine is.]

TO MY MISTRESS. DEAN SWIFT.

O mi de armis tres, Imi na dis tres. Cantu disco ver Meas alo ver? [Footnote: O my dear mistress I am in a distress. Can't you discover Me as a lover?]

A LOVE SONG. DEAN SWIFT.

Apud in is almi de si re, Mimis tres I ne ver re qui re, Alo veri findit a gestis, His miseri ne ver at restis. [Footnote: A pudding is all my desire, My mistress I never require; A lover I find it a jest is, His misery never at rest is.]

A GENTLE ECHO ON WOMAN.

IN THE DORIC MANNER. DEAN SWIFT.

Shepherd. Echo, I ween, will in the woods reply, And quaintly answer questions: shall I try? Echo. Try. Shepherd. What must we do our passion to express? Echo. Press. Shepherd. How shall I please her, who ne'er loved before? Echo. Before. Shepherd. What most moves women when we them address? Echo. A dress. Shepherd. Say, what can keep her chaste whom I adore? Echo. A door. Shepherd. If music softens rocks, love tunes my lyre. Echo. Liar. Shepherd. Then teach me, Echo, how shall I come by her? Echo. Buy her. Shepherd. When bought, no question I shall be her dear? Echo. Her deer. Shepherd. But deer have horns: how must I keep her under? Echo. Keep her under. Shepherd. But what can glad me when she's laid on bier? Echo. Beer. Shepherd. What must I do when women will be kind? Echo. Be kind. Shepherd. What must I do when women will be cross? Echo. Be cross. Shepherd. Lord, what is she that can so turn and wind? Echo. Wind. Shepherd. If she be wind, what stills her when she blows? Echo. Blows. Shepherd. But if she bang again, still should I bang her? Echo. Bang her. Shepherd. Is there no way to moderate her anger? Echo. Hang her. Shepherd. Thanks, gentle Echo! right thy answers tell What woman is and how to guard her well. Echo. Guard her well.

TO MY NOSE. ANONYMOUS.

Knows he that never took a pinch, Nosey! the pleasure thence which flows? Knows he the titillating joy Which my nose knows?

Oh, nose! I am as fond of thee As any mountain of its snows! I gaze on thee, and feel that pride A Roman knows!

ROGER AND DOLLY. BLACKWOOD.

Young Roger came tapping at Dolly's window-- Thumpaty, thumpaty, thump; He begg'd for admittance--she answered him no-- Glumpaty, glumpaty, glump. No, no, Roger, no--as you came you may go-- Stumpaty, stumpaty, stump. O what is the reason, dear Dolly? he cried-- Humpaty, humpaty, hump-- That thus I'm cast off and unkindly denied?-- Trumpaty, trumpaty, trump-- Some rival more dear, I guess, has been here-- Crumpaty, crumpaty, crump-- Suppose there's been two, sir, pray what's that to you, sir Numpaty, numpaty, nump-- Wi' a disconsolate look his sad farewell he took-- Trumpaty, trumputy, trump-- And all in despair jump'd into a brook-- Jumpaty, jumpaty, jump-- His courage did cool in a filthy green pool-- Slumpaty, slumpaty, slump-- So he swam to the shore, but saw Dolly no more-- Dumpaty, dumpaty, dump-- He did speedily find one more fat and more kind-- Plumpaty, plumpaty, plump-- But poor Dolly's afraid she must die an old maid-- Mumpaty, mumpaty, mump.

THE IRISHMAN. BLACKWOOD.

I.

There was a lady lived at Leith, A lady very stylish, man, And yet, in spite of all her teeth, She fell in love with an Irishman, A nasty, ugly Irishman, A wild tremendous Irishman, A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, roaring Irishman.

II.

His face was no ways beautiful, For with small-pox 't was scarred across: And the shoulders of the ugly dog Were almost doubled a yard across. O the lump of an Irishman, The whiskey devouring Irishman-- The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue, the fighting, rioting Irishman.

III.

One of his eyes was bottle green, And the other eye was out, my dear; And the calves of his wicked-looking legs Were more than two feet about, my dear, O, the great big Irishman, The rattling, battling Irishman-- The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering swash of an Irishman.

IV.

He took so much of Lundy-foot, That he used to snort and snuffle--O, And in shape and size the fellow's neck Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. O, the horrible Irishman, The thundering, blundering Irishman-- The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, hashing Irishman.

V.

His name was a terrible name, indeed, Being Timothy Thady Mulligan; And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch, He'd not rest till he fill'd it full again, The boozing, bruising Irishman, The 'toxicated Irishman-- The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, no dandy Irishman.

VI.

This was the lad the lady loved, Like all the girls of quality; And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, Just by the way of jollity, O, the leathering Irishman, The barbarous, savage Irishman-- The hearts of the maids and the gentlemen's heads were bothered I'm sure by this Irishman.

A _CAT_ALECTIC MONODY! CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS.

A CAT I sing, of famous memory, Though CATachrestical my song may be; In a small garden CATacomb she lies, And CATaclysms fill her comrades' eyes; Borne on the air, the CATacoustic song Swells with her virtues' CATalogue along; No CATaplasm could lengthen out her years, Though mourning friends shed CATaracts of tears. Once loud and strong her CATachist-like voice It dwindled to a CATcall's squeaking noise; Most CATegorical her virtues shone, By CATenation join'd each one to one;-- But a vile CATchpoll dog, with cruel bite, Like CATling's cut, her strength disabled quite; Her CATerwauling pierced the heavy air, As CATaphracts their arms through legions bear; 'Tis vain! as CATerpillars drag away Their lengths, like CATtle after busy day, She ling'ring died, nor left in kit KAT the Embodyment of this CATastrophe.

A NEW SONG OF NEW SIMILES. JOHN BAY

My passion is as mustard strong; I sit all sober sad; Drunk as a piper all day long, Or like a March-hare mad.

Round as a hoop the bumpers flow; I drink, yet can't forget her; For though as drunk as David's sow I love her still the better.

Pert as a pear-monger I'd be, If Molly were but kind; Cool as a cucumber could see The rest of womankind.

Like a stuck pig I gaping stare, And eye her o'er and o'er; Lean as a rake, with sighs and care, Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was I known, And soft as silk my skin; My cheeks as fat as butter grown, But as a goat now thin!

I melancholy as a cat, Am kept awake to weep; But she, insensible of that, Sound as a top can sleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone, She laughs to see me pale; And merry as a grig is grown, And brisk as bottled ale.

The god of Love at her approach Is busy as a bee; Hearts sound as any bell or roach, Are smit and sigh like me.

Ah me! as thick as hops or hail The fine men crowd about her; But soon as dead as a door-nail Shall I be, if without her.

Straight as my leg her shape appears, O were we join'd together! My heart would be scot-free from cares And lighter than a feather.

As fine as five-pence is her mien, No drum was ever tighter; Her glance is as the razor keen, And not the sun is brighter

As soft as pap her kisses are, Methinks I taste them yet; Brown as a berry is her hair, Her eyes as black as jet.

As smooth as glass, as white as curds Her pretty hand invites; Sharp as her needle are her words, Her wit like pepper bites.

Brisk as a body-louse she trips, Clean as a penny drest; Sweet as a rose her breath and lips, Round as the globe her breast.

Full as an egg was I with glee, And happy as a king: Good Lord! how all men envied me! She loved like any thing.

But false as hell, she, like the wind, Chang'd, as her sex must do; Though seeming as the turtle kind, And like the gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree, Let who would take Peru! Great as an Emperor should I be, And richer than a Jew.

Till you grow tender as a chick, I'm dull as any post; Let us like burs together stick, And warm as any toast.

You'll know me truer than a die, And wish me better sped; Flat as a flounder when I lie, And as a herring dead.

Sure as a gun she'll drop a tear And sigh, perhaps, and wish, When I am rotten as a pear, And mute as any fish.

REMINISCENCES OP A SENTIMENTALIST. THOMAS HOOD.

"My TABLES! MEAT it is, I SET IT down!"--Hamlet

I think it was Spring--but not certain I am-- When my passion began first to work; But I know we were certainly looking for lamb, And the season was over for pork.

'T was at Christmas, I think, when I met with Miss Chase, Yes--for Morris had asked me to dine-- And I thought I had never beheld such a face, Or so noble a turkey and chine.

Placed close by her side, it made others quite wild With sheer envy, to witness my luck; How she blushed as I gave her some turtle, and smiled As I afterward offered some duck.

I looked and I languished, alas! to my cost, Through three courses of dishes and meats; Getting deeper in love--but my heart was quite lost When it came to the trifle and sweets.

With a rent-roll that told of my houses and land, To her parents I told my designs-- And then to herself I presented my hand, With a very fine pottle of pines!

I asked her to have me for weal or for woe, And she did not object in the least;-- I can't tell the date--but we married I know Just in time to have game at the feast.

We went to ----, it certainly was the sea-side; For the next, the most blessed of morns, I remember how fondly I gazed at my bride, Sitting down to a plateful of prawns.

O, never may memory lose sight of that year, But still hallow the time as it ought! That season the "grass" was remarkably dear, And the peas at a guinea a quart.

So happy, like hours, all our days seemed to haste, A fond pair, such as poets have drawn, So united in heart--so congenial in taste-- We were both of us partial to brawn!

A long life I looked for of bliss with my bride, But then Death--I ne'er dreamt about that! O, there's nothing is certain in life, as I cried When my turbot eloped with the cat!

My dearest took ill at the turn of the year, But the cause no physician could nab; But something, it seemed like consumption, I fear-- It was just after supping on crab.

In vain she was doctored, in vain she was dosed, Still her strength and her appetite pined; She lost relish for what she had relished the most, Even salmon she deeply declined!

For months still I lingered in hope and in doubt, While her form it grew wasted and thin; But the last dying spark of existence went out. As the oysters were just coming in!

She died, and she left me the saddest of men, To indulge in a widower's moan; Oh! I felt all the power of solitude then, As I ate my first "natives" alone!

But when I beheld Virtue's friends in their cloaks, And with sorrowful crape on their hats, O my grief poured a flood! and the out-of-door folks Were all crying--I think it was sprats!

FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. A PATHETIC BALLAD. THOMAS HOOD.

Ben Battle was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms!

Now, as they bore him off the field, Said he, "Let others shoot, For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot!"

The army-surgeons made him limbs: Said he, "they're only pegs: But there's as wooden members quite As represent my legs!"

Now, Ben he loved a pretty maid, Her name was Nelly Gray; So he went up to pay his devours, When he devoured his pay!

But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden legs, Began to take them off!

"O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray Is this your love so warm? The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be more uniform!"

Said she, "I loved a soldier once For he was blithe and brave But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave!

"Before you had those timber toes, Your love I did allow, But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing now!"

"O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray! For all your jeering speeches, At duty's call I left my legs, In Badajos's BREACHES!"

"Why then," said she, "you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, And now you can not wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms!"

"O, false and fickle Nelly Gray! I know why you refuse:-- Though I've no feet--some other man Is standing in my shoes!

"I wish I ne'er had seen your face; But now, a long farewell! For you will be my death;--alas You will not be my NELL!"

Now, when he went from Nelly Gray, His heart so heavy got, And life was such a burden grown, It made him take a knot!

So round his melancholy neck A rope he did entwine, And, for his second time in life, Enlisted in the Line.

One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs, And, as his legs were off--of course, He soon was off his legs!

And there he hung, till he was dead As any nail in town-- For, though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down!

A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died-- And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a STAKE in his inside!

NO! THOMAS HOOD.

No sun--no moon! No morn--no noon-- No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day-- No sky--no earthly view-- No distance looking blue-- No road--no street--no "t' other side the way"-- No end to any Row-- No indications where the Crescents go-- No top to any steeple-- No recognitions of familiar people-- No courtesies for showing 'em-- No knowing 'em! To traveling at all--no locomotion, No inkling of the way--no notion-- No go--by land or ocean-- No mail--no post-- No news from any foreign coast-- No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility-- No company--no nobility-- No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member-- No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees. No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds. November!

JACOB OMNIUM'S HOSS A NEW PALLICE COURT CHANT. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

One sees in Viteall Yard, Vere pleacemen do resort. A wenerable hinstitute, 'Tis called the Pallis Court A gent as got his i on it, I think will make some sport

The natur of this Court My hindignation riles: A few fat legal spiders Here set & spin their viles; To rob the town theyr privlege is, In a hayrea of twelve miles.

The Judge of this year Court Is a mellitary beak. He knows no more of Lor Than praps he does of Greek, And prowides hisself a deputy Because he can not speak.

Four counsel in this Court-- Misnamed of Justice--sits; These lawyers owes their places to Their money, not their wits; And there's six attornies under them, As here their living gits.

These lawyers, six and four, Was a livin at their ease, A sendin of their writs abowt, And droring in the fees, When their erose a cirkimstance As is like to make a breeze. It now is some monce since, A gent both good and trew Possest a ansum oss vith vich He didn know what to do: Peraps he did not like the oss, Perhaps he was a scru.

This gentleman his oss At Tattersall's did lodge; There came a wulgar oss-dealer, This gentleman's name did fodge, And took the oss from Tattersall's: Wasn that a artful dodge?

One day this gentleman's groom This willain did spy out, A mounted on this oss, A ridin him about; "Get out of that there oss, you rogue," Speaks up the groom so stout.

The thief was cruel whex'd To find hisself so pinn'd; The oss began to whinny, The honest groom he grinn'd; And the raskle thief got off the oss And cut avay like vind.

And phansy with what joy The master did regard His dearly bluvd lost oss again Trot in the stable yard!

Who was this master good Of whomb I makes these rhymes? His name is Jacob Homnium, Exquire; And if I'd committed crimes, Good Lord! I wouldn't ave that mann Attack me in the TIMES!

Now, shortly after the groomb His master's oss did take up, There came a livery-man This gentleman to wake up; And he handed in a little bill, Which hanger'd Mr. Jacob.

For two pound seventeen This livery-man eplied, For the keep of Mr. Jacob's oss, Which the thief had took to ride. "Do you see any think green in me?" Mr. Jacob Homnium cried.

"Because a raskle chews My oss away to robb, And goes tick at your Mews For seven-and-fifty bobb, Shall I be called to pay?--It is A iniquitious Jobb."

Thus Mr. Jacob cut The conwasation short; The livery-man went ome, Detummingd to ave sport, And summingsd Jacob Homnium, Exquire, Into the Pallis Court

Pore Jacob went to Court, A Counsel for to fix, And choose a barrister out of the four, An attorney of the six; And there he sor these men of Lor, And watched 'em at their tricks. The dreadful day of trile In the Pallis Court did come; The lawyers said their say, The Judge looked wery glum, And then the British Jury cast Pore Jacob Hom-ni-um.

O, a weary day was that For Jacob to go through; The debt was two seventeen (Which he no mor owed than you). And then there was the plaintives costs, Eleven pound six and two.

And then there was his own, Which the lawyers they did fix At the wery moderit figgar Of ten pound one and six. Now Evins bless the Pallis Court, And all its bold ver-dicks!

I can not settingly tell If Jacob swaw and cust, At aving for to pay this sumb, But I should think he must, And av drawm a cheque for L24 4s. 8d. With most igstreme disgust.

O Pallis Court, you move My pitty most profound. A most emusing sport You thought it, I'll be bound, To saddle hup a three-pound debt, With two-and-twenty pound.

Good sport it is to you, To grind the honest pore; To puy their just or unjust debts With eight hundred per cent, for Lor; Make haste and git your costes in, They will not last much mor!

Come down from that tribewn, Thou Shameless and Unjust; Thou Swindle, picking pockets in The name of Truth, august; Come down, thou hoary Blasphemy, For die thou shalt and must.

And go it, Jacob Homnium, And ply your iron pen, And rise up Sir John Jervis, And shut me up that den; That sty for fattening lawyers in, On the bones of honest men.

PLEACEMAN X.

THE WOFLE NEW BALLAD OF JANE RONEY AND MARY BROWN. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

An igstrawnary tail I vill tell you this veek-- I stood in the Court of A'Beckett the Beak, Vere Mrs. Jane Roney, a vidow, I see, Who charged Mary Brown with a robbin' of she.

This Mary was pore and in misery once, And she came to Mrs. Roney it's more than twelve monce She adn't got no bed, nor no dinner, nor no tea, And kind Mrs. Roney gave Mary all three.

Mrs. Roney kep Mary for ever so many veeks (Her conduct disgusted the best of all Beax), She kept her for nothink, as kind as could be, Never thinking that this Mary was a traitor to she.

"Mrs. Roney, O Mrs. Roney, I feel very ill; Will you jest step to the doctor's for to fetch me a pill?" "That I will, my pore Mary," Mrs. Roney says she: And she goes off to the doctor's as quickly as may be.

No sooner on this message Mrs. Roney was sped, Than hup gits vicked Mary, and jumps out a bed; She hopens all the trunks without never a key-- She bustes all the boxes, and vith them makes free.

Mrs. Roney's best linning gownds, petticoats, and close, Her children's little coats and things, her boots and her hose, She packed them, and she stole 'em, and avay vith them did flee Mrs. Roney's situation--you may think vat it vould be!

Of Mary, ungrateful, who had served her this vay, Mrs. Roney heard nothink for a long year and a day, Till last Thursday, in Lambeth, ven whom should she see? But this Mary, as had acted so ungrateful to she.

She was leaning on the helbo of a worthy young man; They were going to be married, and were walkin hand in hand; And the church-bells was a ringing for Mary and he, And the parson was ready, and a waitin' for his fee.

When up comes Mrs. Roney, and faces Mary Brown, Who trembles, and castes her eyes upon the ground. She calls a jolly pleaseman, it happens to be me; I charge this young woman, Mr. Pleaseman, says she.

Mrs. Roney, o, Mrs. Roney, o, do let me go, I acted most ungrateful I own, and I know, But the marriage bell is a ringin, and the ring you may see, And this young man is a waitin, says Mary, says she.

I don't care three fardens for the parson and clark, And the bell may keep ringing from noon day to dark. Mary Brown, Mary Brown, you must come along with me. And I think this young man is lucky to be free.

So, in spite of the tears which bejewed Mary's cheek, I took that young gurl to A'Beckett the Beak; That exlent justice demanded her plea-- But never a sullable said Mary said she.

On account of her conduck so base and so vile, That wicked young gurl is committed for trile, And if she's transpawted beyond the salt sea, It's a proper reward for such willians as she.

Now, yon young gurls of Southwark for Mary who veep, From pickin and stealin your ands you must keep, Or it may be my dooty, as it was Thursday veek To pull you all hup to A'Beckett the Beak. PLEACEMAN X

THE BALLAD OF ELIZA DAVIS. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

Galliant gents and lovely ladies, List a tail vich late befel, Vich I heard it, bein on duty, At the Pleace Hoffice, Clerkenwell.

Praps you know the Fondling Chapel, Vere the little children sings: (Lord I likes to hear on Sundies Them there pooty little things!)

In this street there lived a housemaid, If you particklarly ask me where-- Vy, it was at four-and-tventy, Guilford Street, by Brunsvick Square

Vich her name was Eliza Davis, And she went to fetch the beer: In the street she met a party As was quite surprized to see her.

Vich he vas a British Sailor, For to judge him by his look: Tarry jacket, canvas trowsies, Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke.

Presently this Mann accostes Of this hinnocent young gal-- Pray, saysee, Excuse my freedom, You're so like my Sister Sal!

You're so like my Sister Sally, Both in valk and face and size; Miss, that--dang my old lee scuppers, It brings tears into my hyes!

I'm a mate on board a wessel, I'm a sailor bold and true; Shiver up my poor old timbers, Let me be a mate for you!

What's your name, my beauty, tell me? And she faintly hansers, "Lore, Sir, my name's Eliza Davis, And I live at tventy-four."

Hofttimes came this British seaman, This deluded gal to meet: And at tventy-four was welcome, Tventy-four in Guilford Street

And Eliza told her Master (Kinder they than Missuses are), How in marridge he had ast her, Like a galliant Brittish Tar.

And he brought his landlady vith him (Vich vas all his hartful plan), And she told how Charley Thompson Reely was a good young man.

And how she herself had lived in Many years of union sweet, Vith a gent she met promiskous, Valkin in the public street.

And Eliza listened to them, And she thought that soon their bands Vould be published at the Fondlin. Hand the clergyman jine their ands.

And he ast about the lodgers (Vich her master let some rooms), likevise vere they kep their things, and Vere her master kep his spoons.

Hand this vicked Charley Thompson Came on Sundy veek to see her, And he sent Eliza Davis Hout to vetch a pint of beer.

Hand while poor Eliza vent to Fetch the beer, devoid of sin, This etrocious Charley Thompson Let his wile accomplish him.

To the lodgers, their apartments, This abandingd female goes, Prigs their shirts and umberellas: Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes

Vile the scoundrle Charley Thompson, Lest his wictim should escape, Hocust her vith rum and vater, Like a fiend in huming shape.

But a hi was fixt upon 'em Vich these raskles little sore; Namely, Mr. Hide, the landlord Of the house at tventy-four.

He vas valkin in his garden, Just afore he vent to sup; And on looking up he sor the Lodger's vinders lighted hup.

Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled; Something's going wrong, he said; And he caught the vicked voman Underneath the lodger's bed.

And he called a brother Pleaseman, Vich vas passing on his beat, Like a true and galliant feller, Hup and down in Guildford Street.

And that Pleaseman, able-bodied, Took this voman to the cell; To the cell vere she was quodded, In the Close of Clerkenwell.

And though vicked Charley Thompson Boulted like a miscrant base, Presently another Pleaseman Took him to the self-same place.

And this precious pair of raskles Tuesday last came up for doom; By the beak they was committed, Vich his name was Mr. Combe.

Has for poor Eliza Davia, Simple gurl of tventy-four, She, I ope, will never listen In the streets to sailors moar.

But if she must ave a sweet-art (Vich most every gurl expex), Let her take a jolly Pleaseman, Vich is name peraps is--X.

LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT. [Footnote: The Birth of Prince Arthur] BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE FOOT-GUARDS (BLUE). W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

I paced upon my beat With steady step and slow, All huppandownd of Ranelagh-street; Ran'lagh, St. Pimlico.

While marching huppandownd Upon that fair May morn, Beold the booming cannings sound, A royal child is born!

The Ministers of State Then presnly I sor, They gallops to the Pallis gate, In carridges and for.

With anxious looks intent, Before the gate they stop, There comes the good Lord President, And there the Archbishopp.

Lord John he next elights; And who comes here in haste? 'Tis the ero of one underd fights, The caudle for to taste.

Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss, Toward them steps with joy; Say the brave old Duke, "Come tell to us Is it a gal or a boy?"

Says Mrs. L. to the Duke, "Your Grace, it is a PRINCE." And at that nuss's bold rebuke, He did both laugh and wince.

He vews with pleasant look This pooty flower of May, Then says the wenerable Duke, "Egad, its my buthday."

By memory backards borne, Peraps his thoughts did stray To that old place where he was born Upon the first of May.

Peraps he did recal The ancient towers of Trim; And County Meath and Dangan Hall They did rewisit him.

I phansy of him so His good old thoughts employin; Fourscore years and one ago Beside the flowin' Boyne.

His father praps he sees, Most musicle of Lords, A playing maddrigles and glees Upon the Arpsicords.

Jest phansy this old Ero Upon his mother's knee! Did ever lady in this land Ave greater sons than she?

And I shouldn be surprise While this was in his mind, If a drop there twinkled in his eyes Of unfamiliar brind.

* * * *

To Hapsly Ouse next day Drives up a Broosh and for, A gracious prince sits in that Shay (I mention him with Hor!)

They ring upon the bell, The Porter shows his ed, (He fought at Vaterloo as vell, And vears a veskit red.)

To see that carriage come The people round it press: "And is the galliant Duke at ome?" "Your Royal Ighness, yes."

He stepps from out the Broosh And in the gate is gone, And X, although the people push, Says wery kind "Move hon."

The Royal Prince unto The galliant Duke did say, "Dear Duke, my little son and you Was born the self-same day.

"The lady of the land, My wife and Sovring dear, It is by her horgust command I wait upon you here.

"That lady is as well As can expected be; And to your Grace she bid me tell This gracious message free.

"That offspring of our race, Whom yesterday you see, To show our honor for your Grace, Prince Arthur he shall be.

"That name it rhymes to fame; All Europe knows the sound; And I couldn't find a better name If you'd give me twenty pound.

"King Arthur had his knights That girt his table round, But you have won a hundred fights, Will match 'em, I'll be bound.

"You fought with Bonypart, And likewise Tippoo Saib; I name you then, with all my heart, The Godsire of this babe."

That Prince his leave was took, His hinterview was done. So let us give the good old Duke Good luck of his god-son,

And wish him years of joy In this our time of Schism, And hope he'll hear the royal boy His little catechism.

And my pooty little Prince That's come our arts to cheer, Let me my loyal powers ewince A welcomin of you ere.

And the Poit-Laureat's crownd, I think, in some respex, Egstremely shootable might be found For honest Pleaseman X.

THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

Come, all ye Christian people, and listen to my tail, It is all about a Doctor was traveling by the rail, By the Heastern Counties Railway (vich the shares don't desire), From Ixworth town in Suffolk, vich his name did not transpire.

A traveling from Bury this Doctor was employed With a gentleman, a friend of his, vich his name was Captain Loyd; And on reaching Marks Tey Station, that is next beyond Colchester, a lady entered into them most elegantly dressed.

She entered into the carriage all with a tottering step, And a pooty little Bayby upon her bussum slep; The gentlemen received her with kindness and siwillaty, Pitying this lady for her illness and debillaty.

She had a fust-class ticket, this lovely lady said, Because it was so lonesome she took a secknd instead. Better to travel by secknd class than sit alone in the fust, And the pooty little Baby upon her breast she nust.

A seein of her cryin, and shiverin and pail, To her spoke this surging, the Ero of my tail; Saysee you look unwell, ma'am, I'll elp you if I can, And you may tell your case to me, for I'm a meddicle man.

"Thank you, sir," the lady said, "I only look so pale, Because I ain't accustom'd to traveling on the rale; I shall be better presnly, when I've ad some rest:" And that pooty little Baby she squeeged it to her breast.

So in conwersation the journey they beguiled, Capting Loyd and the medical man, and the lady and the child, Till the warious stations along the line was passed, For even the Heastern Counties' trains must come in at last.

When at Shorediteh tumminus at lenth stopped the train, This kind meddicle gentleman proposed his aid again. "Thank you, sir," the lady said, "for your kyindness dear; My carridge and my osses is probbibly come here.

"Will you old this baby, please, vilst I step and see?" The Doctor was a famly man: "That I will," says he. Then the little child she kist, kist it very gently, Vich was sucking his little fist, sleeping innocently.

With a sigh from her art, as though she would have bust it, Then she gave the Doctor the child--wery kind he nust it; Hup then the lady jumped hoff the bench she sat from, Tumbled down the carridge steps and ran along the platform.

Vile hall the other passengers vent upon their vays, The Capting and the Doctor sat there in a maze; Some vent in a Homminibus, some vent in a Cabby, The Capting and the Doctor vaited with the babby.

There they sat looking queer, for an hour or more, But their feller passinger neather on 'em sore: Never, never back again did that lady come To that pooty sleeping Hinfant a suckin of his Thum!

What could this pore Doctor do, bein treated thus, When the darling baby woke, cryin for its nuss? Off he drove to a female friend, vich she was both kind and mild, And igsplained to her the circumstance of this year little child.

That kind lady took the child instantly in her lap, And made it very comforable by giving it some pap; And when she took its close off, what d'you think she found? A couple of ten pun notes sown up, in its little gownd!

Also, in its little close, was a note which did conwey, That this little baby's parents lived in a handsome way: And for its Headucation they reglary would pay, And sirtingly like gentle-folks would claim the child one day, If the Christian people who'd charge of it would say, Per adwertisement in the TIMES, where the baby lay.

Pity of this baby many people took, It had such pooty ways and such a pooty look; And there came a lady forrard (I wish that I could see Any kind lady as would do as much for me,

And I wish with all my art, some night in MY night gownd, I could find a note stitched for ten or twenty pound)-- There came a lady forrard, that most honorable did say, She'd adopt this little baby, which her parents cast away.

While the Doctor pondered on this hoffer fair, Comes a letter from Devonshire, from a party there, Hordering the Doctor, at its Mar's desire, To send the little infant back to Devonshire.

Lost in apoplexity, this pore meddicle man, Like a sensable gentleman, to the Justice ran; Which his name was Mr. Hammill, a honorable beak, That takes his seat in Worship-street four times a week.

"O Justice!" says the Doctor, "Instrugt me what to do, I've come up from the country, to throw myself on you; My patients have no doctor to tend them in their ills, (There they are in Suffolk without their draffts and pills!)

"I've come up from the country, to know how I'll dispose Of this pore little baby, and the twenty-pun note, and the clothes, And I want to go back to Suffolk, dear Justice, if you please, And my patients wants their Doctor, and their Doctor wants his feez."

Up spoke Mr. Hammill, sittin at his desk, "This year application does me much perplesk; What I do adwise you, is to leave this babby In the Parish where it was left, by its mother shabby."

The Doctor from his Worship sadly did depart-- He might have left the baby, but he hadn't got the heart To go for to leave that Hinnocent, has the laws allows, To the tender mussies of the Union House.

Mother who left this little one on a stranger's knee, Think how cruel you have been, and how good was he! Think, if you've been guilty, innocent was she; And do not take unkindly this little word of me: Heaven be merciful to us all, sinners as we be!

PLEACEMAN X.

THE CRYSTAL PALACE. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

With ganial foire Thransfuse me loyre, Ye sacred nymphths of Pindus, The whoile I sing That wondthrous thing The Palace made o' windows!

Say, Paxton, truth, Thou wondthrous youth, What sthroke of art celistial What power was lint You to invint This combineetion cristial

O would before That Thomas Moore Likewoise the late Lord Boyron, Thim aigles sthrong Of Godlike song, Cast oi on that cast oiron!

And saw thim walls, And glittering halls, Thim rising slendther columns, Which I, poor pote, Could not denote, No, not in twinty vollums.

My Muse's words Is like the birds That roosts beneath the panes there; Her wings she spoils 'Gainst them bright toiles, And cracks her silly brains there.

This Palace tall, This Cristial Hall, Which imperors might covet, Stands in Hide Park Like Noah's Ark A rainbow bint above it.

The towers and faynes, In other scaynes, The fame of this will undo, Saint Paul's big doom, St. Payther's Room, And Dublin's proud Rotundo.

'Tis here that roams, As well becomes Her dignitee and stations, Victoria great, And houlds in state The Congress of the Nations.

Her subjects pours From distant shores. Her Injians and Canajians; And also we, Her kingdoms three, Attind with our allagiance.

Here comes likewise Her bould allies, Both Asian and Europian; From East and West They sent their best To fill her Coornocopean.

I seen (thank Grace!) This wondthrous place (His Noble Honor Misteer H. Cole it was That gave the pass, And let me see what is there.)

With conscious proide I stud insoide And look'd the World's Great Fair in. Until me sight Was dazzled quite, And couldn't see for staring.

There's holy saints And window paints, By Maydiayval Pugin; Alhamborough Jones Did paint the tones Of yellow and gambouge in.

There's fountains there And crosses fair; There's water-gods with urrns; There's organs three, To play, d'ye see, "God save the Queen," by turns.

There's statues bright Of marble white, Of silver and of copper, And some in zink, And some, I think, That isn't over proper.

There's staym Ingynes, That stand in lines, Enormous and amazing, That squeal and snort, Like whales in sport, Or elephants a-grazing.

There's carts and gigs, And pins for pigs; There's dibblers and there's harrows, And plows like toys, For little boys, And illegant wheel-barrows.

For them genteels Who ride on wheels, There a plenty to indulge 'em, There's Droskys snug From Paytersbug And vayhycles from Belgium.

There's Cabs on Stands, And Shandthry danns; There's wagons from New York here; There's Lapland Sleighs, Have cross'd the seas, And Jaunting Cars from Cork here.

Amazed I pass Prom glass to glass, Deloighted I survey 'em; Fresh wondthers grows Beneath me nose In this sublime Musayum,

Look, here's a fan From far Japan, A saber from Damasco; There's shawls ye get From far Thibet, And cotton prints from Glasgow.

There's German flutes, Marcoky boots, And Naples Macaronies; Bohaymia Has sent Bohay, Polonia her polonies.

There's granite flints That's quite imminse, There's sacks of coals and fuels, There's swords and guns, And soap in tuns, And Ginger-bread and Jewels.

There's taypots there, And cannons rare; There's coffins filled with roses. There 'a canvas tints, Teeth instruments, And shuits of clothes by Moses.

There's lashins more Of things in store, But thim I don't remimber; Nor could disclose Did I compose From May time to Novimber.

Ah, JUDY thru! With eyes so blue, That you were here to view it! And could I screw But tu pound tu 'Tis I would thrait you to it.

So let us raise Victoria's praise, And Albert's proud condition, That takes his ayse As he surveys This Crystal Exhibition.

THE SPECULATORS. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

The night was stormy and dark, The town was shut up in sleep: Only those were abroad who were out on a lark, Or those who'd no beds to keep.

I pass'd through the lonely street, The wind did sing and blow; I could hear the policeman's feet Clapping to and fro.

There stood a potato-man In the midst of all the wet; He stood with his 'tato-can In the lonely Haymarket.

Two gents of dismal mien. And dark and greasy rags, Came out of a shop for gin Swaggering over the flags:

Swaggering over the stones, These snabby bucks did walk And I went and followed those seedy ones, And listened to their talk.

Was I sober or awake? Could I believe my ears? Those dismal beggars spake Of nothing but railroad shares.

I wondered more and more: Says one--"Good friend of mine, How many shares have you wrote for In the Diddlesee Junction line?"

"I wrote for twenty," says Jim, "But they wouldn't give me one;" His comrade straight rebuked him For the folly he had done:

"O Jim, you are unawares Of the ways of this bad town; I always write for five hundred shares, And THEN they put me down."

"And yet you got no shares," Says Jim, "for all your boast;" "I WOULD have wrote," says Jack, "but where Was the penny to pay the post?"

"I lost, for I couldn't pay That first instalment up; But here's taters smoking hot--I say Let's stop, my boy, and sup."

And at this simple feast The while they did regale, I drew each ragged capitalist Down on my left thumb-nail.

Their talk did me perplex, All night I tumbled and toss'd And thought of railroad specs, And how money was won and lost.

"Bless railroads everywhere," I said, "and the world's advance; Bless every railroad share In Italy, Ireland, France,

For never a beggar need now despair, And every rogue has a chance."

LETTER

FROM MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE HON. J. T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE BOSTON COURIER, COVERING A LETTER FROM MR. B. SAWIN, PRIVATE IN THE MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT IN MEXICO. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Mister Buckinum, the follerin Billet was writ hum by a Yung feller of Our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff arter a Drum and fife. It ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he's sick o' any bizness that He went intu off his own free will and a Cord, but I rather callate he's middlin tired o' voluntearin By this Time. I bleeve u may put dependunts on his statemence. For I never heered nothin bad on him let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur cals a PONGSHONG for cocktales, and he ses it wuz a soshiashun of idees sot him agoin arter the Crootin Sargient cos he wore a cocktale onto his hat.

his Folks gin the letter to me and I shew it to parson Wilbur and he ses it oughter Bee printed, send It to mister Buckinum, ses he, I don't ollers agree with him, ses he, but by Time, says he, I DU like a feller that ain't a Feared.

I have intusspussed a Few refleckshuns hear and thair. We're kind o' Prest with Hayin. Ewers respecfly HOSEA BIGLOW.

This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin', A chap could clear right out from there ef 't only looked like rainin'. An' th' Cunnles, tu, could kiver up their shappoes with bandanners, An' send the insines skootin' to the bar-room with their banners, (Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted), an' a feller could cry quarter Ef he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an' water. Recollect wut fun we hed, you 'n I an' Ezry Hollis, Up there to Waltham plain last fall, ahavin' the Cornwallis? [Footnote: i halt the Site of a feller with a muskit as I do plze But their is fun to a Cornwallis I ain't agoin to deny it.--H.B.]This sort o' thing aint JEST like thet--I wish thet I wuz furder- [Footnote: he means Not quite so fur i guess.--H.B.]Nimepunce a day fer killin' folks comes kind o' low fer murder (Wy I've worked out to slarterin' some for Deacon Cephas Billins, An' in the hardest times there wuz I ollers tetched ten shillins), There's sutthin' gits into my throat thet makes it hard to swaller, It comes so nateral to think about a hempen collar; It's glory--but, in spite o' all my tryin to git callous, I feel a kind o' in a cart, aridin' to the gallus. But when it comes to BEIN' killed--I tell ye I felt streaked The fust time ever I found out wy baggonets wuz peaked, Here's how it wuz: I started out to go to a fandango, The sentinul he ups an' sez, "Thet's furder 'an you can go" "None o' your sarse," sez I; sez he, "Stan' back!" "Aint you a buster. Sez I, "I'm up to all thet air, I guess I've ben to muster; I know wy sentinuls air sot; you aint agoin' to eat us; Caleb haint to monopoly to court the seenoreetas; My folks to hum air full ez good ez hisn be, by golly!" An' so ez I wuz goin' by, not thinkin'; wut would folly, The everlatin' cus he stuck his one-pronged pitchfork in me An' made a hole right thru my close ez ef I wuz an in'my. Wal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin' in ole Funnel Wen Mister Bolles he gin the sword to our Leftenant Cunnle (It's Mister Secondary Bolles,* thet writ the prize peace essay, *[Footnote: the ignerant creeter means Sekketary; but he ollers stuck to his books like cobbler's wax to an ile-stone.--H. B.] Thet's wy he didn't list himself along o' us, I dessay), An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but dont' put HIS foot in it, Coz human life's so sacred thet he's principled agin'it-- Though I myself can't rightly see it's any wus achokin' on 'em Than puttin' bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet pokin' on 'em; How dreffle slick he reeled it off (like Blitz at our lyceum Ahaulin' ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely see 'em), About the Anglo-Saxon race (an' saxons would be handy To do the buryin' down here upon the Rio Grandy), About our patriotic pas an' our star-spangled banner, Our country's bird alookin' on an' singin' out hosanner, An' how he (Mister B himself) wuz happy fer Ameriky-- I felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle mite histericky. I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreffle kind o' privilege Atrampin' round thru Boston streets among the gutter's drivelage; I act'lly thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drummin, An' it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz acomin' Wen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the state prison) An' every feller felt ez though all Mexico wuz hisn. [Footnote: It must be aloud that thare's a streak o' nater in lovin' sho, but it sartinly is of the curusest things in nater to see a rispecktable dri goods dealer (deekon off a chutch mayby) a riggin' himself out in the Weigh they du and struttin' round in the Reign aspilin' his trowsis and makin' wet goods of himself. E fany thin's foolisher and moor dicklus than militerry gloary it is milishy gloary.--H. B] This 'ere's about the meanest place a skunk could wal diskiver (Saltillo's Mexican, I b'lieve, fer wut we call Saltriver). The sort o' trash a feller gits to eat doos beat all nater, I'd give a year's pay fer a smell o' one good bluenose tater; The country here thet Mister Bolles declared to be so charmin' Throughout is swarmin' with the most alarmin' kind o' varmin'. He talked about delishis froots, but then it wuz a wopper all, The holl on't 's mud an' prickly pears, with here an' there a chapparal; You see a feller peekin' out, an', fust you know, a lariat Is round your throat en' you a copse, 'fore you can say, "Wut air ye at?" [Footnote: these fellers are verry proppilly called Rank Heroes, and the more tha kill the ranker and more Herowick tha bekum.--H. B.] You never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be irrelevant To say I've seen a SCARABAEUS PILULARIUS big ez a year old elephant), [Footnote: It wuz "tumblebug" as he Writ it, but the parson put the Latten instid. I sed tother maid better meeter, but he said tha was eddykated peepl to Boston and tha wouldn't stan' it no how. Idnow as tha WOOOD and idnow as tha wood.--H. B.] The rigiment come up one day in time to stop a red bug From runnin' off with Cunnle Wright--'t wuz jest a common CIMEX LECTULARIUS. One night I started up on eend an' thought I wuz to hum agin, I heern a horn, thinks I it's Sol the fisherman hez come agin, HIS bellowses is sound enough--ez I'm a livin' creeter, I felt a thing go thru my leg--'t wuz nothin' more 'n a skeeter! Then there's the yaller fever, tu, they call it here el vomito-- (Come, thet wun't du, you landcrab there, I tell ye to le' GO my toe! My gracious! it's a scorpion thet's took a shine to play with 't, I darsn't skeer the tarnal thing fer fear he'd run away with 't). Afore I come away from hum I hed a strong persuasion Thet Mexicans worn't human beans*--an ourang outang nation, *[Footnote: he means human beins, that's wut he means. I spose he kinder thought tha wuz human beans ware the Xisle Poles comes from.--H. B.] A sort o' folks a chap could kill an' never dream on't arter, No more'n a feller'd dream o' pigs thet he hed hed to slarter; I'd an idee thet they were built arter the darkle fashion all, An' kickin' colored folks about, you know, 's a kind o' national But when I jined I worn't so wise ez thet air queen o' Sheby, Fer, come to look at 'em, they aint much diff'rent from wut we be An' here we air ascrougin' 'em out o' thir own dominions, Ashelterin' 'em, ez Caleb sez, under our eagle's pinions, "Wich means to take a feller up jest by the slack o' 's trowsis An' walk him Spanish clean right out o' all his homes an' houses Wal, it doos seem a curus way, but then hooraw fer Jackson! It must be right, fer Caleb sez it's reg'lar Anglo-Saxon. The Mex'cans don't fight fair, they say, they piz'n all the water, An' du amazin' lots o' things thet isn't wut they ough' ter; Bein' they haint no lead, they make their bullets out o' copper An' shoot the darned things at us, tu, which Caleb sez aint proper; He sez they'd ough' to stan' right up an' let us pop 'em fairly (Guess wen he ketches 'em at thet he'll hev to git up airly), Thet our nation's bigger 'n theirn an' so its rights air bigger, An thet it's all to make 'em free that we air pullin' trigger, Thet Anglo Saxondom's idee's abreakin' 'em to pieces, An' thet idee's thet every man doos jest wut he damn pleases; Ef I don't make his meanin' clear, perhaps in some respex I can, I know that "every man" don't mean a nigger or a Mexican; An' there's another thing I know, an' thet is, ef these creeturs, Thet stick an Anglo-saxon mask onto State-prison feeturs, Should come to Jaalam Center fer to argify an' spout on't, The gals 'ould count the silver spoons the minnit they cleared out on't

This goin' ware glory waits ye haint one agreeable feetur, An' ef it worn't fer wakin' snakes, I'd home agin short meter; O, wouldn't I be off, quick time, ef't worn't thet I wuz sartin They'd let the daylight into me to pay me fer desartin! I don't approve o' tellin' tales, but jest to you I may state Our ossifers aint wut they wuz afore they left the Baystate Then it wuz "Mister Sawin, sir, you're middlin' well now, be ye? Step up an' take a nipper, sir; I'm dreffle glad to see ye;" But now it's "Ware's my eppylet? here, Sawin, step an fetch it! An' mind your eye, be thund'rin' spry, or, damn ye, you shall ketch it!" Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by mighty, Ef I bed some on 'em to hum, I'd give 'em linkum vity, I'd play the rogue's march on their hides an' other [illeg] follerin'-- But I must close my letter here, for one on 'em's a-hollerin', These Anglosaxon ossifers--wal, taint no use ajawin', I'm safe enlisted fer the war, Yourn, BIRDOFREEDOM SAWIN

A LETTER

FROM A CANDIDATE FOR THE PRESIDENCY IN ANSWER TO SUTTIN QUESTIONS PROPOSED BY MR. HOSEA BIGLOW, INCLOSED IN A NOTE FROM MR. BIGLOW TO S. H. GAY, ESQ., EDITOR OF THE NATIONAL ANTI-SLAVERY STANDARD. JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL

Deer Sir its gut to be the fashun now to rite letters to the candid 8s and I wus chose at a public Meetin in Jalaam to du wut wus nessary fur that town. I writ to 271 ginerals and gut ansers to 209. the air called candid 8s but I don't see nothin candid about em. this here 1 which I send wus thought satty's factory. I dunno as it's ushle to print Poscrips, but as all the ansers I got hed the saim, I sposed it wus best. times has gretly changed. Formaly to knock a man into a cocked hat wus to use him up, but now it ony gives him a chance furthe cheef madgutracy.--H. B.

Dear Sir--You wish to know my notions On sartin pints thet rile the land; There's nothin' thet my natur so shuns Es bein' mum or underhand; I'm a straight-spoken kind o' creetur Thet blurts right out wut's in his head, An' ef I've one pecooler feetur, It is a nose thet wunt be led.

So, to begin at the beginnin'; An' come directly to the pint, I think the country's underpinnin' Is some consid'ble out o' jint; I aint agoin' to try your patience By tellin' who done this or thet, I don't make no insinooations, I jest let on I smell a rat.

Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so, But, ef the public think I'm wrong I wunt deny but wut I be so-- An', fact, it don't smell very strong; My mind's tu fair to lose its balance An' say wich party hez most sense; There may be folks o'greater talence Thet can't set stiddier on the fence.

I'm an eclectic: ez to choosin' 'Twixt this an'thet, I'm plaguy lawth; I leave a side thet looks like losin', But (wile there's doubt) I stick to both; I stan' upon the Constitution, Ez preudunt statesmun say, who've planned A way to git the most profusion O' chances ez to ware they'll stand.

Ez fer the war, I go agin it-- I mean to say I kind o' du-- Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it, The best way wuz to fight it thru; Not but wut abstract war is horrid, I sign to thet with all my heart-- But civlyzation doos git forrid Sometimes upon a powder-cart.

About thet darned Proviso matter I never hed a grain o' doubt, Nor I aint one my sense to scatter So's no one couldn't pick it out; My love fer North an' South is equil, So I'll just answer plump an' frank, No matter wut may be the sequil-- Yes, sir, I am agin a Bank.

Ez to the answerin' o' questions, I 'am an off ox at bein' druv, Though I aint one thet ary test shuns I'll give our folks a helpin' shove; Kind o' promiscoous I go it Fer the holl country, an' the ground I take, ez nigh ez I can show it, Is pooty gen'ally all round.

I don't appruve o' givin' pledges; You'd ough' to leave a feller free, An' not go knockin' out the wedges To ketch his fingers in the tree; Pledges air awfle breachy cattle Thet preudent farmers don't turn out-- Ez long'z the people git their rattle, Wut is there fer'm to grout about?

Ez to the slaves, there's no confusion In MY idees consarnin' them-- I think they air an Institution, A sort of--yes, jest so--ahem: Do I own any? Of my merit On thet pint you yourself may jedge; All is, I never drink no sperit, Nor I haint never signed no pledge.

Ez to my principles, I glory In hevin' nothin' o' the sort; I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory, I'm jest a candidate, in short; Thet's fair an' square an' parpendicler, But, ef the Public cares a fig To hev me an' thin' in particler. Wy, I'm a kind o' peri-wig.

P. S.

Ez we're a sort o' privateerin', O' course, you know, it's sheer an' sheer An' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin' I'll mention in YOUR privit ear; Ef you git ME inside the White House, Your head with ile I'll kio' o' 'nint By gitt'n' YOU inside the Light-house Down to the eend o' Jaalam Pint

An' ez the North hez took to brustlin' At bein' scrouged from off the roost, I'll tell ye wut'll save all tusslin' An' give our side a harnsome boost-- Tell 'em thet on the Slavery question I'm RIGHT, although to speak I'm lawth; This gives you a safe pint to rest on, An' leaves me frontin' South by North.

THE CANDIDATE'S CREED. (BIGLOW PAPERS.) JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

I du believe in Freedom's cause, Ez fur away ez Paris is; I love to see her stick her claws In them infarnal Pharisees; It's wal enough agin a king To dror resolves and triggers,-- But libbaty's a kind o' thing Thet don't agree with niggers.

I du believe the people want A tax on teas and coffees, Thet nothin' aint extravygunt,-- Purvidin' I'm in office; For I hev loved my country sence My eye-teeth filled their sockets, An' Uncle Sam I reverence, Partic'larly his pockets.

I du believe in ANY plan O' levyin' the taxes, Ez long ez, like a lumberman, I git jest wut I axes: I go free-trade thru thick an' thin, Because it kind o' rouses The folks to vote--and keep us in Our quiet custom-houses.

I du believe it's wise an' good To sen' out furrin missions, Thet is, on sartin understood An' orthydox conditions;-- I mean nine thousan' dolls. per ann., Nine thousan' more fer outfit, An' me to recommend a man The place 'ould jest about fit.

I du believe in special ways O' prayin' an' convartin'; The bread comes back in many days, An' buttered, tu, fer sartin;-- I mean in preyin' till one busts On wut the party chooses, An' in convartin' public trusts To very privit uses.

I do believe hard coin the stuff Fer 'lectioneers to spout on; The people's ollers soft enough To make hard money out on; Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his, An' gives a good-sized junk to all-- I don't care HOW hard money is, Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal.

I du believe with all my soul In the gret Press's freedom, To pint the people to the goal An' in the traces lead 'em: Palsied the arm thet forges yokes At my fat contracts squintin', An' wilhered be the nose thet pokes Inter the gov'ment printin'!

I du believe thet I should give Wut's his'n unto Caesar, Fer it's by him I move an' live, From him my bread an' cheese air I du believe thet all o' me Doth bear his souperscription,-- Will, conscience, honor, honesty, An' things o' thet description.

I du believe in prayer an' praise To him thet hez the grantin' O' jobs--in every thin' thet pays, But most of all in CANTIN'; This doth my cup with marcies fill, This lays all thought o' sin to rest-- I DON'T believe in princerple, But, O, I DU in interest.

I du believe in bein' this Or thet, ez it may happen One way, or t' other hendiest is To ketch the people nappin'; It aint by princerples nor men My preudent course is steadied-- I scent wich pays the best, an' then Go into it baldheaded.

I du believe thet holdin' slaves Comes nat'ral tu a President, Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves To have a wal-broke precedunt; Fer any office, small or gret, I could'nt ax with no face, Without I'd been, thru dry an' wet, The unrizziest kind o' doughface.

I du believe wutever trash 'll keep the people in blindness,-- Thet we the Mexicans can thrash Right inter brotherly kindness-- Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ball Air good-will's strongest magnets-- Thet peace, to make it stick at all, Must be druv in with bagnets.

In short, I firmly du believe In Humbug generally, Fer it's a thing thet I perceive To hev a solid vally; This heth my faithful shepherd ben, In pasturs sweet heth led me, An' this'll keep the people green To feed ez they have fed me.

THE COURTIN'. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown, An' peeked in thru the winder, An there sot Huldy all alone, 'ith no one nigh to hender.

Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung, An' in among 'em rusted The ole queen's arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back from Concord busted.

The wannut logs shot sparkles out Toward the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle fires danced all about The chiny on the dresser.

The very room, coz she wuz in, Looked warm frum floor to ceilin'. An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez th' apple she wuz peelin'.

She heerd a foot an' knowd it, tu, Araspin' on the scraper-- All ways to once her feelins flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle of the seekle: His heart kep' goin' pitypat, But hern went pity Zekle.

A SONG FOR A CATARRH. PUNCH

By Bary ALLe is like the suL, WheL at the dawL it fliLgs Its goldeL sBiles of light upoL Earth's greeL and loLely thiLgs. IL vaiL I sue, I oLly wiL FroB her a scorLful frowL, But sooL as I By prayers begiL, She cries O Lo! begoLe, Yes! yes! the burtheL of her soLg Is Lo! Lo! Lo! begoLe!

By Bary ALLe is like the mooL, WheL first her silver sheeL Awakes the LightiLgale's soft tuLe, That else had sileLt beeL. But Bary ALLe, like darkest Light, OL be, alas! looks dowL; Her sBiles oL others beaB their light, Her frowLs are all By owL. I've but oLe burtheL to By soLg-- Her frowLs are all By owL.

EPITAPH ON A CANDLE. PUNCH.

A WICKED one lies buried here, Who died in a DECLINE; He never rose in rank, I fear, Though he was born to SHINE.

He once was FAT, but now, indeed, He's thin as any griever; He died--the Doctors all agreed, Of a most BURNING fever.

One thing of him is said with truth, With which I'm much amused; It is--that when he stood, forsooth, A STICK he always used.

Now WINDING-SHEETS he sometimes made, But this was not enough, For finding it a poorish trade, He also dealt in SNUFF.

If e'er you said "GO OUT, I pray," He much ill nature show'd; On such occasions he would say, "Vy, if I do, I'M BLOW'D"

In this his friends do all agree, Although you'll think I'm joking, When GOING OUT 'tis said that he Was very fond of SMOKING.

Since all religion he despised, Let these few words suffice, Before he ever was baptized They DIPP'D him once or twice.

POETRY ON AN IMPROVED PRINCIPLE. A RENCONTER WITH A TEA-TOTALLER. PUNCH.

On going forth last night, a friend to see, I met a man by trade a s-n-o-B; Reeling along the path he held his way. "Ho! ho!" quoth I, "he's d-r-u-n-K" Then thus to him--"Were it not better, far, You were a little s-o-b-e-R? 'T were happier for your family, I guess, Than playing of such rum r-i-g-S. Besides, all drunkards, when policemen see 'em, Are taken up at once by t-h-e-M." 'Me drunk!" the cobbler cried, "the devil trouble you You want to kick up a blest r-o-W. Now, may I never wish to work for Hoby, If drain I've had!" (the lying s-n-O-B!) I've just return'd from a tee-total party, Twelve on us jamm'd in a spring c-a-R-P. The man as lectured, now, WAS drunk; why, bless ye, He's sent home in a c-h-a-i-S-E. He'd taken so much lush into his belly, I'm blest if he could t-o-dd-L-E. A pair on 'em--hisself and his good lady;-- The gin had got into her h-e-A-D. (My eye and Betty! what weak mortals WE are; They said they took but ginger b-e-E-R!) But as for me, I've stuck ('t was rather ropy) All day to weak imperial p-O-P. And now we've had this little bit o' sparrin', Just stand a q-u-a-r-t-e-R-N!"

ON A REJECTED NOSEGAY, OFFERED BY THE AUTHOR TO A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY, WHO RETURNED IT. PUNCH.

What! then you won't accept it, wont you? Oh! No matter; pshaw! my heart is breaking, though. My bouquet is rejected; let it be: For what am I to you, or you to me? 'Tis true I once had hoped; but now, alas! Well, well; 'tis over now, and let it pass. I was a fool--perchance I am so still; You won't accept it! Let me dream you will: But that were idle. Shall we meet again? Why should we? Water for my burning brain? I could have loved thee--Could! I love thee yet Can only Lethe teach me to forget? Oblivion's balm, oh tell me where to find! Is it a tenant of the anguish'd mind? Or is it?--ha! at last I see it come; Waiter! a bottle of your oldest rum.

A SERENADE. PUNCH.

Smile, lady, smile! (BLESS ME! WHAT'S THAT? CONFOUND THE CAT!)-- Smile, lady, smile! One glance bestow On him who sadly waits below, To catch--(A VILLAIN UP ABOVE HAS THROWN SOME WATER ON ME, LOVE!) To catch one token-- (OH, LORD! MY HEAD IS BROKEN; THE WRETCH WHO THREW THE WATER DOWN, HAS DROPPED THE JUG UPON MY CROWN)-- To catch one token, which shall be As dear as life itself to me. List, lady, then; while on my lute I breathe soft--(NO! I'LL NOT BE QUIET; HOW DARE YOU CALL MY SERENADE A RIOT? I DO DEFY YOU)--while upon my lute I breathe soft sighs--(YES, I DISPUTE YOUR RIGHT TO STOP ME)--breathe soft sighs. Grant but one look from those dear eyes-- (THERE, TAKE THAT STUPID NODDLE IN AGAIN; CALL THE POLICE!--DO! I'LL PROLONG MY STRAIN), We'll wander by the river's placid flow-- (UNTO THE STATION-HOUSE!--NO, SIR, I WON'T GO; LEAVE ME ALONE!)--and talk of love's delight. (OH, MURDER!--HELP! I'M LOCKED UP FOR THE NIGHT!)

RAILROAD NURSERY RHYME. PUNCH. Air--"Ride a Cock Horse."

Fly by steam force the country across, Faster than jockey outside a race-horse: With time bills mismanaged, fast trains after slow, You shall have danger wherever you go.

AN INVITATION TO THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS PUNCH.

I have found out a gig-gig-gift for my fuf-fuf-fair, I have found where the rattle-snakes bub-bub-breed; Will you co-co-come, and I'll show you the bub-bub-bear, And the lions and tit-tit-tigers at fuf-fuf-feed.

I know where the co-co-cockatoo's song Makes mum-mum-melody through the sweet vale; Where the mum-monkeys gig-gig-grin all the day long Or gracefully swing by the tit-tit-tit-tail.

You shall pip-pip-play, dear, some did-did-delicate joke With the bub-bub-bear on the tit-tit-top of his pip-pip-pip-pole; But observe, 'tis forbidden to pip-pip-poke At the bub-bub-bear with your pip-pip-pink pip-pip-pip-pip-parasol!

You shall see the huge elephant pip-pip-play, You shall gig-gig-gaze on the stit-stit-stately racoon; And then did-did-dear, together we'll stray To the cage of the bub-bub-blue-faced bab-bab-boon.

You wished (I r-r-remember it well, And I lul-lul-loved you the m-m-more for the wish) To witness the bub-bub-beautiful pip-pip-pel- ican swallow the l-l-live little fuf-fuf-fish!

THE PEOPLE AND THEIR PALACE. IMPROVISED BY A FINE GENTLEMAN. PUNCH.

Oh dem that absawd Cwystal Palace! alas, What a pity they took off the duty on glass! It's having been evaw ewected, in fact, Was en-ti-a-ly owing to that foolish act.

Wha-evew they put it a cwowd it will dwaw, And that is the weason I think it a baw; I have no gweat dislike to the building, as sutch; The People is what I object to sa mutch.

The People!--I weally am sick of the wawd: The People is ugly, unpleasant, absawd; Wha-evaw they go, it is always the case, They are shaw to destroy all the chawm of the place.

Their voices are loud, and their laughter is hawse; Their fealyaws are fabsy, iwegulaw, cause; How seldom it is that their faces disclose, What one can call, pwopally speaking, a nose!

They have dull heavy looks, which appeaw to expwess Disagweeable stwuggles with common distwess; The People can't dwess, doesn't know how to walk. And would uttaly wuin a spot like the Pawk.

That I hate the People is maw than I 'll say; I only would have them kept out of my way, Let them stay at the pot-house, wejoice in the pipe, And wegale upon beeaw, baked patatas, and twipe.

We must have the People--of that tha's no doubt-- In shawt they could not be, pahaps, done without. If'twa not faw the People we could not have Boots Tha's no doubt that they exawcise useful pasuits.

They are all vewy well in their own pwopa spheeaw A long distance off; but I don t like them neeaw; The slams is the place faw a popula show; Don't encouwage the people to spoil Wotten Wow.

It is odd that the DUKE OF AWGYLL could pasue, So eccentwic a cawse, and LAD SHAFTESBUWY too, As to twy and pwesawve the Glass House on its site, Faw no weason on awth but the People's delight.

A "SWELL'S" HOMAGE TO MRS. STOWE PUNCH.

A must wead Uncle Tom--a wawk Which A'm afwaid's extwemely slow, People one meets begin to talk Of Mrs. HARWIETBEECHASTOWE.

'Tis not as if A saw ha name To walls and windas still confined; All that is meawly vulga fame: A don't wespect the public mind.

But Staffa'd House has made haw quite Anotha kind a pawson look, A Countess would pasist, last night, In asking me about haw book.

She wished to know if I admiawd EVA, which quite confounded me; And then haw Ladyship inqwaw'd Whethaw A did'nt hate LEGWEE?

Bai JOVE! A was completely flaw'd; A wish'd myself, or haw, at Fwance; And that's the way a fella's baw'd By ev'wy gal he asks to dance.

A felt myself a gweat a fool Than A had evaw felt befaw; A'll study at some Wagged School The tale of that old Blackamaw!

THE EXCLUSIVE'S BROKEN IDOL. PUNCH.

A don't object at all to War With a set a fellas like the Fwench, But this dem wupcha with the Czar, It gives one's feeling quite a wench.

The man that peace in Yawwup kept Gives all his pwevious life the lie; A fina fella neva stepped, Bai JOVE, he's maw than six feet high!

He cwushed those democwatic beasts; He'd flog a Nun; maltweat a Jew, Or pawsecute those Womish Pwiests, Most likely vewy pwoppa too.

To think that afta such a cawce, Which nobody could eva blame, The EMP'WA should employ bwute fawce Against this countwy just the same!

We all consida'd him our fwiend, But in a most erwoneus light, In shawt, it seems you can't depend On one who fancies might is wight.

His carwacta is coming out; His motives--which A neva saw-- Are now wevealed beyond a doubt, And we must fight--but what a baw!

THE LAST KICK OF FOP'S ALLEY. PUNCH. Air--"Weber's Last Waltz."

My wawst feaws are wealized; the Op wa is na maw, And the wain of DONIZETTI and TAPISCHOWE are aw! No entapwising capitalist bidding faw the lot, In detail at last the pwopaty is being sold by SCOTT.

Fahwell to Anna Bolena; to Nauma, oh, fahwell! Adieu to La Sonnambula! the hamma wings haw knell; I Puwitani, too, must cease a cwowded house to dwaw, And they've knocked down lovely Lucia, the Bwide of Lammamaw.

Fahwell the many twinkling steps; fahwell the gwaceful fawm That bounded o'er the wose-beds, and that twipped amid the stawm; Fahwell the gauze and muslin--doomed to load the Hebwew's bags; Faw the Times assauts the wawdwobe went--just fancy--as old wags!

That ev'wy thing that's bwight must fade, we know is vewy twue, And now we see what sublunawy glowwy must come to; How twue was MAIDSTONE'S pwophecy; the Deluge we behold Now that HAW MAJESTY'S Theataw is in cawse of being sold.

THE MAD CABMAN'S SONG OF SIXPENCE [Footnote: This inimitable burlesque was published soon after the cab fare had reduced from eightpence to sixpence a mile.] PUNCH.

Wot's this?--wot hever is this 'ere? Eh?--arf a suvrin!--feels like vun-- Boohoo! they won't let me have no beer! Suppose I chucks it up into the sun!-- No--that ain't right-- The yaller's turned wite! Ha, ha, ho!--he's sold and done-- Come, I say!--I won't stand that-- 'Tis all my eye and BETTY MARTIN! Over the left and all round my hat, As the pewter pot said to the kevarten.

Who am I? HEMPRER of the FRENCH LEWIS NAPOLEON BONYPART, Old Spooney, to be sure-- Between you and me and the old blind oss And the doctor says there ain't no cure.

D' ye think I care for the blessed Bench?-- From Temple Bar to Charing Cross? Two mile and better--arf a crown-- Talk of screwing a feller down! As for poor BILL, it's broke his art. Cab to the Moon, sir? Here you are!-- That's--how much?-- A farthin' touch! Now as we can't demand back fare.

But, guv'ner, wot can this 'ere be?-- The fare of a himperial carridge? You don't mean all this 'ere for me! In course you ain't heerd about my marridge-- I feels so precious keveer! How was it I got that kick o' the 'ed? I've ad a slight hindisposition But a Beak ain't no Physician. Wot's this 'ere, sir? wot's this 'ere? You call yerself a gentleman? yer Snob! He wasn't bled: And I was let in for forty bob, Or a month, instead: And I caught the lumbago in the brain-- I've been confined-- But never you mind-- Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! I ain't hinsane.

Vot his this 'ere? Can't no one tell? It sets my ed a spinnin-- The QUEEN'S eye winks--it ain't no sell-- The QUEEN'S 'ed keeps a grinnin: Ha, ha! 't was guv By the cove I druv-- I vunders for wot e meant it! For e sez to me, E sez, sez e, As I ort to be contented! Wot did yer say, sir, wot did yer say? My fare!--wot, that! Yer knocks me flat. Hit in the vind!--I'm chokin--give us air-- My fare? Ha, ha! My fare? Ho, ho! My fare?

Call that my fare for drivin yer a mile? I ain't hinsane--not yet--not yet avile! Wot makes yer smile? My blood is bilin' in a wiolent manner! Wot's this I've got? Show us a light-- This 'ere is--wot?-- There's sunthin the matter with my sight-- It is--yes!--No!-- 'Tis, raly, though-- Oh, blow! blow! blow!-- Ho, ho, ho, ho! it is, it is a Tanner!

ALARMING PROSPECT PUNCH. To the Editor of "PUNCH."

SIR--You are aware, of course, that in the progress of a few centuries the language of a country undergoes a great alteration; that the Latin of the Augustan age was very different from that of the time of Tarquin; and no less so from that which prevailed at the fall of the Roman empire. Also, that the Queen's English is not precisely what it was in Elizabeth's days; to say nothing of its variation from what was its condition under the Plantagenets.

I observe, with regret, that our literature is becoming conversational, and our conversation corrupt. The use of cant phraseology is daily gaining ground among us, and this evil will speedily infect, if it has not already infected, the productions of our men of letters. I fear most for our poetry, because what is vulgarly termed SLANG is unfortunately very expressive, and therefore peculiarly adapted for the purposes of those whose aim it is to clothe "thoughts that breathe" in "words that burn;" and, besides, it is in many instances equivalent to terms and forms of speech which have long been recognized among poetical writers as a kind of current coin.

The peril which I anticipate I have endeavored to exemplify in the following

AFFECTING COPY OF VERSES (WITH NOTES).

Gently o'er the meadows prigging, [1] Joan and Colin took their way, While each flower the dew was swigging, [2] In the jocund month of May.

Joan was beauty's plummiest [3] daughter; Colin youth's most nutty [4] son; Many a nob [5] in vain had sought her-- Him full many a spicy [6] one.

She her faithful bosom's jewel Did unto this young un' [7] plight; But, alas! the gov'nor [8] cruel, Said as how he'd never fight. [9]

Soon as e'er the lark had risen, They had burst the bonds of snooze, [10] And her daddle [11] link'd in his'n, [12] Gone to roam as lovers use.

In a crack [13] the youth and maiden To a flowery bank did come, Whence the bees cut, [14] honey-laden, Not without melodious hum.

Down they squatted [15] them together, "Lovely Joan," said Colin bold, "Tell me, on thy davy, [16] whether Thou dost dear thy Colin hold?"

"Don't I, just?" [17] with look ecstatic, Cried the young and ardent maid; "Then let's bolt!" [18] in tone emphatic, Bumptuous [19] Colin quickly said.

"Bolt?" she falter'd, "from the gov'nor? Oh! my Colin, that won't pay; [20] He will ne'er come down, [21] my love, nor Help us, if we run away."

"Shall we then be disunited?" Wildly shrieked the frantic cove; [22] "Mull'd [23] our happiness! and blighted In the kinchin-bud [24] our love!

"No, my tulip! [25] let us rather Hand in hand the bucket kick; [26] Thus we'll chouse [27] your cruel father-- Cutting from the world our stick!" [28]

Thus he spoke, and pull'd a knife out, Sharp of point, of edge full fine; Pierc'd her heart, and let the life out-- "Now," he cried, "here's into mine!" [29]

But a hand unseen behind him Did the fatal blow arrest. Oh, my eye! [30] they seize and bind him-- Gentle Mure, conceal the rest!

In the precints of the prison, In his cold crib [31] Colin lies; Mourn his fate all you who listen, Draw it mild, and mind your eyes! [32]

1. "Prigging," stealing; as yet exclusively applied to petty larceny. "Stealing" is as well known to be a poetical term as it is to be an indictable offense; the Zephyr and the Vesper Hymn, cum multis aliis, are very prone to this practice. 2. "Swigging," drinking copiously--of malt liquor in particular. "Pearly drops of dew we drink."--OLD SONG. 3. "Plummiest," the superlative of "plummy," exquisitely delicious; an epithet commonly used by young gentlemen in speaking of a bonne bouche or "tit bit," as a mince pie, a preserved apricot, or an oyster patty. The transference of terms expressive of delightful and poignant savor to female beauty, is common with poets. "Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath."--SHAKESPEARE. "Charley loves a pretty girl, AS SWEET AS SUGAR CANDY."--ANON. 4. "Nutty," proper--in the old English sense of "comely," "handsome." "Six PROPER youths, and tall."--OLD SONG. 5. "Nob," a person of consequence; a word very likely to be patronized, from its combined brevity and significancy. 6. "Spicy," very smart and pretty; it has the same recommendation, and will probably supplant the old favorite "bonny." "Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride."--HAMILTON. 7. "Young'un," youth, young man. "A YOUTH to fortune and to fame unknown."--GRAY. 8. "Gov'nor," or "guv'nor," a contraction of "governor," a father. It will, no doubt, soon supersede sire, which is at present the poetical equivalent for the name of the author of one's existence. See all the poets, passim. 9. "Said as how he'd never fight," the thing was out of the question; a metaphorical phrase, though certainly, at present, a vulgar one. 10. "Snooze," slumber personified, like "Morpheus," or "Somnus." 11. "Daddle."--Q. from daktulos, a finger--pars pro toto!--Hand, the only synonym for it that we have, except "Paw," "Mawley," &c., which are decidedly generis ejusdem.12. "His'n," his own; corresponding to the Latin suus, his own and nobody else's, so frequently met with in OVID and others. 13. "Crack," a twinkling, an extremely short interval of time, which was formerly expressed, in general, by a periphrasis; as, "Ere the leviathan can swim a league!"--SHAKESPEARE. 14. "Cut," sped. A synonym. 15. "Squatted," sat. Id. 16. "Davy," affidavit, solemn oath. Significant and euphonious, therefore alluring to the versifier. 17. "Don't I, just?" A question for a strong affirmation, as, "Oh, yes, indeed I do;" a piece of popular rhetoric, pithy and forcible and consequently almost sure to be adopted--especially by the pathetic writers. 18. "Bolt," ran away. Syn. 19. "Bumptious," fearless, bold, and spirited; a very energetic expression such as those rejoice in who would fair "DENHAM'S strength with Waller's sweetness join." 20. "That won't pay," that plan will never answer. Metaph. 21. "Come down," disburse; also rendered in the vernacular by "fork out." etc. Id. 22. "Cove," swain. "Alexis shunn'd his fellow SWAINS."--PRIOR. See also SHENSTONE PASSIM. 23. "Mull'd," equivalent to "wreck'd," a term of pathos. 24. "Kinchin-bud," infant-bud. Metaph.; moreover, very tender, sweet, and touching, as regards the idea. 25. "My tulip," a term of endearment. "Fairest FLOWER, all flowers excelling." ODE TO A CHILD: COTTON. 26. "The bucket kick," pleonasm for die; as, "to breathe life's latest sigh."--"To yield the soul,"--"the breath,"--or, UT APUD ANTIQ. "Animam expirare," seu "efflare," etc. 27. "Chouse," cheat. Syn. 28. "Cutting . . . our stick." Pleon. ut supra. 29. "Here's unto mine!" A form of speech analogous to "Have at thee."--SHAKESPEARE, and the dramatists generally. 30. "Oh, my eye!" an interjectional phrase, tantamount to "Oh, heavens!" "Merciful powers!" etc. 31. "Cold crib," cold bed. "Go to thy cold bed and warm thee."--SHAK. 32. "Draw it mild," etc. Metaph. for "Rule your passions, and beware!"

I doubt not that it will be admitted by your judicious readers that I have substantiated my case. Our monarchical institutions may preserve our native tongue for a time, but if it does not become, at no very distant period, as strange a medley as that of the American is at present--to use the expressive but peculiar idiom of that people--"IT'S A PITY." I am, sir, etc., P.

EPITAPH ON A LOCOMOTIVE. BY THE SOLE SURVIVOR OF A DEPLORABLE ACCIDENT (NO BLAME TO BE ATTACHED TO ANY SERVANTS OF THE COMPANY). PUNCH.

Collisions four Or five she bore, The Signals wor in vain; Grown old and rusted, Her biler busted, And smash'd the Excursion Train.

"HER END WAS PIECES."

THE TICKET OF LEAVE. [AS SUNG BY THE HOLDER, AMID A CONVIVIAL CIRCLE IN THE SLUMS.] PUNCH.

Ven a prig has come to grief, He's no call for desperation; Though I'm a conwicted thief, Still I've opes of liberation. The Reverend Chapling to deceive A certain dodge and safe resource is, Whereby you gets a Ticket of Leave, And then resumes your wicious courses.

(SPOKEN.) I vos lagged, my beloved pals, on a suspicion of burglary, 'ad up afore the Recorder, and got seven years' penal serwitude and 'ard labor. Hand preshus 'ard labor and 'ard lines I found it at first, mind you. Vell, I says to myself, blow me! I ain't a goin' to stand this 'ere, you know: but 'taint no ass kickin' agin stone walls and iron spikes: wot I shall try and do is to gammon the parson.

"Ven a prig," etc.

Them parsons is so jolly green, They're sure to trust in your conwersion, Which they, in course, believes 'as been The consequence of their exertion. You shakes your 'ead, turns up your eyes, And they takes that to be repentance; Wherein you moans, and groans, and sighs, By reason only of your sentence.

(SPOKEN.) Wen in a state of wiolent prespiration smokin' 'ot from the crank, the Chapling comes into my cell, and he says, says he, "My man," he says, "how do you feel?" "'Appy, sir," says I, with a gentle sithe: "thank you, sir: quite 'appy." "But you seem distressed, my poor fellow," says he. "In body, sir," says I; "yes. But that makes me more 'appy. I'm glad to be distressed in body. It serves me right. But in mind I'm 'appy: leastways almost 'appy." "'Ave you hany wish to express," says he: "is there any request as you would like to make." "'AWKER'S HEVENING POTION, sir," says I, "and the DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER: if 'AWKER'S HEVENING POTION was but mine--and the DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER--I think, sir, I should be quite 'appy." "My friend," says the parson, "your desire shall be attended to," and hout he valked: me a takin' a sight at 'im be'ind 'is back; for as soon as I thought he wos out of 'earin', sings I to myself-- "Ven a prig," etc

In the chapel hof the Jug, Then I did the meek and lowly, Pullin' sitch a spoony mug That I looked unkimmon pure and 'oly. As loud as ever I could shout, All the responses too I hutter'd, Well knowing what I was about: So the reverend Gent I buttered.

(Spoken.) Won day he comes to me arter service, and axes me what I thought: I could do for myself in the way of yarnin a honest liveliwood, if so be as I was to be allowed my liberty and to go back to the world. "Ah! sir," says I, "I don't think no longer about the world. 'Tis a world of sorrow and wanity, I havn't given a thought to what I should do in it" "Every one," says the Chapling "has his sphere of usefulness in society; can you think of no employment which you have the desire and ability to follow?" "Well, sir," says I "if there is a wocation which I should feel delight and pleasure in follerin 'tis that of a Scripter Reader. But I ain't worthy to be a Scripter Reader. A coal-porter of tracts and religious books, sir, I thinks that's what I should like to try and be, if the time of my just punishment was up. But there's near seven year, sir, to think about that--and p'raps 'tis better for me to be here." That's the way I used to soap the Chapling--Cos vy? "Ven a prig," etc. So he thought I kissed the rod, All the while my 'art was 'ardened; And I 'adn't been very long in quod Afore he got me as good as pardoned; And here am I with my Ticket of Leave, Obtained by shamming pious feeling, Which lets me loose again to thieve, For I means to persewere in stealing.

(Spoken.) With which resolution, my beloved pals, if you please I'll couple the 'elth of the clergy; and may they hever continue to be sitch kind friends as they now shows theirselves to us when we gets into trouble. For, "Ven a prig," etc.

A POLKA LYRIC. BARCLAY PHILLIPS

Qui nunc dancere vult modo, Wants to dance in the fashion, oh! Discere debet--ought to know, Kickere floor cum heel and toe, One, two, three, Hop with me, Whirligig, twirligig, rapide.

Polkam jungere, Virgo, vis, Will you join the polka, miss? Liberius--most willingly, Sic agimus--then let us try: Nunc vide, Skip with me, Whirlabout, roundabout, celere.

Turn laeva cito, tum dextra, First to the left, and then t' other way; Aspice retro in vultu, You look at her, and she looks at you. Das palmam Change hands, ma'am; Celere--run away, just in sham.

A SUNNIT TO THE BIG OX.

COMPOSED WHILE STANDING WITHIN 2 FEET OF HIM, AND A TUCHIN' OF HIM NOW AND THEN. ANONYMOUS

All hale! thou mighty annimil--all hale! You are 4 thousand pounds, and am purty wel Perporshund, thou tremenjos boveen nuggit! I wonder how big you was wen you Wos little, and if yure muther wud no you now That you've grone so long, and thick, and phat; Or if yure father would rekognize his ofspring And his kaff, thou elefanteen quodrupid! I wonder if it hurts you mutch to be so big, And if you grode it in a month or so. I spose wen you wos young tha didn't gin You skim milk but all the kreme you kud stuff Into your little stummick, jest to see How big yude gro; and afterward tha no doubt Fed you on otes and ha and sich like, With perhaps an occasional punkin or squosh! In all probability yu don't no yure enny Bigger than a small kaff; for if you did,

Yude brake down fences and switch your tail, And rush around, and hook, and beller, And run over fowkes, thou orful beast O, what a lot of mince pize yude maik, And sassengers, and your tale, Whitch kan't wa fur from phorty pounds, Wud maik nigh unto a barrel of ox-tail soop, And cudn't a heep of stakes be cut oph yu, Whitch, with salt and pepper and termater Ketchup, wouldn't be bad to taik. Thou grate and glorious inseckt! But I must klose, O most prodijus reptile! And for mi admirashun of yu, when yu di, I'le rite a node unto yore peddy and remanes, Pernouncin' yu the largest of yure race; And as I don't expect to have a half a dollar Agin to spare for to pa to look at yu, and as I ain't a ded head, I will sa, farewell.

ENIGMATIC

RIDDLES BY MATTHEW PRIOR.

TWO RIDDLES.

Sphinx was a monster that would eat Whatever stranger she could get; Unless his ready wit disclos'd The subtle riddle she propos'd. Oedipus was resolv'd to go, And try what strength of parts would do. Says Sphinx, on this depends your fate; Tell me what animal is that Which has four feet at morning bright, Has two at noon and three at night? 'Tis man, said he, who, weak by nature, At first creeps, like his fellow creature, Upon all-four; as years accrue, With sturdy steps he walks on two; In age, at length, grows weak and sick, For his third leg adopts a stick. Now, in your turn, 'tis just methinks, You should resolve me, Madam Sphinx. What greater stranger yet is he Who has four legs, then two, then three; Then loses one, then gets two more, And runs away at last on four?

ENIGMA.

By birth I'm a slave, yet can give you a crown, I dispose of all honors, myself having none: I'm obliged by just maxims to govern my life, Yet I hang my own master, and lie with his wife. When men are a-gaming I cunningly sneak, And their cudgels and shovels away from them take. Pair maidens and ladies I by the hand get, And pick off their diamonds, tho' ne'er so well set. For when I have comrades we rob in whole bands, Then presently take off your lands from your hands. But, this fury once over, I've such winning arts, That you love me much more than you do your own hearts.

ANOTHER.

Form'd half beneath, and half above the earth, We sisters owe to art our second birth: The smith's and carpenter's adopted daughters, Made on the land, to travel on the waters. Swifter they move, as they are straiter bound, Yet neither tread the air, or wave, or ground: They serve the poor for use, the rich for whim, Sink when it rains, and when it freezes swim.

RIDDLES BY DEAN SWIFT AND HIS FRIENDS. [Footnote: The following notice is subjoined to some of those riddles, in the Dublin edition: "About nine or ten years ago (i. e. about 1724), some ingenious gentle-men, friends to the author, used to entertain themselves with writing riddles, and send them to him and their other acquaintance; copies of which ran about, and some of them were printed, both here and in England. The author, at his leisure hours, fell into the same amusement; although it be said that he thought them of no great merit, entertainment, or use. However, by the advice of some persons, for whom the author has a great esteem, and who were pleased to send us the copies, we have ventured to print the few following, as we have done two or three before, and which are allowed to be genuine; because we are informed that several good judges have a taste for such kind of compositions."]

A MAYPOLE.

Deprived of root, and branch, and rind, Yet flowers I bear of every kind: And such is my prolific power, They bloom in less than half an hour; Yet standers-by may plainly see They get no nourishment from me. My head with giddiness goes round, And yet I firmly stand my ground; All over naked I am seen, And painted like an Indian queen. No couple-beggar in the land E'er join'd such numbers hand in hand. I join'd them fairly with a ring; Nor can our parson blame the thing. And though no marriage words are spoke, They part not till the ring is broke: Yet hypocrite fanatics cry, I'm but an idol raised on high; And once a weaver in our town, A damn'd Cromwellian, knock'd me down. I lay a prisoner twenty years, And then the jovial cavaliers To their old post restored all three-- I mean the church, the king, and me.

ON THE MOON.

I with borrowed silver shine, What you see is none of mine. First I show you but a quarter, Like the bow that guards the Tartar: Then the half, and then the whole, Ever dancing round the pole.

What will raise your admiration, I am not one of God's creation, But sprung (and I this truth maintain), Like Pallas, from my father's brain. And after all, I chiefly owe My beauty to the shades below. Most wondrous forms you see me wear, A man, a woman, lion, bear, A fish, a fowl, a cloud, a field, All figures heaven or earth can yield; Like Daphne sometimes in a tree; Yet am not one of all you see.

ON INK.

I am jet black, as you may see, The son of pitch and gloomy night; Yet all that know me will agree, I'm dead except I live in light.

Sometimes in panegyric high, Like lofty Pindar, I can soar, And raise a virgin to the sky, Or sink her to a filthy ----.

My blood this day is very sweet, To-morrow of a bitter juice; Like milk, 'tis cried about the street, And so applied to different use.

Most wondrous is my magic power: For with one color I can paint; I'll make the devil a saint this hour, Next make a devil of a saint.

Through distant regions I can fly, Provide me but with paper wings; And fairly show a reason why There should be quarrels among kings;

And, after all, you'll think it odd, When learned doctors will dispute, That I should point the word of God, And show where they can best confute.

Let lawyers bawl and strain their throats 'Tis I that must the lands convey, And strip their clients to their coats; Nay, give their very souls away.

ON A CIRCLE.

I'm up and down, and round about, Yet all the world can't find me out; Though hundreds have employ'd their leisure, They never yet could find my measure. I'm found almost in every garden, Nay, in the compass of a farthing. There's neither chariot, coach, nor mill, Can move an inch except I will.

ON A PEN.

In youth exalted high in air, Or bathing in the waters fair, Nature to form me took delight, And clad my body all in white. My person tall, and slender waist, On either side with fringes graced; Tell me that tyrant man espied, And dragg'd me from my mother's side, No wonder now I look so thin; The tyrant stript me to the skin: My skin he flay'd, my hair he cropt: At head and foot my body lopt: And then, with heart more hard than s one, He pick'd my marrow from the bone. To vex me more, he took a freak To slit my tongue and make me speak But, that which wonderful appears, I speak to eyes, and not to ears. He oft employs me in disguise, And makes me tell a thousand lies: To me he chiefly gives in trust To please his malice or his lust, From me no secret he can hide: I see his vanity and pride: And my delight is to expose His follies to his greatest foes. All languages I can command, Yet not a word I understand. Without my aid, the best divine In learning would not know a line: The lawyer must forget his pleading; The scholar could not show his reading Nay; man my master is my slave; I give command to kill or save. Can grant ten thousand pounds a-year, And make a beggar's brat a peer. But, while I thus my life relate, I only hasten on my fate. My tongue is black, my mouth is furr'd, I hardly now can force a word. I die unpitied and forgot, And on some dunghill left to rot.

A FAN.

From India's burning clime I'm brought, With cooling gales like zephyrs fraught. Not Iris, when she paints the sky, Can show more different hues than I: Nor can she change her form so fast, I'm now a sail, and now a mast. I here am red, and there am green, A beggar there, and here a queen. I sometimes live in a house of hair, And oft in hand of lady fair. I please the young, I grace the old, And am at once both hot and cold Say what I am then, if you can, And find the rhyme, and you're the man.

ON A CANNON.

Begotten, and born, and dying with noise, The terror of women, and pleasure of boys, Like the fiction of poets concerning the wind, I'm chiefly unruly when strongest confined. For silver and gold I don't trouble my head, But all I delight in is pieces of lead; Except when I trade with a ship or a town, Why then I make pieces of iron go down. One property more I would have you remark, No lady was ever more fond of a spark; The moment I get one my soul's all a-fire, And I roar out my joy, and in transport expire.

ON THE FIVE SENSES.

All of us in one you'll find, Brethren of a wondrous kind; Yet among us all no brother Knows one title of the other; We in frequent counsels are, And our marks of things declare, Where, to us unknown, a clerk Sits, and takes them in the dark. He's the register of all In our ken, both great and small; By us forms his laws and rules, He's our master, we his tools; Yet we can with greatest ease Turn and wind him where you please. One of us alone can sleep, Yet no watch the rest will keep, But the moment that he closes, Every brother else reposes. If wine's bought or victuals drest, One enjoys them for the rest. Pierce us all with wounding steel, One for all of us will feel. Though ten thousand cannons roar, Add to them ten thousand more, Yet but one of us is found Who regards the dreadful sound.

ON SNOW.

From Heaven I fall, though from earth I begin. No lady alive can show such a skin. I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather, But heavy and dark, when you squeeze me together. Though candor and truth in my aspect I bear, Yet many poor creatures I help to insnare. Though so much of Heaven appears in my make, The foulest impressions I easily take. My parent and I produce one another, The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother.

ON A CANDLE.

Of all inhabitants on earth, To man alone I owe my birth, And yet the cow, the sheep, the bee, Are all my parents more than he: I, a virtue, strange and rare, Make the fairest look more fair; And myself, which yet is rarer, Growing old, grow still the fairer. Like sots, alone I'm dull enough, When dosed with smoke, and smear'd with snuff; But, in the midst of mirth and wine, I with double luster shine. Emblem of the Fair am I, Polish'd neck, and radiant eye; In my eye my greatest grace, Emblem of the Cyclops' race; Metals I like them subdue, Slave like them to Vulcan too; Emblem of a monarch old, Wise, and glorious to behold; Wasted he appears, and pale, Watching for the public weal: Emblem of the bashful dame, That in secret feeds her flame, Often aiding to impart All the secrets of her heart; Various is my bulk and hue, Big like Bess, and small like Sue: Now brown and burnish'd like a nut, At other times a very slut; Often fair, and soft and tender, Taper, tall, and smooth, and slender: Like Flora, deck'd with various flowers Like Phoebus, guardian of the hours: But whatever be my dress, Greater be my size or less, Swelling be my shape or small Like thyself I shine in all. Clouded if my face is seen, My complexion wan and green, Languid like a love-sick maid, Steel affords me present aid. Soon or late, my date is done, As my thread of life is spun; Yet to cut the fatal thread Oft revives my drooping head; Yet I perish in my prime, Seldom by the death of time; Die like lovers as they gaze, Die for those I live to please; Pine unpitied to my urn, Nor warm the fair for whom I burn; Unpitied, unlamented too, Die like all that look on you.

ON A CORKSCREW.

Though I, alas! a prisoner be, My trade is prisoners to set free. No slave his lord's commands obeys With such insinuating ways. My genius piercing, sharp, and bright, Wherein the men of wit delight. The clergy keep me for their ease, And turn and wind me as they please. A new and wondrous art I show Of raising spirits from below; In scarlet some, and some in white; They rise, walk round, yet never fright In at each mouth the spirits pass, Distinctly seen as through a glass. O'er head and body make a rout, And drive at last all secrets out; And still, the more I show my art, The more they open every heart. A greater chemist none than I Who, from materials hard and dry, Have taught men to extract with skill More precious juice than from a still. Although I'm often out of case, I'm not ashamed to show my face. Though at the tables of the great I near the sideboard take my seat; Yet the plain 'squire, when dinner's done, Is never pleased till I make one; He kindly bids me near him stand, And often takes me by the hand. I twice a-day a-hunting go, And never fail to seize my foe; And when I have him by the poll, I drag him upward from his hole; Though some are of so stubborn kind, I'm forced to leave a limb behind. I hourly wait some fatal end; For I can break, but scorn to bend.

AN ECHO.

Never sleeping, still awake, Pleasing most when most I speak; The delight of old and young, Though I speak without a tongue. Nought but one thing can confound me, Many voices joining round me; Then I fret, and rave, and gabble, Like the laborers of Babel. Now I am a dog, or cow, I can bark, or I can low; I can bleat, or I can sing, Like the warblers of the spring. Let the love-sick bard complain, And I mourn the cruel pain; Let the happy swain rejoice, And I join my helping voice: Both are welcome, grief or joy, I with either sport and toy. Though a lady, I am stout, Drums and trumpets bring me out: Then I clash, and roar, and rattle, Join in all the din of battle. Jove, with all his loudest thunder, When I'm vexed can't keep me under, Yet so tender is my ear, That the lowest voice I fear; Much I dread the courtier's fate, When his merit's out of date, For I hate a silent breath, And a whisper is my death.

ON THE VOWELS.

We are little airy creatures, All of different voice and features; One of us in glass is set, One of us you'll find in jet. T'other you may see in tin, And the fourth a box within. If the fifth you should pursue, It can never fly from you.

ON A PAIR OF DICE.

We are little brethren twain, Arbiters of loss and gain, Many to our counters run, Some are made, and some undone: But men find it to their cost, Few are made, but numbers lost. Though we play them tricks forever, Yet they always hope our favor.

ON A SHADOW IN A GLASS.

By something form'd, I nothing am, Yet every thing that you can name; In no place have I ever been, Yet everywhere I may be seen; In all things false, yet always true, I'm still the same--but ever now. Lifeless, life's perfect form I wear, Can show a nose, eye, tongue, or ear, Yet neither smell, see, taste, nor hear. All shapes and features I can boast, No flesh, no bones, no blood-no ghost: All colors, without paint, put on, And change, like the chameleon. Swiftly I come, and enter there, Where not a chink lets in the air; Like thought, I'm in a moment gone, Nor can I ever be alone: All things on earth I imitate Faster than nature can create; Sometimes imperial robes I wear, Anon in beggar's rags appear; A giant now, and straight an elf, I'm every one, but ne'er myself; Ne'er sad I mourn, ne'er glad rejoice, I move my lips, but want a voice, I ne'er was born, nor ne'er can die, Then, pr'ythee, tell me what am I?

ON TIME.

Ever eating, ever cloying, All-devouring, all-destroying Never finding full repast, Till I eat the world at last.

CATALOGUE OF SOURCES

ADDISON, JOSEPH--The Essayist of the "Spectator;" born 1632 died 1708. Addison, though one of the most celebrated of English humorists, wrote scarcely a line of humorous verse.

ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM--An American writer; contributor to "Putnam's Magazine;" author of a volume of poems recently published in Hartford.

ANONYMOUS--To Punch's Almanac, for 1856, we are indebted for an account of this prolific writer:

"Of Anon," says Punch, "but little is known, though his works are excessively numerous. He has dabbled in every thing. Prose and Poetry are alike familiar to his pen. One moment he will be up the highest flights of philosophy, and the next he will be down in some kitchen garden of literature, culling an Enormous Gooseberry, to present it to the columns of some provincial newspaper. His contributions are scattered wherever the English language is read. Open any volume of Miscellanies at any place you will, and you are sure to fall upon some choice little bit signed by 'Anon.' What a mind his must have been! It took in every thing like a pawnbroker's shop. Nothing was too trifling for its grasp. Now he was hanging on to the trunk of an elephant and explaining to you how it was more elastic than a pair of India-rubber braces; and next he would be constructing a suspension bridge with a series of monkey's tails, tying them together as they do pocket- handkerchief's in the gallery of a theater when they want to fish up a bonnet that has fallen into the pit.

"Anon is one of our greatest authors. If all the things which are signed with Anon's name were collected on rows of shelves, he would require a British Museum all to himself. And yet of this great man so little is known that we are not even acquainted with his Christian name. There is no certificate of baptism, no moldy tombstone, no musty washing-bill in the world on which we can hook the smallest line of speculation whether it was John, or James, or Joshua, or Tom, or Dick, or Billy Anon. Shame that a man should write so much, and yet be known so little. Oblivion uses its snuffers, sometimes, very unjustly. On second thoughts, perhaps, it is as well that the works of Anon were not collected together. His reputation for consistency would not probably be increased by the collection. It would be found that frequently he had contradicted himself---that in many instances when he had been warmly upholding the Christian white of a question he had afterward turned round, and maintained with equal warmth the Pagan black of it. He might often be discovered on both sides of a truth, jumping boldly from the right side over to the wrong, and flinging big stones at any one who dared to assail him in either position. Such double-sidedness would not be pretty, and yet we should be lenient to such inconsistencies. With one who had written so many thousand volumes, who had twirled his thoughts as with a mop on every possible subject, how was it possible to expect any thing like consistency? How was it likely that he could recollect every little atom out of the innumerable atoms his pen had heaped up?

"Anon ought to have been rich, but he lived in an age when piracy was the fashion, and when booksellers walked about, as it were, like Indian chiefs with the skulls of the authors they had slain, hung round their necks. No wonder, therefore, that we know nothing of the wealth of Anon. Doubtless he died in a garret, like many other kindred spirits, Death being the only score out of the many knocking at his door that he could pay. But to his immortal credit let it be said he has filled more libraries than the most generous patrons of literature. The volumes that formed the fuel of the barbarians' bonfire at Alexandria would be but a small book-stall by the side of the octavos, quartos, and duodecimos he has pyramidized on our book-shelves. Look through any catalogue you will, and you will find that a large proportion of the works in it have been contributed by Anon. The only author who can in the least compete with him in fecundity is Ibid."

ANTI-JACOBIN, THE---Perhaps the most famous collection of Political Satires extant. Originated by Canning in 1797, it appeared in the form of a weekly newspaper, interspersed with poetry, the avowed object of which was to expose the vicious doctrines of the French Revolution, and to hold up to ridicule and contempt the advocates of that event, and the sticklers for peace and parliamentary reform. The editor was William Gifford, the vigorous and unscrupulous critic and poetaster the writers, Mr. John Hookham Frere, Mr. Jenkinson (afterward Earl of Liverpool); Mr. George Ellis, Lord Clare, Lord Mornington (afterward Marquis Wellesley), Lord Morpeth (afterward Earl of Carlisle), Baron Macdonald, and others. These gentlemen spared no means, fair or foul, in their attempts to blacken their adversaries. Their most distinguished countrymen, if opposed to the Tory government of the time being, were treated with no more respect than foreign adversaries, and were held up to public execration as traitors, blasphemers, and debauchees. The period was one of great political excitement, a fierce war with republican France being in progress, the necessity for which divided the public into two great parties; national credit being affected, the Bank of England suspending cash payments, mutinies breaking out in the fleets at Spithead and the Nore, and Ireland at the verge of rebellion. Spain, also, had declared war against Britain, which was thus left to contend singly against the power of France. Party feeling running very high, the anti-Jacobins were by no means discriminating in their attacks, associating men together who really had nothing in common. Hence the reader is surprised to find Charles Lamb and other non-intruders into politics, figuring as congenial conspirators with Tom Paine. Fox, Sheridan, Erskine, and other eloquent liberals of the day, with Tierney, Home Tooke, and Coleridge were at the same tune writing and talking in the opposite extreme, and little quarter was given--certainly none on the part of the Tory wits. The poetry of the "Anti-Jacobin," however, was not exclusively political, comprising also parodies and burlesques on the current literature of the day, some being of the highest degree of merit, and distinguished by sharp wit and broad humor of the happiest kind. In these, Canning and his coadjutors did a real service to letters, and assisted in a purification which Gifford, by his demolition of the Delia Cruscan school of poetry had so well begun. Perhaps no lines in the English language have been more effective or oftener quoted than Canning's "Friend of Humanity and the Knife Grinder." Many of the celebrated caricatures of Gilray were originally designed to illustrate the Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin. It had, however, but a brief, though brilliant existence. Wilberforce and others of the more moderate supporters of the ministry became alarmed at the boldness of the language employed. Pitt (himself a contributor to the journal), was induced to interfere, and after a career of eight months, the "Anti-Jacobin" (in its original form), ceased to be.

AYTOUN, WILLIAM--Professor of Polite Literature in the Edinburg University: editor of "Blackwood's Magazine:" son-in-law of the late Professor Wilson. Professor Aytoun was bred to the bar but, we believe, never came into practice. He is tha author of several humorous pieces, and of many in which the intention to be humorous was not realized. He is what the English call a very CLEVER man. Like many others who excel in ridicule and sarcasm, he is devoid of that kind of moral principle which makes a writer prefer the Just to the Dashing. Aytoun is a fierce Tory in politics--a snob on principle. The specimens of his humorous poetry contained in this collection were taken from the "Ballads of Bon Gaultier," and the "Idees Napoleoniennes," editions of both of which have been published in this country.

BARHAM, REV. RICHARD HARRIS--Author of the celebrated "Ingoldsby Legends," published originally in "Bentley's Miscellany," afterward collected and published in three volumes, with a memoir by a son of the author.

Mr. Barham was born at Canterbury, England, December 6th, 1788. His family is of great antiquity, having given its name to the well-known "Barham Downs," between Dover and Canterbury. He was educated at St. Paul's School in Canterbury, where he made the acquaintance of Richard Bentley, who afterward became his publisher. From this school, he wont to Oxford, entering Brazennose College, as a gentleman commoner, where he met Theodore Hook, and formed a friendship with that prince of wits which terminated only with Hook's life. At the University, Barham led a wild, dissipated life--as the bad custom then was--and was noted as a wit and good fellow. Being called to account, on one occasion, by his tutor for his continued absence from morning prayer, Barham replied,

"The fact is, sir, you are too LATE for me."

"Too late?" exclaimed the astonished tutor.

"Yes, sir," rejoined the student, "I can not sit up till seven o'clock in the morning. I am a man of regular habits, and unless I get to bed by four or five, I am fit for nothing the next day."

The tutor took this jovial reply seriously, and Barham perceiving that he was really wounded, offered a sincere apology, and afterward attended prayers more regularly.

Entering the church, he devoted himself to his clerical duties with exemplary assiduity, and obtained valuable preferment, rising at length to be one of the Canons of St. Paul's Cathedral. This office brought him into relations with Sydney Smith, with whom, though Barham was a Tory, he had much convivial intercourse.

Very early in life Mr. Barham became an occasional contributor to Blackwood's Magazine, then in the prime of its vigorous youth. The series of contributions called "Family Poetry," which appear in the volumes for 1823, and subsequent years, were by him. Most of those humorous effusions have been transferred to this volume. In 1837 Mr. Bentley established his "Miscellany," and secured the services of his friend Barham, who, up to this time was unknown to the general public, though he had been for nearly twenty years a successful writer. The "Ingoldsby Legends" now appeared in rapid succession, and proved so popular that their author soon became one of the recognized wits of the day. A large number of these unique and excellent productions enrich the present collection, "As respects these poems," says Mr. Barham's biographer, "remarkable as they have been pronounced for the wit and humor which they display, their distinguishing attractions lies in the almost unparalleled flow and felicity of the versification. Popular phrases, sentences the most prosaic, even the cramped technicalities of legal diction, and snatches from well-nigh every language, are wrought in with an apparent absence of all art and effort that surprises, pleases, and convulses the reader at every turn. The author triumphs with a master hand over every variety of stanza, however complicated or exacting; not a word seems out of place, not an expression forced; syllables the most intractable, and the only partners fitted for them throughout the range of language are coupled together as naturally as those kindred spirits which poets tell us were created pairs, and dispersed in space to seek out their particular mates. A harmony pervades the whole, a perfect modulation of numbers, never, perhaps, surpassed, and rarely equaled in compositions of their class. This was the forte of Thomas Ingoldsby; a harsh line or untrue rhyme grated on his ear like the Shandean hinge." These observations are just. As a rhymer, Mr. Barham has but one equal in English literature--Byron.

Mr. Barham died at London on the 17th of June, 1845, in the fifty-seventh year of his age. He was an extremely amiable, benevolent character. It does not appear that his love of the humorous was ever allowed to interfere with the performance of his duties as a clergyman. Without being a great preacher, he was a faithful and kindly pastor, never so much in his element as when ministering to the distresses, or healing the differences of his parishioners. Unlike his friend, Sydney Smith, he was singularly fond of the drama, and for many years was a member of the Garrick Club. He was one of the few English writers of humorous verse, ALL of whose writings may be read aloud by a father to his family, and in whose wit there was no admixture of gall.

"BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY"--A London Monthly Magazine, founded about twenty years ago by Mr. Bentley, the publisher. Charles Dickens, and the author of the Ingoldsby Legends were among the first contributors.

BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE--First appeared in April, 1817 Founded by William Blackwood, a shrewd Edinburgh bookseller. Its literary ability and fierce political partisanship, soon placed it fore-most in the ranks of Tory periodicals. Perhaps no magazine has ever achieved such celebrity, or numbered such a host of illustrious contributors. John Wilson, the world-famous "Christopher North," was the virtual, though not nominal editor, Blackwood himself retaining that title. It would be a long task to enumerate all, who, from the days of Sir Walter Scott and the Ettrick Shepherd, to those of Bulwer and Charles Mackay, have appeared in its columns. Maginn, Lockhart, Gillies, Moir, Landor, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Lamb, Bowles, Barry Cornwall, Gleig, Hamilton, Aird, Sym, De Quincey, Allan Cunningham, Mrs. Hemans, Jerrold, Croly, Warren, Ingoldsby (Barham), Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Milnes, and many others, of scarcely less note, found in Blackwood scope for their productions, whether of prose or verse. In its early days much of personality and sarcasm marked its pages, savage onslaughts on Leigh Hunt, and "the Cockney School of Literature," alternating with attacks on the Edinburgh Review, the Quarterly, and all Whigs and Whig productions whatever. The celebrated Noctes Ambrosianae, a series of papers containing probably more learning, wit, eloquence, eccentricity, humor, and personality than have ever appeared elsewhere, formed part of the individuality of Blackwood. They were written by Wilson, Maginn, Lockhart, and Hogg, the two first named (and especially Wilson), having the pre-eminence. To the New York edition of this work, by Dr. Shelton Mackenzie (whose notes contain a perfect mine of information), we refer the reader for further particulars relative to Blackwood.

BROUGHAM, LORD--The well-known member of the English House of Peers. It seems, from some jocularities attributed to his lordship, that he adds to his many other claims to distinction that of being a man of wit.

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN--The most celebrated of American poets. Editor of the "New York Evening Post." Born 1794.

BURNS, ROBERT--Born 1750, died 1796. The best loved, most national, most independent, truest, and greatest of Scottish poets, of whom to say more here were an impertinence.

BUTLER, SAMUEL--Born in 1612; the son of a substantial farmer in Worcestershire, England. Very little is known of the earlier portion of his life, as he had reached the age of fifty before he was so much as heard of by his contemporaries. He appears to have received a good education at the cathedral school of his native county, and to have filled various situations, as clerk in the service of Thomas Jeffries of Earl's Croombe, secretary to the Countess of Kent, and general man of business to Sir Samuel Luke, of Cople Hoo, Bedfordshire, who, it is said, served as the model for his hero, Hudibras. The first part of this singular poem was published at the close of 1662, and met with extraordinary success. Its wit, its quaint sense and learning, its passages of sarcastic reflection on all manner of topics, and above all, its unsparing ridicule of men and things on the Puritan side, combined to render it a general favorite. The reception of Part II., which appeared a year subsequent, was equally flattering. Yet its author seems to have fallen into the greatest poverty and obscurity, from which be never was enabled to emerge. It appears to have been his strange fate to flash all at once into notoriety, which lasted precisely two years, to fill the court and town during that time with continuous laughter, intermingled with inquiries who and what he was, and then for seventeen long years to plod on unknown and unregarded, still hearing his Hudibras quoted, and still preparing more of it, or matter similar, with no result. He died, in almost absolute destitution, in 1680, and was buried at a friend's expense, in the church-yard of St. Paul's, Covent Garden.

BYROM--A noted English Jacobite. Born 1691.

BYRON, GEORGE GORDON NOEL--Born 1788, died in Greece, 1824. Respecting his celebrated Satire on the poet Rogers, which appears in this collection, we read the following in a London periodical:--"The satire on Rogers, by Lord Byron, is not surpassed for cool malignity, dexterous portraiture, and happy imagery, in the whole compass of the English language. It is said, and by those well informed, that Rogers used to bore Byron while in Italy, by his incessant minute dilettantism, and by visits at hours when Byron did not care to see him. One of many wild freaks to repel his unreasonable visits was to set his big dog at him. To a mind like Byron's, here was sufficient provocation for a satire. The subject, too, was irresistible. Other inducements were not wanting. No man indulged himself more in sarcastic remarks on his cotemporaries than Mr. Rogers. He indulged his wit at any sacrifice. He spared no one, and Byron, consequently did not escape. Sarcastic sayings travel on electric wings--and one of Rogers's personal and amusing allusions to Byron reached the ears of the poetic pilgrim at Ravenna. Few characters can bear the microscopic scrutiny of wit. Byron suffered. Fewer characters can bear its microscopic scrutiny when quickened by anger, and Rogers suffered still more severely.

"This, the greatest of modern satirical portraits in verse, was written before their final meeting at Bologna. Rogers was not aware that any saying of his had ever reached the ear of Byron, and Byron never published the verses on Rogers. They met like the handsome women described by Cibber, who, though they wished one another at the devil, are 'My dear,' and 'My dear,' whenever they meet. One doubtless considered his saying as something to be forgotten, and the other his verses as something not to be remembered. These verses are not included in Byron's works, and are very little known."

CHAUCER lived in the thirteenth century, dying in 1400. He is designated the father of English poetry. The obsolete phraseology of his writings, though presenting a barrier to general appreciation and popularity, will never deter those who truly love the "dainties that are bred in a book" from holding him in affection and reverence. His chief work, the "Canterbury Pilgrimage," "well of English undefiled" as it is, was written in the decline of life, when its author had passed his sixtieth year. For catholicity of spirit, love of nature, purity of thought, pathos, humor, subtle and minute discrimination of character and power of expressing it, Chaucer has one superior--Shakspeare.

CHESTERFIELD, LORD--Born in 1694; died 1773. Courtier, statesman, and man of the world; famous for many things, but known to literature chiefly by his "Letters to his Son," which have formed three generations of "gentlemen," and still exert great influence. Chesterfield was a noted wit in his day, but most of his good things have been lost.

CLEVELAND, JOHN--A political writer of Charles the First's time; author of several satirical pieces, now known only to the curious. He died in 1659.

COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR--Poet, plagiarist, and opium-eater. Born at Bristol, in 1770. Died near London in 1834. He was a weak man of genius, whose reputation, formerly immense, has declined since he has been better known. But "Christabel" and the "Ancient Mariner," will charm many generations of readers yet unborn. Most of the epigrams which appear in his works are ADAPTED from Leasing.

COWPER, WILLIAM--The gentle poet of religious England: born 1731; died 1800. Cowper was an elegant humorist, despite the gloominess of his religious belief. It is said, however, that his most comic effusions were written during periods of despondency.

"CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS"--A monthly Magazine, published at the period of the artist's greatest celebrity, principally as a vehicle for his pencil. Its editor was Laman Blanchard, a lively essayist, and amiable man, whom anticipations of pecuniary distress subsequently goaded to suicide.

DEVREAUX, S. H.--An American scholar. Translator of "Yriarte's Fables," recently published in Boston.

ERSKINE, THOMAS--One of the most eminent of English lawyers. Born 1750; died 1823.

FIELDING, HENRY--The great English Humorist; author of "Tom Jones;" born, 1707; died, 1754.

GAY, JOHN--A poet and satirist of the days of Queen Anne. Born 1688; died, 1732. His wit, gentleness, humor, and animal spirits appear to have rendered him a general favorite. In worldly matters he was not fortunate, losing 20,000 pounds by the South Sea bubble; nor did his interest, which was by no means inconsiderable, succeed in procuring him a place at court. He wrote fables, pastorals, the burlesque poem of "Trivia," and plays, the most successful and celebrated of which is the "Beggar's Opera." Of this work there exists a sequel or second part, as full of wit and satire as the original, but much less known. Its performance was suppressed by Walpole, upon whom it was supposed to reflect.

GRAY, THOMAS--Author of the "Elegy written in a Country Church-yard;" Professor of Modern History in the University of Cambridge. Born in London, 1716; died, 1771. Gray was learned in History, Architecture, and Natural History. As a poet, he was remarkable for the labor bestowed on his poems, for his reluctance to publish, and for the small number of his compositions. Carlyle thinks he is the only English poet who wrote less than he ought.

HALPIX.----- --A writer for the press, a resident of New York, author of "Lyrics by the Letter H," published a year or two since by Derby.

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL--A physician of Boston, Professor of Anatomy in Harvard University; born at Cambridge, Mass., in 1809. Dr. Holmes's humorous verses are too well known to require comment in this place. His burlesque, entitled "Evening, by a Tailor," is very excellent of its kind.

HOOD, THOMAS--Author of the "Song of the Shirt," which Punch had the honor of first publishing. Born in 1798; died in 1845. Hood was the son of a London bookseller, and began life as a clerk. He became afterward an engraver, but was drawn gradually into the literary profession, which he exercised far more to the advantage of his readers than his own. His later years were saddened by ill-health and poverty. Some of his comic verses seem forced and contrived, as though done for needed wages. Hood was one of the literary men who should have made of literature a staff, not a crutch. It was in him to produce, like Lamb, a few very admirable things, the execution of which should have been the pleasant occupation of his leisure, not the toil by which he gained his bread.

HUNT, JAMES HENRY LEIGH--English Journalist and Poet. Born in 1784. His father was a clergyman of the Established church, and a man of wit and feeling.

JOHNSON, DR. SAMUEL--Born 1709; died 1784. Critic, moralist, lexicographer, and, above all, the hero of Boswell's Life of Johnson. The ponderous philosopher did not disdain, occasionally, to give play to his elephantine wit.

JONSON, BEN--Born 1574; died 1637. Poet, playwright, and friend of Shakspeare, in whose honor he has left a noble eulogium. A manly, sturdy, laborious, English genius, of whose dramatic productions, however, but one ("Every Man in his Humor") has retained possession of the stage. He is also the author of some exquisite lyrics. LAMB, CHARLES--Born in London, 1775; died, 1832. As a humorous essayist, unrivaled and peculiar, he is known and loved by all who are likely to possess this volume.

LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE--A living English writer of considerable celebrity, author of "Imaginary Conversations," contributor to several leading periodicals. Mr. Landor is now advanced in years. His humorous verses are few, and not of striking excellence.

"LANTERN," THE--A comic weekly, in imitation of "Punch," published in this city a few years ago. The leading spirit of the "Lantern" was Mr. John Brougham, the well-known dramatist and actor.

"LEADER," THE--A London weekly newspaper, of liberal opinions; ably written and badly edited, and, therefore, of limited circulation.

LESSING, GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM--The well-known German author; born 1729; died 1781. The epigrams of Lessing have been so frequently stolen by English writers, that, perhaps, they may now be considered as belonging to English literature, and hence entitled to a place in this collection. At least we found the temptation to add them to our stock irresistible.

LINDSAY--A friend of Dean Swift. A polite and elegant scholar; an eminent pleader at the bar in Dublin, and afterward advanced to be one of the justices of the Common Pleas.

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL--The American Poet. Born at Boston, in the year 1819. To Mr. Lowell must be assigned a high, if not the highest place, among American writers of humorous poetry. The Biglow Papers, from which we have derived several excellent pieces for this volume, is one of the most ingenious and well-sustained jeux d'esprit in existence.

MAPES, WALTER DE--A noted clerical wit of Henry the Second's time.

MOORE, THOMAS--The Irish poet; born at Dublin in the year 1780. Moore has been styled the best writer of political squibs that ever lived. He was employed to write comic verses on passing events, by the conductors of the "London Times," in which journal many of his satirical poems appeared. The political effusions that gave so much delight thirty years ago are, however, scarcely intelligible to the present generation, or if intelligible, not interesting. But Moore wrote many a sprightly stanza, the humor of which does not depend for its effect upon local or cotemporary allusions. This collection contains most of them.

MORRIS, GEORGE P--The father of polite journalism in this city, and the most celebrated of American Song-writers. Born in Pennsylvania about the beginning of the present century.

"PERCY RELIQUES"--A celebrated collection of ancient ballads, edited by Bishop Percy, a man of great antiquarian knowledge and poetic taste. The publication of the "Percy Reliques" in the last century, introduced the taste for the antique, which was gratified to the utmost by Sir Walter Scott, and which has scarcely yet ceased to rage in some quarters.

PHILIPS, BARCLAY--A living English writer, of whom nothing is known in this country.

PINDAR, PETER--See Wolcott.

POPE, ALEXANDER--The poet of the time of Queen Anne; author of the "Dunciad," which has been styled the most perfect of satires. Born in London, 1688; died, 1744.

PRAED, WINTHROP MACKWORTH--An English poet, author of "Lillian," born in London about the year 1800. Little is known of Mr. Praed in this country, though it was here that his poems were first collected and published in a volume. His family is of the aristocracy of the city, where some of his surviving relations are still engaged in the business of banking. At Eton, Praed was highly distinguished for his literary talents. He was for some time the editor of "The Etonian," a piquant periodical published by the students. From Eton he went to Cambridge, where he won an unprecedented number of prizes for poems and epigrams in Greek, Latin, and English. On returning to London, he was associated with Thomas Babbington Macaulay in the editorship of "Knight's Quarterly Magazine," after the discontinuance of which he occasionally contributed to the "New Monthly." A few years before his death, Mr. Praed became a member of Parliament, but owing to his love of ease and society, obtained little distinction in that body.

Mr. N. P. Willis thus writes of the poet as he appeared in society: "We chance to have it in our power to say a word as to Mr. Praed's personal appearance, manners, etc. It was our good fortune when first in England (in 1834 or '35), to be a guest at the same hospitable country-house for several weeks. The party there assembled was somewhat a femous one-Miss Jane Porter, Miss Julia Pardoe, Krazinski (the Polish historian), Sir Gardiner Wilkinson (the Oriental traveler), venerable Lady Cork ('Lady Bellair' of D'lsraeli's novel), and several persons more distinguished in society than in literature. Praed, we believe, had not been long married, but he was there with his wife. He was apparently about thirty-five, tall, and of dark complexion, with a studious bend in his shoulders, and of irregular features strongly impressed with melancholy. His manners were particularly reserved, though as unassuming as they could well be. His exquisitely beautiful poem of 'Lillian' was among the pet treasures of the lady of the house, and we had all been indulged with a sight of it, in a choicely bound manuscript copy--but it was hard to make him confess to any literary habits or standing. As a gentleman of ample means and retired life, the land of notice drawn upon him by the admiration of this poem, seemed distasteful. His habits were very secluded. We only saw him at table and in the evening; and, for the rest of the day, he was away in the remote walks and woods of the extensive park around the mansion, apparently more fond of solitude than of anything else. Mr. Praed's mind was one of wonderful readiness--rhythm and rhyme coming to him with the flow of an improvisatore. The ladies of the party made the events of every day the subjects of charades, epigrams, sonnets, etc., with the design of suggesting inspiration to his ready pen; and he was most brilliantly complying, with treasures for each in her turn."

Mr. Praed died on the 15th of July, 1839, without having accomplished any thing worthy the promise of his earlier years--another instance of Life's reversing the judgment of College. As a writer of agreeable trifles for the amusement of the drawing-room, he has had few superiors, and it is said that a large number of his impromptu effusions are still in the possession of his friends unpublished. Two editions of his poems have appeared in New York, one by Langley in 1844, and another by Redfield a few years later.

PRIOR, MATTHEW--Born 1664; died 1721. A wit and poet of no small genius and good nature--one of the minor celebrities of the days of Queen Anne. His "Town and Country Mouse," written to ridicule of Dryden's famous "Hind and Panther," procured him the appointment of Secretary of Embassy at the Hague, and he subsequently rose to be ambassador at Paris. Suffering disgrace with his patrons he was afterward recalled, and received a pension from the University of Oxford, up to the time of his death.

"PUNCH"--Commenced in July, 1841, making its appearance just at the close of the Whig ministry, under Lord Melbourne, and the accession of the Tories, headed by Sir Robert Peel. Originated by a circle of wits and literary men who frequented the "Shakspeare's Head," a tavern in Wych-street, London. Mark Lemon, the landlord was, and still is, its editor. He is of Jewish descent, and had some reputation for ability with his pen, having been connected with other journals, and also written farces and dramatic pieces. Punch's earliest contributors were Douglas Jerrold, Albert Smith, Gilbert Abbot a'Beckett Hood and Maginn- Thackeray's debut occurring in the third volume. It is said that one evening each week was especially devoted to a festive meeting of these writers, where, Lernon presiding, they deliberated as to the conduct and course of the periodical. "Punch," however, was at first not successful, and indeed on the point of being abandoned as a bad speculation, when Messrs. Bradbury and Evans, two aspiring printers, now extensive publishers, purchased it at the very moderate price of one hundred pounds, since which time it has continued their property, and a valuable one. In those days it presented a somewhat different appearance from the present, being more closely printed, finer type used, and the illustrations (with the exception of small, black, silhouette cuts, after the style of those in similar French publications), were comparatively scanty. Soon, however, "Punch" throve apace, amply meriting its success. To Henning's drawings (mostly those of a political nature), were added those of Leech, Kenny Meadows, Phiz (H. K. Browne), Gilbert, Alfred Crowquill (Forrester), and others--Doyle's pencil not appearing till some years later. Chief of these gentlemen in possession of the peculiar artistic ability which has identified itself with "Punch" is unquestionably Mr. John Leech, of whom we shall subsequently speak, at greater length. He has remained constant to the journal from its first volume. Jerrold's writings date from the commencement. Many essays and satiric sketches over fancy signatures, are from his pen. His later and longer productions, extending through many volumes, are "Punch's Letters to his Son," "Punch's Complete Letter Writer," "Twelve Labors of Hercules," "Autobiography of Tom Thumb," "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures," "Capsicum House for Young Ladies," "Our Little Bird," "Mrs. Benimble's Tea and Toast," "Miss Robinson Crusoe," and "Mrs. Bib's Baby," the last two of which were never completed. During the publication of the "Caudle Lectures," "Punch" reached the highest circulation it has attained. We have the authority of a personal friend of the author for the assertion that their heroine was no fictitious one. The lectures were immensely popular, Englishmen not being slow to recognize in Jerold's caustic portraiture the features of a very formidable household reality. But with the ladies Mrs. Caudle proved no favorite, nor, in their judgment, did the "Breakfast-Table-Talk," of the Henpecked Husband (subsequently published in the Almanac of the current year), make amends for the writer's former productions. Albert Smith's contributions to the pages of "Punch," were the "Physiologies of the London Medical Student," "London Idler," and "Evening Parties," with other miscellaneous matter. Much of the author's own personal experience is probably comprised in the former, and his fellow-students and intimates at Middlesex Hospital were at no loss to identify the majority of the characters introduced. Mr. Smith's connection with "Punch" was not of long continuance. A severe criticism appearing subsequently in its columns, on his novel of the "Marchioness of Brinvilliers" (published in "Bentley's Miscellany," of which journal he was then editor), he, in retaliation, made an onslaught on "Punch" in another story, the "Pottleton Legacy," where it figures under the title of the Cracker.

Mr. Gilbert a'Beckett, who had before been engaged in many unsuccessful periodicals, found in "Punch" ample scope for his wit and extraordinary faculty of punning. In "The Comic Blackstone," "Political Dictionary," "Punch's Noy's Maxims," and the "Autobiography, and other papers relating to Mr. Briefless," he put his legal knowledge to a comic use. Many fugitive minor pieces have also proceeded from his pen, and he has but few equals in that grotesque form of hybrid poetry known as Macaronic. He is now a London magistrate, and PAR EXCELLENCE, the punster of "Punch."

The Greek versions of sundry popular ballads, such as "The King of the Cannibal Islands," were the work of Maginn. Hood's world-famous "Song of the Shirt," first appeared in "Punch's" pages.

Thackeray has also been an industrious contributor, Commencing with "Miss Tickletoby's Lectures" (an idea afterward carried out in a somewhat different fashion by a'Beckett in his "Comic History of England"), he, besides miscellaneous writings, produced the "Snob Papers," "Jeames's Diary," "Punch in the East," "Punch's Prose Novelists," "The Traveler in London," "Mr. Brown's Letters to a Young Man about Town," and "The Proser." Of the merits of these works it is unnecessary to speak. The "Book of Snobs" may rank with its author's most finished productions. "Jeames's Diary," suggested by the circumstance of a May-fair footman achieving sudden affluence by railroad speculations during the ruinously exciting period of 1846, may, however, be considered only a further carrying out of the original idea of "Charles Yellowplush." A ballad in it, "The Lines to my Sister's Portrait," is said, to use a vulgar, though expressive phrase, to have SHUT UP Lord John Manners, who had achieved some small reputation as "one of the Young England poits." Thackeray parodied his style, and henceforth the voice of the minstrel was dumb in the land. Like Jerrold's "Caudle Lectures," of which many versions appeared at the London theaters, Jeames's adventures were dramatized. The "Prose Novelists" contain burlesque imitations of Bulwer, D'Israeli, Lever, James, Fennimore Cooper, and Mrs. Gore. The illustrations accompanying Thackeray's publications in "Punch," are by his own hand, as are also many other sketches scattered throughout the volumes. They may be generally distinguished by the insertion of a pair of spectacles in the corner. His articles, too, frequently bear the signature "SPEC." Not until the commencement of 1855 did Thackeray relinquish his connection with "Punch." An allusion to this, from his pen, contained in an essay on the genius of Leech, and published in the "Westminster Review," was commented upon very bitterly by Jerrold, in a notice of the article which appeared in "Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper," of which he is editor.

During the last five years, other writers, among which may be enumerated the Mayhew brothers, Mr. Tom Taylor, Angus Reach, and Shirley Brooks, have found a field for their talents in "Punch.'Only Jerrold, a'Beckett, and the editor, Mark Lemon, remain of the original contributors. Its course has been a varied, but perfectly independent one, generally, however, following the lead of the almighty "Times," that glory and shame of English journalism, on political questions. In earlier days it was every way more democratic, and the continuous ridicule both of pen and pencil directed against Prince Albert, was said to have provoked so much resentment on the part of the Queen, that she proposed interference to prevent the artist Doyle supplying two frescos to the pavilion at Buckingham Palace. "Punch's" impartiality has been shown by attacks on the extremes and absurdities of all parties, and there can be little question that it has had considerable influence in producing political reform, and a large and liberal advocacy of all popular questions. In behalf of that great change of national policy, the repeal of the Corn Laws, "Punch" fought most vigorously, not, however, forgetting to bestow a few raps of his baton on the shoulders of the Premier whose wisdom or sense of expediency induced such sudden tergiversation as to bring it about. O'Connell's blatant and venal patriotism was held up to merited derision, which his less wary, but more honest followers in agitation, O'Brien, Meagher, and Mitchell, equally shared. Abolition (or at least modification) of the Game Laws, and of the penalty of death, found championship in "Punch," though the latter was summarily dropped upon a change in public opinion, perhaps mainly induced by one of Carlyle's "Latter Day" pamphlets. "Punch" has repeatedly experienced (and merited) the significant honor of being denied admission to the dominions of continental monarchs. Louis Philippe interdicted its presence in France, even (if we recollect aright) before the Spanish marriage had provoked its fiercest attacks--subsequently, however, withdrawing his royal veto. In Spain, Naples, the Papal Dominions, those of Austria, Russia, and Prussia, the hunch-backed jester has been often under ban as an unholy thing, or only tolerated in a mutilated form. Up to the commencement of the late war, strict measures of this kind were in operation upon the Russian frontier, but "Punch" now is freely accorded ingress in the Czar's dominions--probably as a means of keeping up the feeling of antagonism toward England.

Its success has provoked innumerable rivals and imitators, from the days of "Judy," "Toby," "The Squib," "Joe Miller," "Great Gun," and "Puppet-Show," to those of "Diogenes" and" "Falstaff." None haveachieved permanent popularity, and future attempts would most likely be attended with similar failure, as "Punch" has a firm hold on the likings of the English people, and especially Londoners. It fairly amounts to one of their institutions. Like all journals of merit and independence, it has had its law troubles, more than one action for libel having been commenced against it. James Silk Buckingham, the traveler and author, took this course, in consequence of the publication of articles disparaging a club of his originating, known as the "British and Foreign Institute." A Jew clothes-man, named Hart, obtained a small sum as damages from "Punch." But Alfred Bunn, lessee of Drury Lane Theater, libretto-scribbler, and author of certain trashy theatrical books, though most vehemently "pitched into," resorted to other modes than legal redress. He produced a pamphlet of a shape and appearance closely resembling his tormentor, filled not only with quizzical, satirical, and rhyming articles directed against Lemon, a'Beckett, and Jerrold (characterizing them as Thick-head, Sleek-head, and Wrong-head), but with caricature cuts of each. Whether in direct consequence or not, it is certain that "the poet Bunn" was unmolested in future.

Our notice would scarcely be complete without a few lines devoted to the "Punch" artists, and more especially John Leech. Doyle (the son of H. B., the well-known political caricaturist), whose exquisite burlesque medieval drawings illustrative of the "Manners and Customs of ye Englishe," will be remembered by all familiar with "Punch's" pages, relinquished his connection with the journal and the yearly salary of eight hundred pounds, in consequence of the Anti-papal onslaughts which followed the nomination of Cardinal Wiseman to the (Catholic) Archbishop of Westminster. The artist held the older faith, and was also a personal friend of "His Eminence." His place was then filled by John Tenniel, a historical painter, who had supplied a cartoon to the Palace of Westminster, and is still employed on "Punch," he, in conjunction with John Leech, and an occasional outsider, furnishing the entire illustrations. John Leech, himself, to whom the periodical unquestionably owes half its success, has been constant to "Punch" from an early day. He has brought caricature into the region of the fine arts, and become the very Dickens of the pencil in his portrayal of the humorous side of life. Before his advent, comic drawing was confined to very limited topics, OUTRE drawings and ugliness of features forming the fun--such as it was. Seymour's "Cockney Sportsmen," and Cruikshank's wider (yet not extensive) range of subjects, were then the best things extant. How stands the case now? Let "Punch's" twenty-nine volumes, with their ample store of pictorial mirth of Leech's creating, so kindly, so honest, so pleasant and graceful, answer. Contrast their blameless wit and humor with the equivoque and foul double entendre of French drawings, and think of the difference involuntarily suggested between the social atmospheres of Paris and London.

Leech is a good-looking fellow, approaching the age of forty, and not unlike one of his own handsome "swells" in personal appearance. The Royal Academy Exhibition of 1855 contained his portrait, painted by Millais, the chief of the pre-Raphaelite artists, who is said to be his friend. As may be gathered from his many sporting sketches, Leech is fond of horses, and piques himself on "knowing the points" of a good animal. (We may mention, by-the-by, that Mr. "Briggs" of equestrian celebrity had his original on the Stock Exchange.) He in summer travels considerably, forwarding his sketches to the "Punch" office, generally penciling the accompanying words on the wood-block. In one of the past volumes, dating some eight or ten years back, he has introduced himself in a cut designated "our artist during the hot weather," wherein he appears with his coat off, reclining upon a sofa, and informing a pretty servant-girl who enters the room, that "he is busy." Quizzical Portraits of the writers of "Punch" have been introduced in its pages. In Jerrold's "Capsicum House" (vol. XII.), the author's portrait, burlesqued into the figure of "Punch," occurs more than once. And a double-page cut, entitled "Mr. Punch's Fancy Ball," in the early part of the same volume, comprises sketches of the then entire corps of contributors, artistic and literary. They are drawn as forming the orchestra, Lemon conducting, Jerrold belaboring a big drum, Thackeray playing on the flute, Leech the violin, and others extracting harmony from divers musical instruments. Again they appear at a later date, as a number of boys at play, in an illustration at the commencement of Vol. XXVII.

"Punch's" office is at 85 Fleet-street. The engraving, printing, and stereotyping is performed at Lombard-street, Whitefriars, where its proprietors have extensive premises.

REJECTED ADDRESSES, by James and Horace Smith, published in London, October, 1812. The most successful jeu d'esprit of modern times, having survived the occasion that suggested it for nearly half a century, and still being highly popular. It has run through twenty editions in England, and three in America. The opening of Drury-lane theater in 1802, after having been burned and rebuilt, and the offering of a prize of fifty pounds by the manager for the best opening address, were the circumstances which suggested the production of the "Rejected Addresses." The idea of the work was suddenly conceived, and it was executed in six weeks. In the preface to the eighteenth London edition the authors give an interesting statement of the difficulties they encountered in getting the volume published:

"Urged forward by our hurry, and trusting to chance, two very bad coadjutors in any enterprise, we at length congratulated ourselves on having completed our task in time to have it printed and published by the opening of the theater. But, alas! our difficulties, so far from being surmounted, seemed only to be beginning. Strangers to the arcana of the bookseller's trade, and unacquainted with their almost invincible objection to single volumes of low price, especially when tendered by writers who have acquired no previous name, we little anticipated that they would refuse to publish our 'Rejected Addresses,' even although we asked nothing for the copyright. Such, however, proved to be the case. Our manuscript was perused and returned to us by several of the most eminent publishers. Well do we remember betaking ourselves to one of the craft in Bond-street, whom we found in a back parlor, with his gouty leg propped upon a cushion, in spite of which warning he diluted his luncheon with frequent glasses of Madeira. 'What have you already written?' was his first question, and interrogatory to which we had been subjected in almost every instance. 'Nothing by which we can be known.' 'Then I am afraid to undertake the publication.' We presumed timidly to suggest that every writer must have a beginning, and that to refuse to publish for him until he had acquired a name, was to imitate the sapient mother who cautioned her son against going into the water until he could swim. 'An old joke--a regular Joe!' exclaimed our companion, tossing off another bumper. 'Still older than Joe Miller,' was our reply; 'for, if we mistake not, it is the very first anecdote in the facetiae of Hierocles.' 'Ha, sirs!' resumed the bibliopolist, 'you are learned, are you? do, hoh!--Well, leave your manuscript with me; I will look it over to-night, and give you an answer to-morrow.' Punctual as the clock we presented ourselves at his door on the following morning when our papers were returned to us with the observation--'These trifles are really not deficient in smartness; they are well, vastly well for beginners; but they will never do--never. They would not pay for advertising, and without it I should not sell fifty copies.'

"This was discouraging enough. If the most experienced publishers feared to be out of pocket by the work, it was manifest D FORTIORI, that its writers ran a risk of being still more heavy losers, should they undertake the publication on their own account. We had no objection to raise a laugh at the expense of others; but to do it at our own cost, uncertain as we were to what extent we might be involved, had never entered into our contemplation. In this dilemma, our 'Addresses,' now in every sense rejected, might probably have never seen the light, had not some good angel whispered us to betake ourselves to Mr. John Miller, a dramatic publisher, then residing in Bow-street, Covent Garden. No sooner had this gentleman looked over our manuscript, than he immediately offered to take upon himself all the risk of publication, and to give us half the profits, SHOULD THERE BE ANY; a liberal proposition, with which we gladly closed. So rapid and decided was its success, at which none were more unfeignedly astonished than its authors, that Mr. Miller advised us to collect some 'Imitations of Horace,' which had appeared anonymously in the 'Monthly Mirror,' offering to publish them upon the same terms. We did so accordingly; and as new editions of the 'Rejected Addresses' were called for in quick succession, we were shortly enabled to sell our half copyright in the two works to Mr. Miller, for one thousand pounds! We have entered into this unimportant detail, not to gratify any vanity of our own, but to encourage such literary beginners as may be placed in similar circumstances; as well as to impress upon publishers the propriety of giving more consideration to the possible merit of the works submitted to them, than to the mere magic of a name."

The authors add, that not one of the poets whom they "audaciously burlesqued," took offense at the ludicrous imitation of their style. From "Sir Walter Scott," they observe, "we received favors and notice, both public and private, which it will be difficult to forget, because we had not the smallest claim upon his kindness. 'I certainly must have written this myself!' said that fine tempered man to one of the authors, pointing to the description of the Fire, 'although I forgot upon what occasion.' Lydia White, a literary lady, who was prone to feed the lions of the day, invited one of us to dinner; but, recollecting afterward that William Spencer formed one of the party, wrote to the latter to put him off; telling him that a man was to be at her table whom he 'would not like to meet.' 'Pray who is this whom I should not like to meet?' inquired the poet 'O!' answered the lady, 'one of those men who have made that shameful attack upon you!' 'The very man upon earth. I should like to know!' rejoined the lively and careless bard. The two individuals accordingly met, and have continued fast friends over since. Lord Byron, too, wrote thus to Mr. Murray from Italy: 'Tell him we forgive him, were he twenty times our satirist.'

"It may not be amiss to notice, in this place, one criticism of a Leicester clergyman, which may be pronounced unique: 'I do not see why they should have been rejected,' observed the matter-of-fact annotator; 'I think some of them very good!' Upon the whole, few have been the instances, in the acrimonious history of literature, where a malicious pleasantry like the 'Rejected Addresses'--which the parties ridiculed might well consider more annoying than a direct satire--instead of being met by querulous bitterness or petulant retaliation, has procured for its authors the acquaintance, or conciliated the good-will, of those whom they had the most audaciously burlesqued."

James Smith died in London on the 29th of December, 1836, in the sixty-fourth year of his age. His brother survived him many years. Both were admired and ever-welcome members of the best society of London.

ROGERS, SAMUEL--The English poet and banker, recently deceased. Author of a "pretty poem," entitled, "The Pleasures of Memory." In his old age, he was noted for the bitter wit of his conversation.

SAXE, JOHN G--Editor of the "Burlington Gazette," and "Wandering Minstrel." The witty poems of Mr. Saxe are somewhat in the manner of Hood. To be fully appreciated they must be heard, as they roll in sonorous volumes, from his own lips. His collected poems were published a few years ago by Ticknor & Fields, and have already reached a ninth edition.

SCOTT, SIR WALTER--Born 1771; died, 1832. Sir Walter Scott, though he excelled all his cotemporaries in the humorous delineation of character, wrote little humorous verse. The two pieces published in this volume are so excellent that one is surprised to find no more of the same description in his writings.

SHERIDAN, DR. THOMAS--Noted for being an intimate friend of Dean Swift, and the grandfather of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Born in 1684; died in 1738. He was an eccentric, witty, somewhat learned, Dublin schoolmaster. He published some sermons and a translation of Persius; acquired great celebrity as a teacher; but through the imprudence that distinguished the family, closed his life in poverty. We may infer from the few specimens of his facetious writings that have been preserved that he was one of the wittiest of a nation of wits. One or two of his epigrams are exquisitely fine.

SHERIDAN, RICHARD BRINSLEY--Author of the "Rivals," and the "School for Scandal." Born at Dublin in 1751; died, 1816. Sheridan must have written more humorous poetry than we have been able to discover. It is probable that most of his epigrams and verified repartees have either not been preserved, or have escaped our search. Moore, in his "Life of Sheridan," gives specimens of his satirical verses, but only a few, and but one of striking excellence.

SMITH, HORACE--See "Rejected Addresses."

SMITH, JAMES--See "Rejected Addresses."

SMITH, REV. SYDNEY--The jovial prebendary of St. Paul's, the wittiest Englishman that ever lived; died in 1845. Except the "Recipe for Salad," and an epigram, we have found no comic verses by him. He "leaked another way."

SOUTHEY, ROBERT--The English poet and man of letters; born in 1774. Southey wrote a great deal of humorous verse, much of which is ingenious and fluent. He was amazingly dexterous in the use of words, and excelled all his cotemporaries, except Byron and Barham, in the art of rhyming.

SWIFT, JONATHAN--Dean of St. Patrick's. Dublin. Born 1667; died, 1739. It were superfluous to speak of the career or abilities of this great but most unhappy man, who unquestionably ranks highest amid the brilliant names of that brilliant epoch. His works speak for him, and will to all time. Of his poetical writings it may be said that though only surpassed in wit and humor by his more universally known prose, they are infinitely NASTIER than any thing else in the English language. They have, however, the negative virtue of being nowise licentious or demoralizing--or at least no more so than is inseparable from the choice of obscene and repulsive subjects. Nearly all his unobjectionable comic verses may be found in this volume.

THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE--The greatest of living satirists. Born at Calcutta of English parents, in 1811. Most of Mr. Thackeray's comic verses appeared originally in "Punch" They have recently been collected and published in a volume with other and more serious pieces. This collection contains nothing more mirth-provoking than the "Ballads of Pleaceman X," by Mr. Thackeray.

WAKE, WILLIAM BASIL--An English writer, contributor to "Hone's Every Day Book."

WALLER, EDMUND--Born in Warwickshire, England, in 1608. Poet, man of fortune, member of the Long Parliament, and traitor to the People's Cause. He was fined ten thousand pounds and banished, but Cromwell permitted his return, and the poet rewarded his clemency by a panegyric.

WESLEY, REV. SAMUEL--A clergyman of the Church of England; father of the celebrated John Wesley; author of a volume of poems, entitled "Maggots;" born in 1662; died in 1785.

WILLIAMS, SIR CHARLES HANBURY--A noted wit of George the Second's time; born in 1709; died, 1759. He was a friend of Walpole, sat in parliament for Monmouth, and rose to some distinction in the diplomatic service. An edition of his writings in three volumes was published in London in 1822. Time has robbed his satires of their point, by burying in oblivion the circumstances that gave rise to them. A single specimen of his writings is all that was deemed worthy of place in this volume.

WILLIS, N. P.--The well-known American poet and journalist, Mr. Willis has written many humorous poems, but only a few have escaped the usual fate of newspaper verses. Born at Portland, Maine, 1807.

WOLCOTT, JOHN (Peter Pindar), the most voluminous, and one of the best of the humorous poets who have written in the English language. He was born in Devonshire, England, and flourished in the reign of George III, whose peculiarities it was his delight to ridicule. No king was ever so mercilessly and so successfully lampooned by a poet as George III by Peter Pindar. Wolcott was by profession a Doctor of Medicine. In 1766, we find him accompanying his relative, Sir William Trelawney, to Jamaica, of which island Sir William had been appointed governor. While there, the rector of a valuable living died, and Dr. Wolcott conceived the idea of entering the church and applying for the vacant rectorship. To this end he began actually to perform the duties of the parish, reading prayers and preaching, and soon after returned to England to take orders, provideed with powerful recommendations. To his great disappointment, the Bishop of London refused him ordination, and the reader of Peter Pindar will not be at a loss to guess the reason of the refusal. Wolcott now established himself in Truro, and continued in the successful practice of medicine there for several years.

At Truro, he met the youthful Opie. "It is much to his honor," says one who wrote in Wolcott's own lifetime, "that during his residence in Cornwall, he discovered, and encouraged, the fine talents of the late Opie, the artist; a man of such modesty, simplicity of manners, and ignorance of the world, that it is probable his genius would have lain obscure and useless, had he not met, in Dr. Wolcott, with a judicious friend, who knew how to appreciate his worth, and to recommend it tothe admiration of the world. The Doctor's taste in painting has already been noticed; and it may now be added, that perhaps few men have attained more correct notions on the subject, and the fluency with which he expatiates on the beauties or defects of the productions of the ancient or modern school, has been amply acknowledged by all who have shared in his company. The same taste appears to have directed him to some of the first subjects of his poetical satire, when he began to treat the public with the pieces which compose these volumes. The effect of these poems on the public mind will not be soon forgot. Here appeared a new poet and a new critic, a man of unquestionable taste and luxuriant fancy, combined with such powers of satire, as became tremendously formidable to all who had the misfortune to fall under his displeasure. It was acknowledged at the same time, that amid some personal acrimony, and some affectionate preferences, not far removed, perhaps, from downright prejudice, he in general grounded his praise and censure upon solid principles, and carried the public mind along with him, although sometimes at the heavy expense of individuals."

Later in life Dr. Wolcott removed to London, where he died at an advanced age. His writings were, as may be supposed, eagerly read at the time of their publication, but since the poet's death, they have scarcely received the attention which their merits deserve. The present collection contains all of his best poems which are not of a character too local and cotemporary, or too coarse in expression, to be enjoyed by the modern reader.

YRIARTE, DON TOMAS DE--An eminent Spanish poet, born at Teneriffe about 1760. He is known to English readers chiefly through his "Literary Fables," of which, specimens, translated by Mr. Devereaux, are given in this volume, Yriarte also wrote comedies and essays.

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