They waited in anxiety amounting to horror, as wave after wave, larger and louder, roared at them, and rushed round the rocks on which they were standing. Presently down came the basket, plunging into the retreating wave.

"Now, then, sir, in with you," said Hawkstone.

"No, you go first. I will not go. It is my fault you are here."

"Nonsense, sir, there's no time for talk."

"I will not go without you. Let us both get in together."

"The rope will hardly bear two. Besides, I doubt if there is strength enough above to pull us up. Get in, get in."

Barton still hesitated. "I am afraid to leave you alone. Promise me if I go that you will not—. I can't say what I mean, but if anything happened to you I should be the cause of it."

"For shame, sir, shame. I guess what you mean, but I have not forgotten who made me, though I have been sorely tried. In with you at once." He suddenly lifted Barton up in his arms, and almost threw him into the basket, raising a loud shout, upon which the basket again ascended the cliff more rapidly than on the first occasion. Hawkstone fell upon his knees at the base of the cliff, while the waves roared at him like wild beasts held back from their victim. He was alone with them and with the God in whom his simple faith taught him to trust as being mightier than all the waves. Down came the basket with great rapidity, and Hawkstone had a hard fight before he could drag it out from the waves and get into it. Drenched from head to foot, and cold and trembling with excitement and grief, he again shouted, and the basket once more ascended. He remembered no more. A sudden faintness overcame him, and the first thing he remembered was feeling himself borne along on a kind of extemporary litter, and hearing kind voices saying that he was "coming to," and would soon be all right again.

Luckily there was no scandal. It was thought quite natural that Hawkstone should be with Nelly, and Barton was supposed to have been there by accident. Of course, we knew what the real state of the case was, and were glad that Barton had got a good fright; but we kept our own counsel.



CHAPTER VII.—CONCLUSION.

Very soon after the events recorded in the last chapter, the Reading Party broke up, and it only remains now for the writer of this veracious narrative to disclose any information he may have subsequently obtained as to the fate of his characters. Porkington still holds an honoured position in the University, and still continues to take young men in the summer vacation to such places as Mrs. Porkington considers sufficiently invigorating to her constitution. They grow better friends every year, but the grey mare will always be the better horse. One cause of difference has disappeared. The Drag died very shortly after leaving Babbicombe; not at all, I believe, in consequence of her ducking in the harbour; but, being of a peevish and "worritting" disposition, she had worn herself out in her attempts to make other people's lives a burden to them. I do not know what has become of Harry Barton; but I know that he has never revisited Babbicombe, nor even written to the fair Nelly. I suppose he is helping to manage his father's cotton mill, and will in due course marry the daughter of a wealthy manufacturer. Glenville has become quite a rising barrister, popular in both branches of his profession, and has announced his fixed intention to remain happy and unmarried till his death. Looking into the future, however, with the eye of a prophet, the present writer thinks he can see Glenville walking arm in arm with a tall, graceful lady, attended by two little girls to whom he is laughingly talking—but the dream fades from me, and I wonder will it ever come true. Thornton, of course, married Miss Delamere (how could it be otherwise), but, alas! there are no children, and this unhappy want is hardly compensated by the indefatigable attentions of Mamma Delamere, who is never weary of condoling with that poor, desolate couple, imploring them to resign themselves to the fate which has been assigned to them, and to strengthen their minds by the principles of true philosophy and the writings of great thinkers; by which she hopes they may acquire that harmony of the soul in private life which is so much to be desiderated in both politics and religion. Nobody knows what she means.

Nelly was not forgiven for one whole year. When she and Hawkstone met, they used only the customary expressions of mere acquaintances; but lovers are known to make use of signals which are unperceived by the outside world; and, after a year's skirmishing, a peace was finally concluded, and a happier couple than John Hawkstone and Nelly cannot be found in the whole country, and I am afraid to say how many of their children are already tumbling about the boats in the harbour.

The colonel died, and Mrs. Bagshaw lamented his death most truly, and has nothing but gentleness left in her nature. Her daughter has married the young artist, whose pictures of brown-sailed boats and fresh seas breaking in white foam against the dark rocks have become quite the rage at the Academy. The minor characters have disappeared beneath the waves, and nothing remains to be said except the last word, "farewell."



A FARRAGO OF VERSES.

MY BOATING SONG.

I.

Oh this earth is a mineful of treasure, A goblet, that's full to the brim, And each man may take for his pleasure The thing that's most pleasant to him; Then let all, who are birds of my feather, Throw heart and soul into my song; Mark the time, pick it up all together, And merrily row it along.

Hurrah, boys, or losing or winning, Feel your stretchers and make the blades bend; Hard on to it, catch the beginning, And pull it clean through to the end.

II.

I'll admit 'tis delicious to plunge in Clear pools, with their shadows at rest; 'Tis nimble to parry, or lunge in Your foil at the enemy's chest; 'Tis rapture to take a man's wicket, Or lash round to leg for a four; But somehow the glories of cricket Depend on the state of the score.

But in boating, or losing or winning, Though victory may not attend; Oh, 'tis jolly to catch the beginning, And pull it clean through to the end.

III.

'Tis brave over hill and dale sweeping, To be in at the death of the fox; Or to whip, where the salmon are leaping, The river that roars o'er the rocks; 'Tis prime to bring down the cock pheasant; And yachting is certainly great; But, beyond all expression, 'tis pleasant To row in a rattling good eight.

Then, hurrah, boys, or losing or winning, What matter what labour we spend? Hard on to it, catch the beginning, And pull it clean through to the end.

IV.

Shove her off! Half a stroke! Now, get ready! Five seconds! Four, three, two, one, gun! Well started! Well rowed! Keep her steady! You'll want all your wind e'er you've done. Now you're straight! Let the pace become swifter! Roll the wash to the left and the right! Pick it up all together, and lift her, As though she would bound out of sight!

Hurrah, Hall! Hall, now you're winning, Feel your stretchers and make the blades bend; Hard on to it, catch the beginning, And pull it clean through to the end.

V.

Bump! Bump! O ye gods, how I pity The ears those sweet sounds never heard; More tuneful than loveliest ditty E'er poured from the throat of a bird. There's a prize for each honest endeavour, But none for the man who's a shirk; And the pluck that we've showed on the river, Shall tell in the rest of our work.

At the last, whether losing or winning, This thought with all memories blend,— We forgot not to catch the beginning, And we pulled it clean through to the end.



LETTER FROM THE TOWN MOUSE TO THE COUNTRY MOUSE.

I.

Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field! I ask no more Than one plain field, shut in by hedgerows four, Contentment sweet to yield. For I am not fastidious, And, with a proud demeanour, I Will not affect invidious Distinctions about scenery. I sigh not for the fir trees where they rise Against Italian skies, Swiss lakes, or Scottish heather, Set off with glorious weather; Such sights as these The most exacting please; But I, lone wanderer in London streets, Where every face one meets Is full of care, And seems to wear A troubled air, Of being late for some affair Of life or death:—thus I, ev'n I, Long for a field of grass, flat, square, and green Thick hedges set between, Without or house or bield, A sense of quietude to yield; And heave my longing sigh, Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!

II.

For here the loud streets roar themselves to rest With hoarseness every night; And greet returning light With noise and roar, renewed with greater zest. Where'er I go, Full well I know The eternal grinding wheels will never cease. There is no place of peace! Rumbling, roaring, and rushing, Hurrying, crowding, and crushing, Noise and confusion, and worry, and fret, From early morning to late sunset— Ah me! but when shall I respite get— What cave can hide me, or what covert shield? So still I sigh, And raise my cry, Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!

III.

Oh for a field, where all concealed, From this life's fret and noise, I sip delights from rural sights, And simple rustic joys. Where, stretching forth my limbs at rest, I lie and think what likes me best; Or stroll about where'er I list, Nor fear to be run over By sheep, contented to exist Only on grass and clover. In town, as through the throng I steer, Confiding in the Muses, My finest thoughts are drowned in fear Of cabs and omnibuses. I dream I'm on Parnassus hill, With laurels whispering o'er me, When suddenly I feel a chill— What was it passed before me? A lady bowed her gracious head From yonder natty brougham— The windows were as dull as lead, I didn't know her through them. She'll say I saw her, cut her dead,— I've lost my opportunity; I take my hat off when she's fled, And bow to the community! Or sometimes comes a hansom cab, Just as I near the crossing; The "cabby" gives his reins a grab, The steed is wildly tossing. Me, haply fleeing from his horse, He greets with language somewhat coarse, To which there's no replying; A brewer's dray comes down that way, And simply sends me flying! I try the quiet streets, but there I find an all-pervading air Of death in life, which my despair In no degree diminishes. Then homewards wend my weary way, And read dry law books as I may, No solace will they yield. And so the sad day finishes With one long sigh and yearning cry, Oh for a field, my friend; oh for a field!

IV.

The fields are bright, and all bedight With buttercups and daisies; Oh, how I long to quit the throng Of human forms and faces: The vain delights, the empty shows, The toil and care bewild'rin', To feel once more the sweet repose Calm Nature gives her children. At times the thrush shall sing, and hush The twitt'ring yellow-hammer; The blackbird fluster from the bush With panic-stricken clamour; The finch in thistles hide from sight, And snap the seeds and toss 'em; The blue-tit hop, with pert delight, About the crab-tree blossom; The homely robin shall draw near, And sing a song most tender; The black-cap whistle soft and clear, Swayed on a twig top slender; The weasel from the hedge-row creep, So crafty and so cruel, The rabbit from the tussock leap, And splash the frosty jewel. I care not what the season be— Spring, summer, autumn, winter— In morning sweet, or noon-day heat, Or when the moonbeams glint, or When rosy beams and fiery gleams, And floods of golden yellow, Proclaim the sweetest hour of all— The evening mild and mellow. There, though the spring shall backward keep, And loud the March winds bluster, The white anemone shall peep Through loveliest leaves in cluster. There primrose pale or violet blue Shall gleam between the grasses; And stitchwort white fling starry light, And blue bells blaze in masses. As summer grows and spring-time goes, O'er all the hedge shall ramble The woodbine and the wilding rose, And blossoms of the bramble. When autumn comes, the leafy ways To red and yellow turning, With hips and haws the hedge shall blaze, And scarlet briony burning. When winter reigns and sheets of snow, The flowers and grass lie under; The sparkling hoar frost yet shall show, A world of fairy wonder. To me more dear such scenes appear, Than this eternal racket, No longer will I fret and fag! Hey! call a cab, bring down my bag, And help me quick to pack it. For here one must go where every one goes, And meet shoals of people whom one never knows, Till it makes a poor fellow dyspeptic; And the world wags along with its sorrows and shows, And will do just the same when I'm dead I suppose; And I'm rapidly growing a sceptic. For its oh, alas, well-a-day, and a-lack! I've a pain in my head and an ache in my back; A terrible cold that makes me shiver, And a general sense of a dried-up liver; And I feel I can hardly bear it. And it's oh for a field with four hedgerows, And the bliss which comes from an hour's repose, And a true, true friend to share it.



PROTHALAMION.

The following "Prothalamion" was recently discovered among some other rubbish in Pope's Villa at Twickenham. It was written on the backs of old envelopes, and has evidently not received the master's last touches. Some of the lines afford an admirable instance of the way in which great authors frequently repeat themselves.

Nothing so true as what you once let fall,— "To growl at something is the lot of all; Contentment is a gem on earth unknown, And Perfect Happiness the wizard's stone. Give me," you cried, "to see my duty clear, And room to work, unhindered in my sphere; To live my life, and work my work alone, Unloved while living, and unwept when gone. Let none my triumphs or my failures share, Nor leave a sorrowing wife and joyful heir."

Go, like St. Simon, on your lonely tower, Wish to make all men good, but want the power. Freedom you'll have, but still will lack the thrall,— The bond of sympathy, which binds us all. Children and wives are hostages to fame, But aids and helps in every useful aim.

You answer, "Look around, where'er you will, Experience teaches the same lesson still. Mark how the world, full nine times out of ten, To abject drudgery dooms its married men: A slave at first, before the knot is tied, But soon a mere appendage to the bride; A cover, next, to shield her arts from blame; At home ill-tempered, but abroad quite tame; In fact, her servant; though, in name, her lord; Alive, neglected; but, defunct, adored."

This picture, friend, is surely overdone, You paint the tribe by drawing only one; Or from one peevish grunt, in haste, conclude The man's whole life with misery imbued.

Say, what can Horace want to crown his life, Blest with eight little urchins, and a wife? His lively grin proclaims the man is blest, Here perfect happiness must be confessed! Hark, hear that melancholy shriek, alack!— That vile lumbago keeps him on the rack.

This evil vexed not Courthope's happy ways, Who wants no extra coat on coldest days. His face, his walk, his dress—whate'er you scan, He stands revealed the prosperous gentleman. Still must he groan each Sabbath, while he hears The hoarse Gregorians vex his tortured ears.

Sure Bosanquet true happiness must know, While wit and wisdom mingle as they flow, Him Bromley Sunday scholars will obey; For him e'en Leech will work a good half day; He strives to hide the fear he still must feel, Lest sharp Jack Frost should catch his Marshal Niel.

Peace to all such; but were there one, whose fires True genius kindles and fair fame inspires; Blest with demurrers, statements, counts, and pleas, And born to arbitrations, briefs, and fees; Should such a man, couched on his easy throne, (Unlike the Turk) desire to live alone; View every virgin with distrustful eyes, And dread those arts, which suitors mostly prize, Alike averse to blame, or to commend, Not quite their foe, but something less than friend; Dreading e'en widows, when by these besieged; And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged; Who, in all marriage contracts, looks for flaws, And sits, and meditates on Salic laws; While Pall Mall bachelors proclaim his praise, And spinsters wonder at his works and ways; Who would not smile if such a man there be? Who would not weep if Atticus were he?

Oh, blest beyond the common lot are they, On whom Contentment sheds her cheerful ray; Who find in Duty's path unmixed delight, And perfect Pleasure in pursuit of Right; Thankful for every Joy they feel, or share, Unsought for blessings, like the light and air, And grateful even for the ills they bear; Wedded or single, taking nought amiss, And learning that Content is more than Bliss.

Oh, friend, may each domestic joy be thine, Be no unpleasing melancholy mine. As rolling years disclose the will of Fate, I see you wedded to some equal mate; Thronged by a crowd of growing girls and boys, A heap of troubles, but a host of joys. On sights like these, should length of days attend, Still may good luck pursue you to the end; Still heaven vouchsafe the gifts it has in store; Still make you, what you would be, more and more; Preserve you happy, cheerful, and serene, Blest with your young retainers, and your Queen.



YOUNG ENGLAND.

The times still "grow to something strange"; We rap and turn the tables; We fire our guns at awful range; We lay Atlantic cables; We bore the hills, we bridge the seas— To me 'tis better far To sit before my fire at ease, And smoke a mild cigar.

We start gigantic bubble schemes,— Whoever can invent 'em!— How splendid the prospectus seems, With int'rest cent. per centum His shares the holder, startled, sees At eighty below par: I dawdle to my club at ease, And light a mild cigar.

We pickle peas, we lock up sound, We bottle electricity; We run our railways underground, Our trams above in this city We fly balloons in calm or breeze, And tumble from the car; I wander down Pall Mall at ease, And smoke a mild cigar.

Some strive to get a post or place, Or entree to society; Or after wealth or pleasure race, Or any notoriety; Or snatch at titles or degrees, At ribbon, cross, or star: I elevate my limbs at ease, And smoke a mild cigar.

Some people strive for manhood right With riots or orations; For anti-vaccination fight, Or temperance demonstrations: I gently smile at things like these, And, 'mid the clash and jar, I sit in my arm-chair at ease, And smoke a mild cigar.

They say young ladies all demand A smart barouche and pair, Two flunkies at the door to stand, A mansion in May Fair: I can't afford such things as these, I hold it safer far To sip my claret at my ease, And smoke a mild cigar.

It may be proper one should take One's place in the creation; It may be very right to make A choice of some vocation; With such remarks one quite agrees, So sensible they are: I much prefer to take my ease, And smoke a mild cigar.

They say our morals are so so, Religion still more hollow; And where the upper classes go, The lower always follow; That honour lost with grace and ease Your fortunes will not mar: That's not so well; but, if you please, We'll light a fresh cigar.

Rank heresy is fresh and green, E'en womenkind have caught it; They say the Bible doesn't mean What people always thought it; That miracles are what you please, Or nature's order mar: I read the last review at ease, And smoke a mild cigar.

Some folks who make a fearful fuss, In eighteen ninety-seven, Say, heaven will either come to us, Or we shall go to heaven; They settle it just as they please; But, though it mayn't be far, At any rate there's time with ease To light a fresh cigar.

It may be there is something true; It may be one might find it; It may be, if one looked life through, That something lies behind it; It may be, p'raps, for aught one sees, The things that may be, are: I'm growing serious—if you please We'll light a fresh cigar.



AN OLDE LYRIC.

I.

Oh, saw ye my own true love, I praye, My own true love so sweete? For the flowers have lightly toss'd awaye The prynte of her faery feete. Now, how can we telle if she passed us bye? Is she darke or fayre to see? Like sloes are her eyes, or blue as the skies? Is't braided her haire or free?

II.

Oh, never by outward looke or signe, My true love shall ye knowe; There be many as fayre, and many as fyne, And many as brighte to showe. But if ye coude looke with angel's eyes, Which into the soule can see, She then would be seene as the matchless Queene Of Love and of Puritie.



LULLABY.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep! Evening is coming, and night is nigh; Under the lattice the little birds cheep, All will be sleeping by and by. Sleep, little baby, sleep.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep! Darkness is creeping along the sky; Stars at the casement glimmer and peep, Slowly the moon comes sailing by. Sleep, little baby, sleep.

Sleep, little baby, sleep, love, sleep! Sleep till the dawning has dappled the sky; Under the lattice the little birds cheep, All will be waking by and by. Sleep, little baby, sleep.



ISLE OF WIGHT—SPRING, 1891.

I know not what the cause may be, Or whether there be one or many; But this year's Spring has seemed to me More exquisite than any.

What happy days we spent together In that fair Isle of primrose flowers! How brilliant was the April weather! What glorious sunshine and what showers!

I think the leaves peeped out and in At every change from cold to heat; The grass threw off a livelier sheen From dewdrops sparkling at our feet.

What wealth of early bloom was there— The wind flow'r and the primrose pale, On bank or copse, and orchis rare, And cowslip covering Wroxhall dale.

And, oh, the splendour of the sea,— The blue belt glimmering soft and far, Through many a tumbled rock and tree Strewn 'neath the overhanging scar!

'Tis twenty years and more, since here, As man and wife we sought this Isle, Dear to us both, O wife most dear, And we can greet it with a smile.

Not now alone we come once more, But bringing young ones of our brood— One boy (Salopian), and four Girls, blooming into maidenhood.

And I had late begun to fret And sicken at the sordid town— The crime, the guilt, and, loathlier yet, The helpless, hopeless sinking down;

The want, the misery, the woe, The stubborn heart which will not turn; The tears which will or will not flow; The shame which does or does not burn.

And Winter's frosts had proved unkind, With darkest gloom and deadliest cold; A time which will be brought to mind, And talked of, when our boys are old.

And thus the contrast seemed to wake New vigour in the heart and brain; Sea, land, and sky conspired to make The jaded spirit young again;

Or hopes for growing girl or boy, Or thankfulness for things that be, Or sweet content in wedded joy, Set all the world to harmony.

And so I know not if it be That there are causes one or many, But this year's Spring still seems to me More exquisite than any.



LOVE AND LIBERTY.

The linnet had flown from its cage away, And flitted and sang in the light of day— Had flown from the lady who loved it well, In Liberty's freer air to dwell. Alas! poor bird, it was soon to prove, Sweeter than Liberty is Love.

When night came on it had ceased to sing, And had hidden its head beneath its wing. It thought of the warm room left behind, The shelter from cold and rain and wind; It could not sleep, when to sleep it strove— Liberty needeth the help of Love.

The night owls shrieked as they wheeled along, Bent upon slaughter, and rapine, and wrong: There was devilish mirth in their wild halloo, And the linnet trembled when near they drew; 'Twas fearful to watch them madly rove, Drunken with Liberty, left of Love.

When morning broke, a grey old crow Was pecking some carrion down below; A poor little lamb, half alive, half-dead, And the crow at each peck turned up its head With a cunning glance at the linnet above— What a demon is Liberty left of Love!

Then an eagle hovered far up in the sky, And the linnet trembled, but could not fly; With a swoop to the earth the eagle fell, And rose up anon with a savage yell. The birds in the woodlands dared not move. What a despot is Liberty left of Love!

By and bye there arrived, with chattering loud, Chaffinch and sparrow and finch, in a cloud; Round and around in their fierce attack, They plucked the feathers from breast and back; And the poor little linnet all vainly strove, Fighting with Liberty left of Love.

"Alas!" it said, with a cry of pain, "Carry me back to my cage again; There let me dwell in peaceful ease, Piping whatever songs I please; Here, if I stay, my death shall prove, Liberty dieth left of Love."



TO THE REV. A. A. IN THE COUNTRY FROM HIS FRIEND IN LONDON.

(AFTER HEINE.)

Thou little village curate, Come quick, and do not wait; We'll sit and talk together, So sweetly tete-a-tete.

Oh do not fear the railway Because it seems so big— Dost thou not daily trust thee Unto thy little gig.

This house is full of painters, And half shut up and black; But rooms the very snuggest Lie hidden at the back. Come! come! come!



THE CURATE TO HIS SLIPPERS.

Take, oh take those boots away, That so nearly are outworn; And those shoes remove, I pray— Pumps that but induce the corn! But my slippers bring again, Bring again; Works of love, but worked in vain, Worked in vain!



AN ATTEMPT TO REMEMBER THE "GRANDMOTHER'S APOLOGY."

(WITH MANY APOLOGIES TO THE LAUREATE.)

And Willie, my eldest born, is gone, you say, little Anne, Ruddy and white, and strong on his legs, he looks like a man; He was only fourscore years, quite young, when he died; I ought to have gone before, but must wait for time and tide.

So Harry's wife has written; she was always an awful fool, And Charlie was always drunk, which made our families cool; For Willie was walking with Jenny when the moon came up the dale, And whit, whit, whit, in the bush beside me chirrupt the nightingale.

Jenny I know had tripped, and she knew that I knew of it well. She began to slander me. I knew, but I wouldn't tell! And she to be slandering me, the impertinent, base little liar; But the tongue is a fire, as you know, my dear, the tongue is a fire.

And the parson made it his text last week; and he said likewise, That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies; That a downright hearty good falsehood doesn't so very much matter, But a lie which is half a truth is worse than one that is flatter.

Then Willie and Jenny turned in the sweet moonshine, And he said to me through his tears, "Let your good name be mine," "And what do I care for Jane." She was never over-wise, Never the wife for Willie: thank God that I keep my eyes.

"Marry you, Willie!" said I, and I thought my heart would break, "But a man cannot marry his grandmother, so there must be some mistake." But he turned and clasped me in his arms, and answered, "No, love, no! Seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago!"

So Willie and I were wedded, though clearly against the law, And the ringers rang with a will, and Willie's gloves were straw; But the first that ever I bear was dead before it was born— For Willie I cannot weep, life is flower and thorn.

Pattering over the boards, my Annie, an Annie like you, Pattering over the boards, and Charlie and Harry too; Pattering over the boards of our beautiful little cot, And I'm not exactly certain whether they died or not.

And yet I know of a truth, there is none of them left alive, For Willie went at eighty, and Harry at ninety-five; And Charlie at threescore years, aye! or more than that I'll be sworn, And that very remarkable infant that died before it was born.

So Willie has gone, my beauty, the eldest that bears the name, It's a soothing thought—"In a hundred years it'll be all the same." "Here's a leg for a babe of a week," says doctor, in some surprise, But fetch me my glasses, Annie, I'm thankful I keep my eyes.



AIR—"Three Fishers went Sailing."

Three attorneys came sailing down Chancery Lane, Down Chancery Lane e'er the courts had sat; They thought of the leaders they ought to retain, But the Junior Bar, oh, they thought not of that; For serjeants get work and Q.C.'s too, And solicitors' sons-in-law frequently do, While the Junior Bar is moaning.

Three juniors sat up in Crown Office Row, In Crown Office Row e'er the courts had sat, They saw the solicitors passing below, And the briefs that were rolled up so tidy and fat, For serjeants get work, etc.

Three briefs were delivered to Jones, Q.C, To Jones, Q.C., e'er the courts had sat; And the juniors weeping, and wringing their paws, Remarked that their business seemed uncommon flat; For Serjeants get work and Q.C.'s too, But as for the rest it's a regular "do," And the Junior Bar is moaning.



AIR—"Give that Wreath to Me"

("Farewell, Manchester").

I.

Give that brief to me, Without so much bother; Never let it be Given to another. Why this coy resistance? Wherefore keep such distance? Why hesitate so long to give that brief to me?

II.

Should'st thou ever find Any counsel willing To conduct thy case For one pound one shilling; Scorn such vulgar tricks, love; One pound three and six, love, Is the proper thing,—then give that brief to me.

III.

Should thy case turn out Hopeless and delusive, Still I'd rave and shout, Using terms abusive. Truth and sense might perish, Still thy cause I'd cherish, Hallow'd by thy gold,—then give that brief to me.

IV.

Should the learned judge Sit on me like fury, Still I'd never budge— There's the British Jury! Should that stay prove rotten, Bowen, Brett, and Cotton {143} Would upset them all,—then give that brief to me.



ON CIRCUIT.

Two neighbours, fighting for a yard of land; Two witnesses, who lie on either hand; Two lawyers, issuing many writs and pleas; Two clerks, in a dark passage counting fees; Two counsel, calling one another names; Two courts, where lawyers play their little games; Two weeks at Leeds, which wear the soul away; Two judges getting limper every day; Two bailiffs of the court with aspect sour— So runs the round of life from hour to hour.



AT THE "COCK" TAVERN.

Champagne doth not a luncheon make, Nor caviare a meal; Men gluttonous and rich may take These till they make them ill. If I've potatoes to my chop, And after that have cheese, Angels in Pond & Spiers's shop Serve no such luxuries.



IMPROMPTU IN THE ASSIZE COURT, NOTTINGHAM,

On seeing BRET HARTE come upon the Bench.

Thanks for an hour of laughing In a world that is growing old; Thanks for an hour of weeping In a world that is growing cold; For we who have wept with Dickens, And we who have laughed with Boz, Have renewed the days of our childhood With his American Coz.



IMPROMPTU IN THE ASSIZE COURT AT LINCOLN.

Sir W. Bovill was specially retained in an action for damages caused by the overflowing of the banks of the Witham. With great spirit he contended that the river had for three days flowed from the sea.

The moon in the valley of Ajalon Stood still at the word of the prophet; But since certain "Essays" were written We don't think so very much of it. Now, a prophet is raised up among us, Whose miracles none can gainsay; For he spoke, and the great river Witham Flowed three days, uphill, the wrong way.



PROLOGUE TO A CHARADE.—"DAMN-AGES."

In olden time—in great Eliza's age, When rare Ben Jonson ruled the humorous stage, No play without its Prologue might appear To earn applause or ward the critic's sneer; And surely now old customs should not sleep When merry Christmas revelries we keep. He loves old ways, old faces, and old friends, Nor to new-fangled fancies condescends; Besides, we need your kindly hearts to move Our faults to pardon and our freaks approve, For this our sport has been in haste begun, Unpractised actors and impromptu fun; So on our own deserts we dare not stand, But beg the favour that we can't command. Most flat would fall our "cranks and wanton wiles," Reft of your favouring "nods and wreathed smiles," As some tame landscape desolately bare Is charmed by sunshine into seeming fair; So, gentle friends, if you your smiles bestow, That which is tame in us will not seem so. Our play is a charade. We split the word, Each syllable an act, the whole a third; My first we show you by a comic play, Old, but not less the welcome, I dare say. My second will be brought upon the stage From lisping childhood down to palsied age. Last, but not least, our country's joy and pride, A British Jury will my whole decide; But what's the word you'll ask me, what's the word? That you must guess, or ask some little bird; Guess as you will you'll fail; for 'tis no doubt One of those things "no fellow can find out."



TO A SCIENTIFIC FRIEND.

You say 'tis plain that poets feign, And from the truth depart; They write with ease what fibs they please, With artifice, not art; Dearer to you the simply true— The fact without the fancy— Than this false play of colours gay, So very vague and chancy. No doubt 'tis well the truth to tell In scientific coteries; But I'll be bold to say she's cold, Excepting to her votaries. The false disguise of tawdry lies May hide sweet Nature's face; But in her form the blood runs warm, As in the human race; And in the rose the dew-drop glows, And, o'er the seas serene, The sunshine white still breaks in light Of yellow, blue, and green. In thousand rays the fancy plays; The feelings rise and bubble; The mind receives, the heart believes, And makes each pleasure double. Then spare to draw without a flaw, Nor all too perfect make her, Lest Nature wear the dull, cold air Of some demurest Quaker— Whose mien austere is void of cheer, Or sense of sins forgiven, And her sweet face has lost all grace Of either earth or heaven.

GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE.



Footnotes

{5} Milton only received 10 pounds for Paradise Lost, and there is a good story told that some one copied it out in manuscript and sent it successively to three great London publishers, who all declined it as unsuitable to the public taste.

{143} Three of the Justices of Appeal.

THE END