SHE. It is four and fortye yeeres agoe Since the one of us the other did ken, And we have had betwixt us towe Of children either nine or ten; Wee have brought them up to women and men; In the feare of God I trow they bee; And why wilt thou thyselfe misken? Man, take thine old cloake about thee.

HE. O Bell, my wiffe, why dost thou floute! Now is nowe, and then was then: Seeke now all the world throughout, Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen. They are cladd in blacke, greene, yellowe, or gray, Soe far above their owne degree: Once in my life Ile doe as they, For Ile have a new cloake about mee.

SHE. King Stephen was a worthy peere, His breeches cost him but a crowne, He held them sixpence all too deere; Therefore he calld the taylor Lowne. He was a wight of high renowne, And thouse but of a low degree: Itt's pride that putts this countrye downe, Man, take thine old cloake about thee.

HE. "Bell, my wife, she loves not strife, Yet she will lead me if she can; And oft, to live a quiet life, I am forced to yield, though Ime good-man;" Itt's not for a man with a woman to threape, Unlesse he first gave oer the plea: As wee began wee now will leave, And Ile take mine old cloake about mee.



KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT. [AN OLD ENGLISH BALLAD—LONG VERY POPULAR.] PERCY RELIQUES

An ancient story Ile tell you anon Of a notable prince, that was called King John; And he ruled England with maine and with might, For he did great wrong, and maintein'd little right.

And Ile tell you a story, a story so merrye, Concerning the Abbot of Canterburye; How for his house-keeping, and high renowne, They rode poste for him to fair London towne.

An hundred men, the king did heare say, The abbot kept in his house every day; And fifty golde chaynes, without any doubt, In velvet coates waited the abbot about. How now, father abbot, I heare it of thee, Thou keepest a farre better house than mee, And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, I feare thou work'st treason against my crown.

My liege, quo' the abbot, I would it were knowne, I never spend nothing but what is my owne; And I trust your grace will doe me no deere For spending of my owne true-gotten geere.

Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is high And now for the same thou needest must dye; Por except thou canst answer me questions three, Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.

And first, quo' the king, when I'm in this stead, With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, Among all my liege-men, so noble of birthe, Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe.

Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride the whole world about, And at the third question thou must not shrink, But tell me here truly what I do think.

O, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet; But if you will give me but three weekes space, Ile do my endeavour to answer your grace.

Now three weeks space to thee will I give, And that is the longest time thou hast to live; For if thou dost not answer my questions three, Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to mee.

Away rode the abbot, all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise.

Then home rode the abbot, of comfort so cold, And he mett his shepheard agoing to fold: How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home, What newes do you bring us from good King John?

Sad newes, sad newes, shepheard, I must give: That I have but three days more to live; For if I do not answer him questions three, My head will be smitten from my bodie.

The first is to tell him there in that stead, With his crowne of golde so fair on his head. Among all his liege-men so noble of birth. To within one penny of what he is worth.

The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, How soone he may ride this whole world about: And at the third question I must not shrinke, But tell him there truly what he does thinke.

Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, That a fool he may learne a wise man witt? Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel.

Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, I am like your lordship, as ever may bee: And if you will but lend me your gowne, There is none shall knowe us in fair London towne.

Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, With sumptuous array most gallant and brave; With crozier, and miter, and rochet, and cope, Fit to appeare 'fore our fader the pope.

Now welcome, sire abbot, the king he did say, 'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day; For and if thou canst answer my questions three, Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee.

And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, With my crown of golde so fair on my head, Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, Tell me to one penny what I am worth.

For thirty pence our Saivour was sold Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told: And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, For I thinke, thou art one penny worser than hee.

The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, I did not think I had been worth so littel! —Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, How soone I may ride this whole world about.

You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, Until the next morning he riseth againe; And then your grace need not make any doubt But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about.

The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, I did not think it could be gone so soone! —Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, But tell me here truly what I do thinke.

Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry: You thinke I'm the abbot of Canterbury; But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, That am come to beg pardon for him and for mee.

The king he laughed, and swore by the masse, Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place! Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, For alacke I can neither write, ne reade.

Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee, For this merry jest thou hast showne unto mee: And tell the old abbot, when thou comest home, Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.



THE BAFFLED KNIGHT, OR LADY'S POLICY [A VERY FAVORITE ANCIENT BALLAD.] PERCY RELIQUES

There was a knight was drunk with wine, A riding along the way, sir; And there he met with a lady fine, Among the cocks of hay, sir.

Shall you and I, O lady faire, Among the grass lye down-a: And I will have a special care, Of rumpling of your gowne-a.

Upon the grass there is a dewe, Will spoil my damask gowne, sir: My gowne and kirtle they are newe, And cost me many a crowne, sir.

I have a cloak of scarlet red, Upon the ground I'll throwe it; Then, lady faire, come lay thy head; We'll play, and none shall knowe it.

O yonder stands my steed so free Among the cocks of hay, sir, And if the pinner should chance to see, He'll take my steed away, sir.

Upon my finger I have a ring, Its made of finest gold-a, And, lady, it thy steed shall bring Out of the pinner's fold-a.

O go with me to my father's hall; Fair chambers there are three, sir: And you shall have the best of all, And I'll your chamberlaine bee, sir.

He mounted himself on his steed so tall, And her on her dapple gray, sir: And there they rode to her father's hall, Fast pricking along the way, sir.

To her father's hall they arrived strait; 'Twas moated round about-a; She slipped herself within the gate, And lockt the knight without-a.

Here is a silver penny to spend, And take it for your pain, sir; And two of my father's men I'll send To wait on you back again, sir.

He from his scabbard drew his brand, And wiped it upon his sleeve-a! And cursed, he said, be every man, That will a maid believe-a!

She drew a bodkin from her haire, And wip'd it upon her gown-a; And curs'd be every maiden faire, That will with men lye down-a!

A herb there is, that lowly grows, And some do call it rue, sir: The smallest dunghill cock that Would make a capon of you, sir.

A flower there is, that shineth bright, Some call it mary-gold-a: He that wold not when he might, He shall not when he wold-a.

The knight was riding another day, With cloak, and hat, and feather: He met again with that lady gay, Who was angling in the river.

Now, lady faire, I've met with you, You shall no more escape me; Remember, how not long agoe You falsely did intrap me.

He from his saddle down did light, In all his riche attyer; And cryed, As I'm a noble knight, I do thy charms admyer.

He took the lady by the hand, Who seemingly consented; And would no more disputing stand: She had a plot invented.

Looke yonder, good sir knight, I pray, Methinks I now discover A riding upon his dapple gray, My former constant lover.

On tip-toe peering stood the knight, Past by the rivers brink-a; The lady pusht with all her might: Sir knight, now swim or sink-a.

O'er head and ears he plunged in, The bottom faire he sounded; Then rising up, he cried amain, Help, helpe, or else I'm drownded!

Now, fare-you-well, sir knight, adieu! You see what conies of fooling: That is the fittest place for you; Your courage wanted cooling.

Ere many days, in her fathers park, Just at the close of eve-a, Again she met with her angry sparke; Which made this lady grieve-a.

False lady, here thou'rt in my powre, And no one now can hear thee: And thou shalt sorely rue the hour That e'er thou dar'dst to jeer me.

I pray, sir knight, be not so warm With a young silly maid-a: I vow and swear I thought no harm, 'Twas a gentle jest I playd-a.

A gentle jest, in soothe he cry'd, To tumble me in and leave me! What if I had in the river dy'd?— That fetch will not deceive me.

Once more I'll pardon thee this day, Tho' injur'd out of measure; But thou prepare without delay To yield thee to my pleasure.

Well then, if I must grant your suit, Yet think of your boots and spurs, sir Let me pull off both spur and boot, Or else you cannot stir, sir.

He set him down upon the grass, And begg'd her kind assistance: Now, smiling, thought this lovely lass, I'll make you keep your distance.

Then pulling off his boots half-way; Sir knight, now I'm your betters: You shall not make of me your prey; Sit there like a knave in fetters.

The knight, when she had served him soe, He fretted, fum'd, and grumbled: For he could neither stand nor goe, But like a cripple tumbled.

Farewell, sir knight, the clock strikes ten, Yet do not move nor stir, sir: I'll send you my father's serving men, To pull off your boots and spurs, sir.

This merry jest you must excuse, You are but a stingless nettle: You'd never have stood for boots or shoes, Had you been a man of mettle.

All night in grievous rage he lay, Roiling upon the plain-a; Next morning a shepherd past that way, Who set him right again-a.

Then mounting upon his steed so tall, By hill and dale he swore-a: I'll ride at once to her father's hall; She shall escape no more-a.

I'll take her father by the beard, I'll challenge all her kindred; Each dastard soul shall stand affeard; My wrath shall no more be hindred.

He rode unto her father's house, Which every side was moated: The lady heard his furious vows, And all his vengeance noted.

Thought shee, sir knight, to quench your rage, Once more I will endeavour: This water shall your fury 'swage, Or else it shall burn for ever.

Then faining penitence and feare, She did invite a parley: Sir knight, if you'll forgive me heare, Henceforth I'll love you dearly.

My father he is now from home, And I am all alone, sir: Therefore across the water come, And I am all your own, sir.

False maid, thou canst no more deceive; I scorn the treacherous bait-a; If thou would'st have me thee believe, Now open me the gate-a.

The bridge is drawn, the gate is barr'd, My father he has the keys, sir; But I have for my love prepar'd A shorter way, and easier.

Over the moate I've laid a plank Full seventeen feet in measure, Then step across to the other bank, And there we'll take our pleasure.

These words she had no sooner spoke, But straight he came tripping over: The plank was saw'd, it snapping broke, And sous'd the unhappy lover.



TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD. A TALE. MATTHEW PRIOR.

Once on a time, in sunshine weather, Falsehood and Truth walk'd out together, The neighboring woods and lawns to view, As opposites will sometimes do. Through many a blooming mead they passed, And at a brook arriv'd at last. The purling stream, the margin green, With flowers bedeck'd, a vernal scene, Invited each itinerant maid, To rest a while beneath the shade. Under a spreading beach they sat, And pass'd the time with female chat; Whilst each her character maintain'd; One spoke her thoughts, the other feign'd. At length, quoth Falsehood, sister Truth (For so she call'd her from her youth), What if, to shun yon sultry beam, We bathe in this delightful stream; The bottom smooth, the water clear, And there's no prying shepherd near? With all my heart, the nymph replied, And threw her snowy robes aside, Stript herself naked to the skin, And with a spring leapt headlong in. Falsehood more leisurely undrest, And, laying by her tawdry vest, Trick'd herself out in Truth's array, And 'cross the meadows tript away. From this curst hour, the fraudful dame Of sacred Truth usurps the name, And, with a vile, perfidious mind, Roams far and near, to cheat mankind; False sighs suborns, and artful tears, And starts with vain pretended fears; In visits, still appears most wise, And rolls at church her saint-like eyes; Talks very much, plays idle tricks, While rising stock [Footnote: South Sea, 1720.] her conscience pricks; When being, poor thing, extremely gravel'd, The secrets op'd, and all unravel'd. But on she will, and secrets tell Of John and Joan, and Ned and Nell, Reviling every one she knows, As fancy leads, beneath the rose. Her tongue, so voluble and kind, It always runs before her mind; As times do serve, she slyly pleads, And copious tears still show her needs. With promises as thick as weeds— Speaks pro and con., is wondrous civil, To-day a saint, to-morrow devil. Poor Truth she stript, as has been said, And naked left the lovely maid, Who, scorning from her cause to wince, Has gone stark-naked ever since; And ever naked will appear, Belov'd by all who Truth revere.



FLATTERY. A FABLE. SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS.

Fanny, beware of flattery, Your sex's much-lov'd enemy; For other foes we are prepar'd, And Nature puts us on our guard: In that alone such charms are found, We court the dart, we nurse the hand; And this, my child, an Aesop's Fable Will prove much better than I'm able.

A young vain female Crow, Had perch'd upon a pine tree's bough, And sitting there at ease, Was going to indulge her taste, In a most delicious feast, Consisting of a slice of cheese. A sharp-set Fox (a wily creature) Pass'd by that way In search of prey; When to his nose the smell of cheese, Came in a gentle western breeze; No Welchman knew, or lov'd it better: He bless'd th' auspicious wind, And strait look'd round to find, What might his hungry stomach fill, And quickly spied the Crow, Upon a lofty bough, Holding the tempting prize within her bill. But she was perch'd too high, And Reynard could not fly: She chose the tallest tree in all the wood, What then could bring her down? Or make the prize his own? Nothing but flatt'ry could. He soon the silence broke, And thus ingenious hunger spoke: "Oh, lovely bird, Whose glossy plumage oft has stirr'd The envy of the grove; Thy form was Nature's pleasing care, So bright a bloom, so soft an air, All that behold must love. But, if to suit a form like thine, Thy voice be as divine; If both in these together meet, The feather'd race must own Of all their tribe there's none, Of form so fair, of voice so sweet. Who'll then regard the linnet's note, Or heed the lark's melodious throat? What pensive lovers then shall dwell With raptures on their Philomel? The goldfinch shall his plumage hide, The swan abate her stately pride, And Juno's bird no more display His various glories to the sunny day: Then grant thy Suppliant's prayer, And bless my longing ear With notes that I would die to hear!" Flattery prevail'd, the Crow believ'd The tale, and was with joy deceiv'd; In haste to show her want of skill, She open'd wide her bill: She scream'd as if the de'el was in her Her vanity became so strong That, wrapt in her own frightful song, She quite forgot, and dropt her dinner, The morsel fell quick by the place Where Reynard lay, Who seized the prey And eat it without saying grace. He sneezimg cried "The day's my own, My ends obtain'd The prize is gain'd, And now I'll change my note. Vain, foolish, cheated Glow, Lend your attention now, A truth or two I'll tell you! For, since I've fill'd my belly, Of course my flattry's done: Think you I took such pains, And spoke so well only to hear you croak? No, 'twas the luscious bait, And a keen appetite to eat, That first inspir'd, and carried on the cheat 'Twas hunger furnish'd hands and matter, Flatterers must live by those they flatter; But weep not, Crow, a tongue like mine Might turn an abler head than thine; And though reflection may displease, If wisely you apply your thought, To learn the lesson I have taught, Experience, sure, is cheaply bought, And richly worth a slice of cheese."



THE PIG AND MAGPIE. PETER PINDAR.

Cocking his tail, a saucy prig, A Magpie hopped upon a Pig, To pull some hair, forsooth, to line his nest; And with such ease began the hair attack, As thinking the fee simple of the back Was by himself, and not the Pig, possessed.

The Boar looked up as thunder black to Mag, Who, squinting down on him like an arch wag, Informed Mynheer some bristles must be torn. Then briskly went to work, not nicely culling: Got a good handsome beakful by good pulling, And flew, without a "Thank ye" to his thorn.

The Pig set up a dismal yelling: Followed the robber to his dwelling, Who like a fool had built it 'midst a bramble. In manfully he sallied, full of might, Determined to obtain his right, And 'midst the bushes now began to scramble.

He drove the Magpie, tore his nest to rags, And, happy on the downfall, poured his brags: But ere he from the brambles came, alack! His ears and eyes were miserably torn, His bleeding hide in such a plight forlorn, He could not count ten hairs upon his back.



ADVICE TO YOUNG WOMEN, OR, THE ROSE AND STRAWBERRY. PETER PINDAR

Young women! don't be fond of killing, Too well I know your hearts unwilling To hide beneath the vail a charm— Too pleased a sparkling eye to roll, And with a neck to thrill the soul Of every swain with love's alarm.

Yet, yet, if prudence be not near Its snow may melt into a tear.

The dimple smile, and pouting lip, Where little Cupids nectar sip, Are very pretty lures I own: But, ah! if prudence be not nigh, Those lips where all the Cupids lie, May give a passage to a groan.

A Rose, in all the pride of bloom, Flinging around her rich perfume Her form to public notice pushing, Amid the summer's golden glow Peeped on a Strawberry below, Beneath a leaf, in secret blushing.

"Miss Strawberry," exclaimed the Rose, "What's beauty that no mortal knows? What is a charm, if never seen? You really are a pretty creature: Then wherefore hide each blooming feature? Come up, and show your modest mien."

"Miss Rose," the Strawberry replied, "I never did possess a pride That wished to dash the public eye: Indeed, I own that I'm afraid— I think there's safety in the shade, Ambition causes many a sigh."

"Go, simple child," the Rose rejoined, "See how I wanton in the wind: I feel no danger's dread alarms: And then observe the god of day, How amorous with his golden ray, To pay his visits to my charms!"

No sooner said, but with a scream She started from her favorite theme— A clown had on her fixed his pat. In vain she screeched—Hob did but smile; Rubbed with her leaves his nose awhile, Then bluntly stuck her in his hat.



ECONOMY. PETER PINDAR.

Economy's a very useful broom; Yet should not ceaseless hunt about the room To catch each straggling pin to make a plumb: Too oft Economy's an iron vice, That squeezes even the little guts of mice, That peep with fearful eyes, and ask a crumb.

Proper Economy's a comely thing— Good in a subject—better in a king; Yet pushed too far, it dulls each finer feeling— Most easily inclined to make folks mean; Inclines them too, to villainy to lean, To over-reaching, perjury, and stealing.

Even when the heart should only think of grief It creeps into the bosom like a thief, And swallows up th' affections all so mild—Witness the Jewess, and her only child:—

THE JEWESS AND HER SON

Poor Mistress Levi had a luckless son, Who, rushing to obtain the foremost seat, In imitation of th' ambitious great, High from the gallery, ere the play begun, He fell all plump into the pit, Dead in a minute as a nit: In short, he broke his pretty Hebrew neck; Indeed and very dreadful was the wreck!

The mother was distracted, raving, wild— Shrieked, tore her hair, embraced and kissed her child— Afflicted every heart with grief around: Soon as the shower of tears was somewhat past, And moderately calm th' hysteric blast, She cast about her eyes in thought profound And being with a saving knowledge blessed, She thus the playhouse manager addressed:

"Sher, I'm de moder of de poor Chew lad, Dat meet mishfartin here so bad— Sher, I muss haf de shilling back, you know, Ass Moses haf not see de show."

But as for Avarice, 'tis the very devil; The fount, alas! of every evil: The cancer of the heart—the worst of ills: Wherever sown, luxuriantly it thrives; No flower of virtue near it lives: Like aconite where'er it spreads, it kills. In every soil behold the poison spring! Can taint the beggar, and infect the king.

The mighty Marlborough pilfered cloth and bread, So says that gentle satirist Squire Pope; And Peterborough's Earl upon this head, Affords us little room to hope, That what the Twitnam bard avowed, Might not be readily allowed.



THE COUNTBY LASSES. PETER PINDAR.

Peter lasheth the Ladies.—He turneth Story-teller.—Peter grieveth.

Although the ladies with such beauty blaze, They very frequently my passion raise— Their charms compensate, scarce, their want of TASTE. Passing amidst the Exhibition crowd, I heard some damsels FASHIONABLY loud; And thus I give the dialogue that pass'd.

"Oh! the dear man!" cried one, "look! here's a bonnet! He shall paint ME—I am determin'd on it— Lord! cousin, see! how beautiful the gown! What charming colors! here's fine lace, here's gauze! What pretty sprigs the fellow draws! Lord, cousin! he's the cleverest man in town!"

"Ay, cousin," cried a second, "very true— And here, here's charming green, and red, and blue! There's a complexion beats the ROUGE of Warren! See those red lips; oh, la! they seem so nice! What rosy cheeks then, cousin, to entice!— Compar'd to this, all other heads are carrion.

"Cousin, this limner quickly will be seen, Painting the Princess Royal, and the Queen: Pray, don't you think as I do, COZ? But we 'll be painted FIRST that POZ."

Such was the very PRETTY conversation That pass'd between the PRETTY misses, While unobserv'd, the glory of our nation, Close by them hung Sir Joshua's matchless pieces Works! that a Titian's hand could form alone— Works! that a Reubens had been proud to own.

Permit me, ladies, now to lay before ye What lately happen'd—therefore a true story:—

A STORY.

Walking one afternoon along the Strand, My wond'ring eyes did suddenly expand Upon a pretty leash of country lasses.

"Heav'ns! my dear beauteous angels, how d'ye do? Upon my soul I'm monstrous glad to see ye." "Swinge! Peter, we are glad to meet with you; We're just to London come—well, pray how be ye?

"We're just a going, while 'tis light, To see St. Paul's before 'tis dark. Lord! come, for once, be so polite, And condescend to be our spark."

"With all my heart, my angels."—On we walk'd, And much of London—much of Cornwall talk'd. Now did I hug myself to think How much that glorious structure would surprise, How from its awful grandeur they would shrink With open mouths, and marv'ling eyes!

As near to Ludgate-Hill we drew, St. Paul's just opening on our view; Behold, my lovely strangers, one and all, Gave, all at once, a diabolic squawl, As if they had been tumbled on the stones, And some confounded cart had crush'd their bones.

After well fright'ning people with their cries, And sticking to a ribbon-shop their eyes, They all rush'd in, with sounds enough to stun, And clattering all together, thus begun:—

"Swinge! here are colors then, to please! Delightful things, I vow to heav'n! Why! not to see such things as these, We never should have been forgiv'n.

"Here, here, are clever things—good Lord! And, sister, here, upon my word— Here, here!—look! here are beauties to delight: Why! how a body's heels might dance Along from Launceston to Penzance, Before that one might meet with such a sight!"

"Come, ladies, 'twill be dark," cried I—"I fear. Pray let us view St. Paul's, it is so near"— "Lord! Peter," cried the girls, "don't mind St. Paul! Sure! you're a most INCURIOUS soul— Why—we can see the church another day; Don't be afraid—St. Paul's can't RUN AWAY."

Reader, If e'er thy bosom felt a thought SUBLIME, Drop tears of pity with the man of rhyme!



THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS. PETER PINDAR.

Peter continueth to give great Advice, and to exhibit deep reflection —He telleth a miraculous Story.

There is a knack in doing many a thing, Which labor can not to perfection bring: Therefore, however great in your own eyes, Pray do not hints from other folks despise:

A fool on something great, at times, may stumble, And consequently be a good adviser: On which, forever, your wise men may fumble, And never be a whit the wiser

Yes! I advise you, for there's wisdom in't, Never to be superior to a, hint— The genius of each man, with keenness view— A spark from this, or t'other, caught, May kindle, quick as thought, A glorious bonfire up in you. A question of you let me beg— Of fam'd Columbus and his egg. Pray, have you heard? "Yes."—O, then, if you please I'll give you the two Pilgrims and the Peas.

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS. A TRUE STORY.

A brace of sinners, for no good, Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine.

Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, The priest had order'd peas into their shoes:

A nostrum famous in old Popish times For purifying souls that stunk of crimes: A sort of apostolic salt, Which Popish parsons for its powers exalt, For keeping souls of sinners sweet, Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off on the same day, Peas in their shoes, to go and pray: But very diff'rent was their speed, I wot: One of the sinners gallop'd on, Swift as a bullet from a gun; The other limp'd, as if he had been shot.

One saw the Virgin soon—peccavi cried— Had his soul white-wash'd all so clever; Then home again he nimbly hied, Made fit, with saints above, to live forever.

In coming back, however, let me say, He met his brother rogue about half way— Hobbling, with out-stretch'd hands and bending knees; Damning the souls and bodies of the peas: His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat, Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.

"How now," the light-toed, white-washed pilgrim broke "You lazy lubber! 'Ods curse it," cried the other, "'tis no joke— My feet, once hard as any rock, Are now as soft as any blubber.

"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear— As for Loretto I shall not get there; No! to the Dev'l my sinful soul must go, For damme if I ha'nt lost ev'ry toe.

"But, brother sinner, pray explain How 'tis that you are not in pain: What pow'r hath work'd a wonder for YOUR toes: While I, just like a snail am crawling, Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, While not a rascal comes to ease my woes?

"How is't that YOU can like a greyhound go, Merry, as if that naught had happen'd, burn ye?" "Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know, That just before I ventur'd on my journey, To walk a little more at ease, I took the liberty to boil MY peas.'"



ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES. THOMAS GRAY.

'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw, and purred applause.

Still had she gaz'd, but, 'midst the Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue, Through richest purple, to the view Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless nymph with wonder saw A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched in vain to reach the prize; What female heart can gold despise? What Cat's averse to fish?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent, Again she stretched, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between: (Malignant Fate sat by and smiled) The slippery verge her feet beguiled; She tumbled headlong in.

Eight times emerging from the flood, She mewed to every watery god Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred, Nor cruel Tom or Susan heard: A fav'rite has no friend!

From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived, Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold: Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize, Nor all that glistens gold.



THE RETIRED CAT. WILLIAM COWPER.

A poet's cat, sedate and grave As poet well could wish to have, Was much addicted to inquire For nooks to which she might retire, And where, secure as mouse in chink, She might repose, or sit and think. I know not where she caught the trick; Nature perhaps herself had cast her In such a mold PHILOSOPHIQUE, Or else she learned it of her master. Sometimes ascending, debonair, An apple-tree, or lofty pear, Lodged with convenience in the fork, She watched the gardener at his work; Sometimes her ease and solace sought In an old empty watering-pot, There wanting nothing, save a fan, To seem some nymph in her sedan, Appareled in exactest sort, And ready to be borne to court.

But love of change it seems has place Not only in our wiser race; Cats also feel, as well as we, That passion's force, and so did she. Her climbing, she began to find, Exposed her too much to the wind, And the old utensil of tin Was cold and comfortless within: She therefore wished, instead of those, Some place of more serene repose, Where neither cold might come, nor air Too rudely wanton in her hair, And sought it in the likeliest mode Within her master's snug abode.

A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined With linen of the softest kind, With such as merchants introduce From India, for the ladies' use; A drawer, impending o'er the rest, Half open, in the topmost chest, Of depth enough, and none to spare, Invited her to slumber there; Puss with delight beyond expression, Surveyed the scene and took possession Recumbent at her ease, ere long, And lulled by her own humdrum song, She left the cares of life behind, And slept as she would sleep her last, When in came, housewifely inclined, The chambermaid, and shut it fast, By no malignity impelled, But all unconscious whom it held.

Awakened by the shock (cried puss) "Was ever cat attended thus! The open drawer was left, I see, Merely to prove a nest for me, For soon as I was well composed, Then came the maid, and it was closed. How smooth those 'kerchiefs, and how sweet Oh what a delicate retreat! I will resign myself to rest Till Sol declining in the west, Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, Susan will come, and let me out."

The evening came, the sun descended, And puss remained still unattended. The night rolled tardily away (With her indeed 'twas never day), The sprightly morn her course renewed, The evening gray again ensued, And puss came into mind no more Than if entombed the day before; With hunger pinched, and pinched for room, She now presaged approaching doom. Nor slept a single wink, nor purred, Conscious of jeopardy incurred.

That night, by chance, the poet, watching, Heard an inexplicable scratching; His noble heart went pit-a-pat, And to himself he said—"What's that?" He drew the curtain at his side, And forth he peeped, but nothing spied. Yet, by his ear directed, guessed Something imprisoned in the chest; And, doubtful what, with prudent care Resolved it should continue there. At length a voice which well he knew, A long and melancholy mew, Saluting his poetic ears, Consoled him, and dispelled his fears; He left his bed, he trod the floor, He 'gan in haste the drawers explore, The lowest first, and without stop The next in order to the top. For 'tis a truth well know to most, That whatsoever thing is lost, We seek it, ere it come to light, In every cranny but the right. Forth skipped the cat, not now replete As erst with airy self-conceit, Nor in her own fond comprehension, A theme for all the world's attention, But modest, sober, cured of all Her notions hyperbolical, And wishing for a place of rest, Any thing rather than a chest. Then stepped the poet into bed With this reflection in his head:

MORAL.

Beware of too sublime a sense Of your own worth and consequence. The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight, That all around in all that's done Must move and act for him alone, Will learn in school of tribulation The folly of his expectation.



SAYING NOT MEANING. WILLIAM BASIL WAKE.

Two gentlemen their appetite had fed, When opening his toothpick-case, one said, "It was not until lately that I knew That anchovies on terra firma grew. "Grow!" cried the other, "yes, they GROW, indeed, Like other fish, but not upon the land; You might as well say grapes grow on a reed, Or in the Strand!"

"Why, sir," returned the irritated other, "My brother, When at Calcutta Beheld them bona fide growing; He wouldn't utter A lie for love or money, sir; so in This matter you are thoroughly mistaken." "Nonsense, sir! nonsense! I can give no credit To the assertion—none e'er saw or read it; Your brother, like his evidence, should be shaken."

"Be shaken, sir! let me observe, you are Perverse—in short—" "Sir," said the other, sucking his cigar, And then his port— "If you will say impossibles are true, You may affirm just any thing you please— That swans are quadrupeds, and lions blue, And elephants inhabit Stilton cheese! Only you must not, FORCE me to believe What's propagated merely to deceive."

"Then you force me to say, sir, you're a fool," Return'd the bragger. Language like this no man can suffer cool: It made the listener stagger; So, thunder-stricken, he at once replied, "The traveler LIED Who had the impudence to tell it you;" "Zounds! then d'ye mean to swear before my face That anchovies DON'T grow like cloves and mace?" "I DO!"

Disputants often after hot debates Leave the contention as they found it—bone, And take to duelling or thumping tetes; Thinking by strength of artery to atone For strength of argument; and he who winces From force of words, with force of arms convinces!

With pistols, powder, bullets, surgeons, lint, Seconds, and smelling-bottles, and foreboding, Our friends advanced; and now portentous loading (Their hearts already loaded) serv'd to show It might be better they shook hands—but no; When each opines himself, though frighten'd, right Each is, in courtesy, oblig'd to fight! And they DID fight: from six full measured paces The unbeliever pulled his trigger first; And fearing, from the braggart's ugly faces, The whizzing lead had whizz'd its very worst, Ran up, and with a DUELISTIC fear (His ire evanishing like morning vapors), Found nim possess'd of one remaining ear, Who in a manner sudden and uncouth, Had given, not lent, the other ear to truth; For while the surgeon was applying lint, He, wriggling, cried—"The deuce is in't—Sir! I MEANT—CAPERS!"



JULIA. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

—medio de fonte leporum Surgit amari aliquid.—Lucret.

Julia was blest with beauty, wit, and grace: Small poets loved to sing her blooming face. Before her altars, lo! a numerous train Preferr'd their vows; yet all preferr'd in vain. Till charming Florio, born to conquer, came, And touch'd the fair one with an equal flame. The flame she felt, and ill could she conceal What every look and action would reveal. With boldness then, which seldom fails to move, He pleads the cause of marriage and of love; The course of hymeneal joys he rounds, The fair one's eyes dance pleasure at the sounds. Naught now remain'd but "Noes"—how little meant— And the sweet coyness that endears consent. The youth upon his knees enraptured fell:— The strange misfortune, oh! what words can tell? Tell! ye neglected sylphs! who lap-dogs guard, Why snatch'd ye not away your precious ward? Why suffer'd ye the lover's weight to fall On the ill-fated neck of much-loved Ball? The favorite on his mistress casts his eyes, Gives a melancholy howl, and—dies! Sacred his ashes lie, and long his rest! Anger and grief divide poor Julia's breast. Her eyes she fix'd on guilty Morio first, On him the storm of angry grief must burst. That storm he fled:—he woos a kinder fair, Whose fond affections no dear puppies share. 'Twere vain to tell how Julia pined away;— Unhappy fair, that in one luckless day (From future almanacs the day be cross'd!) At once her lover and her lap-dog lost!



A COCK AND HEN STORY. ROBERT SOUTHEY

PART I.

Once on a time three Pilgrims true, Being Father and Mother and Son, For pure devotion to the Saint, A pilgrimage begun.

Their names, little friends, I am sorry to say, In none of my books can I find; But the son, if you please, we'll call Pierre, What the parents were called, never mind.

From France they came, in which fair land They were people of good renown; And they took up their lodging one night on the way In La Calzada town.

Now, if poor Pilgrims they had been, And had lodged in the Hospice instead of the Inn, My good little women and men, Why then you never would have heard, This tale of the Cock and the Hen.

For the Innkeepers they had a daughter, Sad to say, who was just such another As Potiphar's daughter, I think, would have been If she followed the ways of her mother.

This wicked woman to our Pierre Behaved like Potiphar's wife; And because she failed to win his love, She resolved to take his life.

So she packed up a silver cup In his wallet privily; And then, as soon as they were gone, She raised a hue and cry.

The Pilgrims were overtaken, The people gathered round, Their wallets were searched, and in Pierre's The silver cup was found.

They dragged him before the Alcayde; A hasty Judge was he, "The theft," he said, "was plain and proved, And hang'd the thief must be." So to the gallows our poor Pierre Was hurried instantly.

If I should now relate The piteous lamentation, Which for their son these parents made, My little friends, I am afraid You'd weep at the relation.

But Pierre in Santiago still His constant faith profess'd; When to the gallows he was led, "'Twas a short way to Heaven," he said, "Though not the pleasantest."

And from their pilgrimage he charged His parents not to cease, Saying that unless they promised this, He could not be hanged in peace.

They promised it with heavy hearts; Pierre then, therewith content, Was hang'd: and they upon their way To Compostella went.

PART II.

Four weeks they travel'd painfully, They paid their vows, and then To La Calzada's fatal town Did they come back again.

The Mother would not be withheld, But go she must to see Where her poor Pierre was left to hang Upon the gallows tree.

Oh tale most marvelous to hear, Most marvelous to tell! Eight weeks had he been hanging there, And yet was alive and well!

"Mother," said he, "I am glad you're return'd, It is time I should now be released: Though I can not complain that I'm tired, And my neck does not ache in the least.

"The Sun has not scorch'd me by day, The Moon has not chilled me by night; And the winds have but helped me to swing, As if in a dream of delight.

"Go you to the Alcayde, That hasty Judge unjust, Tell him Santiago has saved me, And take me down he must!"

Now, you must know the Alcayde, Not thinking himself a great sinner, Just then at table had sate down, About to begin his dinner.

His knife was raised to carve The dish before him then; Two roasted fowls were laid therein, That very morning they had been A Cock and his faithful Hen.

In came the Mother, wild with joy: "A miracle!" she cried; But that most hasty Judge unjust Repell'd her in his pride.

"Think not," quoth he, "to tales like this That I should give belief! Santiago never would bestow His miracles, full well I know, On a Frenchman and a thief."

And pointing to the Fowls, o'er which He held his ready knife, "As easily might I believe These birds should come to life!"

The good Saint would not let him thus The Mother's true tale withstand; So up rose the Fowls in the dish, And down dropt the knife from his hand.

The Cock would have crow'd if he could: To cackle the Hen had a wish; And they both slipt about in the gravy Before they got out of the dish.

And when each would have open'd its eyes, For the purpose of looking about them, They saw they had no eyes to open, And that there was no seeing without them.

All this was to them a great wonder, They stagger'd and reel'd on the table; And either to guess where they were, Or what was their plight, or how they came there, Alas! they were wholly unable:

Because, you must know, that that morning, A thing which they thought very hard, The Cook had cut off their heads, And thrown them away in the yard.

The Hen would have pranked up her feathers, But plucking had sadly deform'd her; And for want of them she would have shiver'd with cold, If the roasting she had had not warm'd her.

And the Cock felt exceedingly queer; He thought it a very odd thing That his head and his voice were he did not know where, And his gizzard tuck'd under his wing.

The gizzard got into its place, But how Santiago knows best: And so, by the help of the Saint, Did the liver and all the rest.

The heads saw their way to the bodies, In they came from the yard without check, And each took its own proper station, To the very great joy of the neck.

And in flew the feathers, like snow in a shower, For they all became white on the way; And the Cock and the Hen in a trice were refledged, And then who so happy as they!

Cluck! cluck! cried the Hen right merrily then, The Cock his clarion blew, Full glad was he to hear again His own cock-a-doo-del-doo!



PART III.

"A miracle! a miracle!" The people shouted, as they might well, When the news went through the town And every child and woman and man Took up the cry, and away they ran To see Pierre taken down.

They made a famous procession My good little women and men, Such a sight was never seen before And I think will never again.

Santiago's Image, large as life, Went first with banners and drum and fife; And next, as was most meet, The twice-born Cock and Hen were borne Along the thronging street.

Perched on a cross-pole hoisted high, They were raised in sight of the crowd; And when the people set up a cry, The Hen she cluck'd in sympathy, And the Cock he crow'd aloud.

And because they very well knew for why They were carried in such solemnity, And saw the Saint and his banners before 'em They behaved with the greatest propriety, And most correct decorum.

The Knife, which had cut off their heads that morn, Still red with their innocent blood, was borne, The scullion boy he carried it; And the Skewers also made part of the show, With which they were truss'd for the spit.

The Cook in triumph bore that Spit As high as he was able; And the Dish was display'd wherein they were laid When they had been served at table.

With eager faith the crowd prest round; There was a scramble of women and men For who should dip a finger-tip In the blessed Gravy then.

Next went the Alcayde, beating his breast, Crying aloud like a man distrest, And amazed at the loss of his dinner, "Santiago, Santiago! Have mercy on me a sinner!"

And lifting oftentimes his hands Toward the Cock and Hen, "Orate pro nobis!" devoutly he cried, And as devoutly the people replied, Whenever he said it, "Amen!"

The Father and Mother were last in the train; Rejoicingly they came, And extoll'd, with tears of gratitude, Santiago's glorious name.

So, with all honors that might be, They gently unhang'd Pierre; No hurt or harm had he sustain'd, But, to make the wonder clear, A deep biack halter-mark remain'd Just under his left ear.



PART IV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS. THOMAS MOORE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE GHOST. R. HARRIS BARHAM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS. R. HARRIS BARHAM

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

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

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

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

* * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"MURDER!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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