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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MORAL.

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LAY OF THE NAIADS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MORAL.

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



LOOK AT THE CLOCK. R. HARRIS BARHAM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE BAGMAN'S DOG. R. HARRIS BARHAM.

Stant littore Puppies!—VIRGIL.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * *

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

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

* * * * * *

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * * *

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

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

* * * * * * *

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

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

* * * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * * * *

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

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

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

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

MORAL.

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

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

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

L'Envoye.

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



DAME FREDEGONDE. WILLIAM AYTOUS.

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

III.

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

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

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

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

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

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

IV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



SHADOWS Lantern

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE RETORT GEORGE P. MORRIS

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

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

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

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



SATIRICAL



THE RABBLE: OR, WHO PAYS! SAMUEL BUTLER.

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



THE CHAMELEON. MATTHEW PRIOR.

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



MERRY ANDREW. MATTHEW PRIOR.

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



JACK AND JOAN. MATTHEW PRIOR.

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

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



THE PROGRESS OF POETRY. DEAN SWIFT

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

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

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