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

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

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

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

R.F.

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

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

THIRD LETTER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE LITERARY LADY. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



FAMILY POETRY. R. HARRIS BARHAM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What makes you simper, then, and sneer? From out your own eye pull the mote! A PRETTY thing for you to jeer— Haven't YOU, too, got a long-tail'd coat?

Oh! "Dick's scarce old enough," you mean. Why, though too young to give a note, Or make a will, yet, sure Fifteen 's a ripe age for a long-tail'd coat.

What! would you have him sport a chin Like Colonel Stanhope, or that goat O' German Mahon, ere begin To figure in a long-tail'd coat?

Suppose he goes to France—can he Sit down at any table d' hote, With any sort of decency, Unless he's got a long-tail'd coat?

Why Louis Philippe, Royal Cit, There soon may be a sans culotte, And Nugent's self may then admit The advantage of a long-tail'd coat.

Things are not now as when, of yore, In tower encircled by a moat, The lion-hearted chieftain wore A corselet for a long-tail'd coat;

Then ample mail his form embraced, Not like a weasel or a stoat, "Cribb'd and confined" about the waist, And pinch'd in like Dick's long-tail'd coat

With beamy spear or biting ax, To right and left he thrust and smote— Ah! what a change! no sinewy thwacks Fall from a modern long-tail'd coati

More changes still! now, well-a-day! A few cant phrases learned by rote, Each beardless booby spouts away, A Solon, in a long-tail'd coat!

Prates of the "March of Intellect"— "The Schoolmaster." A PATRIOTE So noble, who could e'er suspect Had just put on a long-tail'd coat?

Alack! alack! that every thick- Skull'd lad must find an antidote For England's woes, because, like Dick, He has put on a long-tail'd coat!

But lo! my rhyme's begun to fail, Nor can I longer time devote; Thus rhyme and time cut short the TALE, The long tale of Dick's long-tail'd coat.



THE SUNDAY QUESTION. THOMAS HOOD.

"It is the king's highway that we are in, and in this way it is that thou hast placed the lions,"—BUNYAN.

What! shut the Gardens! lock the latticed gate! Refuse the shilling and the fellow's ticket! And hang a wooden notice up to state, On Sundays no admittance at this wicket! The Birds, the Beasts, and all the Reptile race, Denied to friends and visitors till Monday! Now, really, this appears the common case Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The Gardens—so unlike the ones we dub Of Tea, wherein the artisan carouses— Mere shrubberies without one drop of shrub— Wherefore should they be closed like public-houses? No ale is vended at the wild Deer's Head— No rum—nor gin—not even of a Monday— The Lion is not carved—or gilt—or red, And does not send out porter of a Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The Bear denied! the Leopard under looks! As if his spots would give contagious fevers! The Beaver close as hat within its box; So different from other Sunday beavers! The Birds invisible—the Gnaw-way Rats— The Seal hermetically sealed till Monday— The Monkey tribe—the Family of Cats— We visit other families on Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy

What is the brute profanity that shocks The super-sensitively serious feeling? The Kangaroo—is he not orthodox To bend his legs, the way he does, in kneeling? Was strict Sir Andrew, in his Sabbath coat, Struck all a-heap to see a Coati mundi? Or did the Kentish Plumtree faint to note The Pelicans presenting bills on Sunday?— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What feature has repulsed the serious set? What error in the bestial birth or breeding, To put their tender fancies on the fret? One thing is plain—it is not in the feeding! Some stiffish people think that smoking joints Are carnal sins 'twixt Saturday and Monday— But then the beasts are pious on these points, For they all eat cold dinners on a Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What change comes o'er the spirit of the place, As if transmuted by some spell organic? Turns fell Hyena of the Ghoulish race? The Snake, pro tempore, the true Satanic? Do Irish minds—(whose theory allows That now and then Good Friday falls on Monday)— Do Irish minds suppose that Indian Cows Are wicked Bulls of Bashan on a Sunday?— But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?

There are some moody Fellows, not a few, Who, turned by nature with a gloomy bias, Renounce black devils to adopt the blue, And think when they are dismal they are pious: Is't possible that Pug's untimely fun Has sent the brutes to Coventry till Monday?— Or perhaps some animal, no serious one, Was overheard in laughter on a Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What dire offense have serious Fellows found To raise their spleen against the Regent's spinney? Were charitable boxes handed round, And would not Guinea Pigs subscribe their guinea? Perchance, the Demoiselle refused to molt The feathers in her head—at least till Monday; Or did the Elephant, unseemly, bolt A tract presented to be read on Sunday?— But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?

At whom did Leo struggle to get loose? Who mourns through Monkey-tricks his damaged clothing? Who has been hissed by the Canadian Goose? On whom did Llama spit in utter loathing? Some Smithfield Saint did jealous feelings tell To keep the Puma out of sight till Monday, Because he preyed extempore as well As certain wild Itinerants on Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

To me it seems that in the oddest way (Begging the pardon of each rigid Socius) Our would-be Keepers of the Sabbath-day Are like the Keepers of the brutes ferocious— As soon the Tiger might expect to stalk About the grounds from Saturday till Monday, As any harmless man to take a walk, If Saints could clap him in a cage on Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all hypocrisy can spin, As surely as I am a Christian scion, I cannot think it is a mortal sin— (Unless he's loose)—to look upon a lion. I really think that one may go, perchance, To see a bear, as guiltless as on Monday— (That is, provided that he did not dance)— Bruin's no worse than bakin' on a Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

In spite of all the fanatic compiles, I can not think the day a bit diviner, Because no children, with forestalling smiles, Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor— It is not plain, to my poor faith at least, That what we christen "Natural" on Monday, The wondrous history of Bird and Beast, Can be unnatural because it's Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Whereon is sinful fantasy to work? The Dove, the winged Columbus of man's haven? The tender Love-Bird—or the filial Stork? The punctual Crane—the providential Raven? The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young? Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Monday That feathered marvel with a human tongue, Because she does not preach upon a Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

The busy Beaver—that sagacious beast! The Sheep that owned an Oriental Shepherd— That Desert-ship, the Camel of the East, The horned Rhinoceros—the spotted Leopard— The Creatures of the Great Creator's hand Are surely sights for better days than Monday— The Elephant, although he wears no band, Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday?— But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?

What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil, Weary of frame, and worn and wan of feature, Seek once a week their spirits to assoil, And snatch a glimpse of "Animated Nature?" Better it were if, in his best of suits, The artisan, who goes to work on Monday, Should spend a leisure-hour among the brutes, Than make a beast of his own self on Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Why, zounds! what raised so Protestant a fuss (Omit the zounds! for which I make apology) But that the Papists, like some Fellows, thus Had somehow mixed up Deus with their Theology? Is Brahma's Bull—a Hindoo god at home— A Papal Bull to be tied up till Monday?— Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome, That there is such a dread of them on Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Spirit of Kant! have we not had enough To make Religion sad, and sour, and snubbish, But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff, As vessels cant their ballast-rattling rubbish! Once let the sect, triumphant to their text, Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday, And sure as fate they will deny us next To see the Dandelions on a Sunday— But what is your opinion, Mrs, Grundy?



ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQUIRE [Footnote: Who had, in one of his books, characterized some of Hood's verses as "profaneness and ribaldry."] THOMAS HOOD.

"Close, close your eyes with holy dread, And weave a circle round him thrice; For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise!"—Coleridge.

"It's very hard them kind of men Won't let a body be."—Old Ballad.

A wanderer, Wilson, from my native land, Remote, O Rae, from godliness and thee, Where rolls between us the eternal sea, Besides some furlongs of a foreign sand— Beyond the broadest Scotch of London Wall; Beyond the loudest Saint that has a call; Across the wavy waste between us stretched, A friendly missive warns me of a stricture, Wherein my likeness you have darkly etched, And though I have not seen the shadow sketched, Thus I remark prophetic on the picture.

I guess the features:—in a line to paint Their moral ugliness, I'm not a saint, Not one of those self-constituted saints, Quacks—not physicians—in the cure of souls, Censors who sniff out moral taints, And call the devil over his own coals— Those pseudo Privy Councillors of God, Who write down judgments with a pen hard-nibbed: Ushers of Beelzebub's Black Rod, Commending sinners not to ice thick-ribbed, But endless flames, to scorch them like flax— Yet sure of heaven themselves, as if they'd cribbed The impression of St. Peter's keys in wax!

Of such a character no single trace Exists, I know, in my fictitious face; There wants a certain cast about the eye; A certain lifting of the nose's tip; A certain curling of the nether lip, In scorn of all that is, beneath the sky; In brief, it is an aspect deleterious, A face decidedly not serious, A face profane, that would not do at all To make a face at Exeter Hall— That Hall where bigots rant, and cant, and pray, And laud each other face to face, Till every farthing-candle RAY Conceives itself a great gas-light of grace!

Well!—be the graceless lineaments confest I do enjoy this bounteous beauteous earth; And dote upon a jest "Within the limits of becoming mirth;"— No solemn sanctimonious face I pull, Nor think I'm pious when I'm only bilious— Nor study in my sanctum supercilious To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull, I pray for grace—repent each sinful act— Peruse, but underneath the rose, my Bible; And love my neighbor, far too well, in fact, To call and twit him with a godly tract That's turned by application to a libel. My heart ferments not with the bigot's leaven, All creeds I view with toleration thorough, And have a horror of regarding heaven As any body's rotten borough.

What else? No part I take in party fray, With tropes from Billingsgate's slang-whanging Tartars, I fear no Pope—and let great Ernest play At Fox and Goose with Fox's Martyrs! I own I laugh at over-righteous men, I own I shake my sides at ranters, And treat sham Abr'am saints with wicked banters, I even own, that there are times—but then It's when I 've got my wine—I say d—— canters!

I've no ambition to enact the spy On fellow-souls, a spiritual Pry— 'Tis said that people ought to guard their noses Who thrust them into matters none of theirs And, though no delicacy discomposes Your saint, yet I consider faith and prayers Among the privatest of men's affairs.

I do not hash the Gospel in my books, And thus upon the public mind intrude it, As if I thought, like Otahei-tan cooks, No food was fit to eat till I had chewed it.

On Bible stilts I don't affect to stalk; Nor lard with Scripture my familiar talk— For man may pious texts repeat, And yet religion have no inward seat; 'Tis not so plain as the old Hill of Howth, A man has got his belly full of meat Because he talks with victuals in his mouth!

Mere verbiage—it is not worth a carrot! Why, Socrates or Plato—where 's the odds?— Once taught a Jay to supplicate the gods, And made a Polly-theist of a Parrot!

A mere professor, spite of all his cant, is Not a whit better than a Mantis— An insect, of what clime I can't determine, That lifts its paws most parson-like, and thence, By simple savages—through sheer pretense— Is reckoned quite a saint among the vermin. But where's the reverence, or where the nous, To ride on one's religion through the lobby, Whether as stalking-horse or hobby, To show its pious paces to "the house."

I honestly confess that I would hinder The Scottish member's legislative rigs, That spiritual Pindar, Who looks on erring souls as straying pigs, That must be lashed by law, wherever found, And driven to church as to the parish pound.

I do confess, without reserve or wheedle, I view that groveling idea as one Worthy some parish clerk's ambitious son, A charity-boy who longs to be a beadle. On such a vital topic sure 'tis odd How much a man can differ from his neighbor, One wishes worship freely given to God, Another wants to make it statute-labor— The broad distinction in a line to draw, As means to lead us to the skies above, You say—Sir Andrew and his love of law, And I—the Saviour with his law of love.

Spontaneously to God should tend the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the Pole; But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's college, Should nail the conscious needle to the north? I do confess that I abhor and shrink Prom schemes, with a religious willy-nilly, That frown upon St. Giles' sins, but blink The peccadilloes of all Piccadilly— My soul revolts at such bare hypocrisy, And will not, dare not, fancy in accord The Lord of hosts with an exclusive lord Of this world's aristocracy, It will not own a nation so unholy, As thinking that the rich by easy trips May go to heaven, whereas the poor and lowly Must work their passage as they do in ships.

One place there is—beneath the burial-sod, Where all mankind are equalized by death; Another place there is—the Fane of God, Where all are equal who draw living breath;— Juggle who will ELSEWHERE with his own soul, Playing the Judas with a temporal dole— He who can come beneath that awful cope, In the dread presence of a Maker just, Who metes to every pinch of human dust One even measure of immortal hope— He who can stand within that holy door, With soul unbowed by that pure spirit-level, And frame unequal laws for rich and poor,— Might sit for Hell, and represent the Devil!

Such are the solemn sentiments, O Rae, In your last journey-work, perchance, you ravage, Seeming, but in more courtly terms, to say I'm but a heedless, creedless, godless, savage; A very Guy, deserving fire and faggots,— A scoffer, always on the grin, And sadly given to the mortal sin Of liking Mawworms less than merry maggots!

The humble records of my life to search, I have not herded with mere pagan beasts: But sometimes I have "sat at good men's feasts," And I have been "where bells have knolled to church." Dear bells! how sweet the sound of village bells When on the undulating air they swim! Now loud as welcomes! faint, now, as farewells! And trembling all about the breezy dells, As fluttered by the wings of Cherubim. Meanwhile the bees are chanting a low hymn; And lost to sight the ecstatic lark above Sings, like a soul beatified, of love, With, now and then, the coo of the wild pigeon:— O pagans, heathens, infidels, and doubters! If such sweet sounds can't woo you to religion, Will the harsh voices of church cads and touters?

A man may cry Church! Church! at every word, With no more piety than other people— A daw's not reckoned a religious bird Because it keeps a-cawing from a steeple; The Temple is a good, a holy place, But quacking only gives it an ill savor; While saintly mountebanks the porch disgrace, And bring religion's self into disfavor!

Behold yon servitor of God and Mammon, Who, binding up his Bible with his ledger, Blends Gospel texts with trading gammon, A black-leg saint, a spiritual hedger, Who backs his rigid Sabbath, so to speak, Against the wicked remnant of the week, A saving bet against, his sinful bias— "Rogue that I am," he whispers to himself, "I lie—I cheat—do any thing for pelf, But who on earth can say I am not pious!"

In proof how over-righteousness re-acts, Accept an anecdote well based on facts; On Sunday morning—(at the day don't fret)— In riding with a friend to Ponder's End Outside the stage, we happened to commend A certain mansion that we saw To Let. "Ay," cried our coachman, with our talk to grapple, "You're right! no house along the road comes nigh it! 'T was built by the same man as built yon chapel, And master wanted once to buy it,— But t' other driv' the bargain much too hard,— He axed sure-LY a sum prodigious! But being so particular religious, Why, THAT you see, put master on his guard!" Church is "a little heaven below, I have been there and still would go," Yet I am none of those who think it odd A man can pray unbidden from the cassock, And, passing by the customary hassock Kneel down remote upon the simple sod, And sue in forma pauperis to God.

As for the rest,—intolerant to none, Whatever shape the pious rite may bear, Even the poor Pagan's homage to the sun I would not harshly scorn, lest even there I spurned some elements of Christian prayer— An aim, though erring, at a "world ayont"— Acknowledgment of good—of man's futility, A sense of need, and weakness, and indeed That very thing so many Christians want— Humilty.

Such, unto Papists, Jews or Turbaned Turks, Such is my spirit—(I don't mean my wraith!) Such, may it please you, is my humble faith; I know, full well, you do not like my WORKS!

I have not sought, 'tis true, the Holy Land, As full of texts as Cuddie Headrigg's mother, The Bible in one hand, And my own common-place-book in the other— But you have been to Palestine—alas Some minds improve by travel—others, rather, Resemble copper wire or brass, Which gets the narrower by going further!

Worthless are all such pilgrimages—very! If Palmers at the Holy Tomb contrive The humans heats and rancor to revive That at the Sepulcher they ought to bury. A sorry sight it is to rest the eye on, To see a Christian creature graze at Sion, Then homeward, of the saintly pasture full, Rush bellowing, and breathing fire and smoke, At crippled Papistry to butt and poke, Exactly as a skittish Scottish bull Haunts an old woman in a scarlet cloak.

Why leave a serious, moral, pious home, Scotland, renewned for sanctity of old, Far distant Catholics to rate and scold For—doing as the Romans do at Rome? With such a bristling spirit wherefore quit The Land of Cakes for any land of wafers, About the graceless images to flit, And buzz and chafe importunate as chafers, Longing to carve the carvers to Scotch collops?— People who hold such absolute opinions Should stay at home in Protestant dominions, Not travel like male Mrs. Trollopes.

Gifted with noble tendency to climb, Yet weak at the same time, Faith is a kind of parasitic plant, That grasps the nearest stem with tendril rings; And as the climate and the soil may grant, So is the sort of tree to which it clings. Consider, then, before, like Hurlothrumbo, You aim your club at any creed on earth, That, by the simple accident of birth, YOU might have been High Priest to Mungo Jumbo.

For me—through heathen ignorance perchance, Not having knelt in Palestine,—I feel None of that griffinish excess of zeal, Some travelers would blaze with here in France. Dolls I can see in Virgin-like array, Nor for a scuffle with the idols hanker Like crazy Quixotte at the puppet's play, If their "offense be rank," should mine be RANCOR?

Mild light, and by degrees, should be the plan To cure the dark and erring mind; But who would rush at a benighted man, And give him, two black eyes for being blind?

Suppose the tender but luxuriant hop Around a cankered stem should twine, What Kentish boor would tear away the prop So roughly as to wound, nay, kill the bine?

The images, 'tis true, are strangely dressed, With gauds and toys extremely out of season; The carving nothing of the very best, The whole repugnant to the eye of Reason, Shocking to Taste, and to Fine Arts a treason— Yet ne'er o'erlook in bigotry of sect One truly CATHOLIC, one common form, At which unchecked All Christian hearts may kindle or keep warm.

Say, was it to my spirit's gain or loss One bright and balmy morning, as I went From Liege's lovely environs to Ghent, If hard by the wayside I found a cross, That made me breathe a prayer upon the spot— While Nature of herself, as if to trace The emblem's use, had trailed around its base The blue significant Forget-Me-Not? Methought, the claims of Charity to urge More forcibly along with Faith and Hope, The pious choice had pitched upon the verge Of a delicious slope, Giving the eye much variegated scope!— "Look round," it whispered, "on that prospect rare, Those vales so verdant, and those hills so blue; Enjoy the sunny world, so fresh, and fair, But"—(how the simple legend pierced me through!) "PRIEZ POUR LES MALHEUREUX."

With sweet kind natures, as in honeyed cells, Religion lives and feels herself at home; But only on a formal visit dwells Where wasps instead of bees have formed the comb.

Shun pride, O Rae!—whatever sort beside You take in lieu, shun spiritual pride! A pride there is of rank—a pride of birth, A pride of learning, and a pride of purse, A London pride—in short, there be on earth A host of prides, some better and some worse; But of all prides, since Lucifer's attaint, The proudest swells a self-elected Saint.

To picture that cold pride so harsh and hard, Fancy a peacock in a poultry-yard. Behold him in conceited circles sail, Strutting and dancing, and now planted stiff, In all his pomp of pageantry, as if He felt "the eyes of Europe" on his tail! As for the humble breed retained by man, He scorns the whole domestic clan— He bows, he bridles, He wheels, he sidles, As last, with stately dodgings in a corner, He pens a simple russet hen, to scorn her Full in the blaze of his resplendent fan!

"Look here," he cries (to give him words), "Thou feathered clay—thou scum of birds!" Flirting the rustling plumage in her eyes— "Look here, thou vile predestined sinner, Doomed to be roasted for a dinner, Behold these lovely variegated dyes! These are the rainbow colors of the skies, That heaven has shed upon me con amore— A Bird of Paradise?—a pretty story! I am that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick! Look at my crown of glory! Thou dingy, dirty, dabbled, draggled jill!" And off goes Partlett, wriggling from a kick, With bleeding scalp laid open by his bill!

That little simile exactly paints How sinners are despised by saints. By saints!—the Hypocrites that ope heaven's door Obsequious to the sinful man of riches— But put the wicked, naked, bare-legged poor, In parish stocks, instead of breeches.

The Saints?—the Bigots that in public spout, Spread phosphorus of zeal on scraps of fustian, And go like walking "Lucifers" about— Mere living bundles of combustion.

The Saints!—the aping Fanatics that talk All cant and rant and rhapsodies high flown— That bid you balk A Sunday walk, And shun God's work as you should shun your own.

The Saints!—the Formalists, the extra pious, Who think the mortal husk can save the soul, By trundling, with a mere mechanic bias, To church, just like a lignum-vitae bowl!

The Saints!—the Pharisees, whose beadle stands Beside a stern coercive kirk, A piece of human mason-work, Calling all sermons contrabands, In that great Temple that's not made with hands!

Thrice blessed, rather, is the man with whom The gracious prodigality of nature, The balm, the bliss, the beauty, and the bloom, The bounteous providence in every feature, Recall the good Creator to his creature, Making all earth a fane, all heaven its dome! To HIS tuned spirit the wild heather-bells Ring Sabbath knells; The jubilate of the soaring lark Is chant of clerk; For Choir, the thrush and the gregarious linnet; The sod's a cushion for his pious want; And, consecrated by the heaven within it, The sky-blue pool, a font. Each cloud-capped mountain is a holy altar; An organ breathes in every grove; And the fall heart's a Psalter, Rich in deep hymns of gratitude and love!

Sufficiently by stern necessitarians Poor Nature, with her face begrimmed by dust, Is stoked, coked, smoked, and almost choked: but must Religion have its own Utilitarians, Labeled with evangelical phylacteries, To make the road to heaven a railway trust, And churches—that's the naked fact—mere factories?

O! simply open wide the temple door, And let the solemn, swelling organ greet, With VOLUNTARIES meet, The WILLING advent of the rich and poor! And while to God the loud Hosannas soar, With rich vibiations from the vocal throng— From quiet shades that to the woods belong, And brooks with music of their own, Voices may come to swell the choral song With notes of praise they learned in musings lone.

How strange it is, while on all vital questions, That occupy the House and public mind, We always meet with some humane suggestions Of gentle measures of a healing kind, Instead of harsh severity and vigor, The saint alone his preference retains For bills of penalties and pains, And marks his narrow code with legal rigor! Why shun, as worthless of affiliation, What men of all political persuasion Extol—and even use upon occasion— That Christian principle, conciliation? But possibly the men who make such fuss With Sunday pippins and old Trots infirm, Attach some other meaning to the term, As thus:

One market morning, in my usual rambles, Passing along Whitechapel's ancient shambles, Where meat was hung in many a joint and quarter, I had to halt a while, like other folks, To let a killing butcher coax A score of lambs and fatted sheep to slaughter. A sturdy man he looked to fell an ox, Bull-fronted, ruddy, with a formal streak Of well-greased hair down either cheek, As if he dee-dashed-dee'd some other flocks Besides those woolly-headed stubborn blocks That stood before him, in vexatious huddle— Poor little lambs, with bleating wethers grouped, While, now and then, a thirsty creature stooped And meekly snuffed, but did not taste the puddle.

Fierce barked the dog, and many a blow was dealt, That loin, and chump, and scrag and saddle felt, Yet still, that fatal step they all declined it— And shunned the tainted door as if they smelt Onions, mint-sauce, and lemon-juice behind it. At last there came a pause of brutal force; The cur was silent, for his jaws were full Of tangled locks of tarry wool; The man had whooped and bellowed till dead hoarse, The time was ripe for mild expostulation, And thus it stammered ftom a stander-by— "Zounds!—my good fellow—it quite makes me—why It really—my dear fellow—do just try Conciliation!"

Stringing his nerves like flint, The sturdy butcher seized upon the hint— At least he seized upon the foremost wether— And hugged and lugged and tugged him neck and crop Just nolens volens through the open shop— If tails come off he didn't care a feather— Then walking to the door, and smiling grim, He rubbed his forehead and his sleeve together— "There!—I've CONciliated him!"

Again—good-humoredly to end our quarrel— (Good humor should prevail!) I'll fit you with a tale Whereto is tied a moral. Once on a time a certain English lass Was seized with symptoms of such deep decline, Cough, hectic flushes, every evil sign, That, as their wont is at such desperate pass, The doctors gave her over—to an ass.

Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk, Each morn the patient quaffed a frothy bowl Of assinine new milk, Robbing a shaggy suckling of a foal Which got proportionably spare and skinny— Meanwhile the neighbors cried "Poor Mary Ann! She can't get over it! she never can!" When lo! to prove each prophet was a ninny, The one that died was the poor wet-nurse Jenny.

To aggravate the case, There were but two grown donkeys in the place; And, most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter, The other long-eared creature was a male, Who never in his life had given a pail Of milk, or even chalk and water. No matter: at the usual hour of eight Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate, With Mister Simon Gubbins on his back— "Your sarvant, Miss—a werry spring-like day— Bad time for hasses, though! good lack! good lack! Jenny be dead, Miss—but I'ze brought ye Jack— He doesn't give no milk—but he can bray."

So runs the story, And, in vain self-glory, Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blindness; But what the better are their pious saws To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws, Without the milk of human kindness?



DEATH'S RAMBLE. THOMAS HOOD.

One day the dreary old King of Death Inclined for some sport with the carnal, So he tied a pack of darts on his back, And quietly stole from his charnel.

His head was bald of flesh and of hair, His body was lean and lank; His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.

And what did he do with his deadly darts, This goblin of grisly bone? He dabbled and spilled man's blood, and he killed Like a butcher that kills his own.

The first he slaughtered it made him laugh (For the man was a coffin-maker), To think how the mutes, and men in black suits, Would mourn for an undertaker.

Death saw two Quakers sitting at church; Quoth he, "We shall not differ." And he let them alone, like figures of stone, For he could not make them stiffer.

He saw two duellists going to fight, In fear they could not smother; And he shot one through at once—for he knew They never would shoot each other.

He saw a watchman fast in his box, And he gave a snore infernal; Said Death, "He may keep his breath, for his sleep Can never be more eternal."

He met a coachman driving a coach So slow that his fare grew sick; But he let him stray on his tedious way, For Death only wars on the QUICK.

Death saw a tollman taking a toll, In the spirit of his fraternity; But he knew that sort of man would extort, Though summoned to all eternity.

He found an author writing his life, But he let him write no further; For Death, who strikes whenever he likes, Is jealous of all self-murther!

Death saw a patient that pulled out his purse, And a doctor that took the sum; But he let them be—for he knew that the "fee" Was a prelude to "faw" and "fum."

He met a dustman ringing a bell, And he gave him a mortal thrust; For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw, Is contractor for all our dust.

He saw a sailor mixing his grog, And he marked him out for slaughter; For on water he scarcely had cared for death, And never on rum-and-water.

Death saw two players playing at cards, But the game wasn't worth a dump, For he quickly laid them flat with a spade, To wait for the final trump!



THE BACHELOR'S DREAM. THOMAS HOOD.

My pipe is lit, my grog is mixed, My curtains drawn and all is snug; Old Puss is in her elbow chair, And Tray is sitting on the rug. Last night I had a curious dream, Miss Susan Bates was Mistress Mogg— What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

She look'd so fair, she sang so well, I could but woo and she was won; Myself in blue, the bride in white, The ring was placed, the deed was done! Away we went in chaise-and-four, As fast as grinning boys could flog— What d'ye think of that my cat? What d'ye think of that my dog?

What loving tete-a-tetes to come! What tete-a-tetes must still defer! When Susan came to live with me, Her mother came to live with her! With sister Belle she couldn't part, But all MY ties had leave to jog— What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

The mother brought a pretty Poll— A monkey, too, what work he made! The sister introduced a beau— My Susan brought a favorite maid. She had a tabby of her own,— A snappish mongrel christened Grog,— What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

The monkey bit—the parrot screamed, All day the sister strummed and sung, The petted maid was such a scold! My Susan learned to use her tongue; Her mother had such wretched health, She sat and croaked like any frog— What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

No longer Deary, Duck, and Love, I soon came down to simple "M!" The very servants crossed my wish, My Susan let me down to them. The poker hardly seemed my own, I might as well have been a log— What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

My clothes they were the queerest shape! Such coats and hats she never met! My ways they were the oddest ways! My friends were such a vulgar set! Poor Tompkinson was snubbed and huffed, She could not bear that Mister Blogg— What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

At times we had a spar, and then Mamma must mingle in the song— The sister took a sister's part— The maid declared her master wrong— The parrot learned to call me "Fool!" My life was like a London fog— What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

My Susan's taste was superfine, As proved by bills that had no end; I never had a decent coat— I never had a coin to spend! She forced me to resign my club, Lay down my pipe, retrench my grog— What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

Each Sunday night we gave a rout To fops and flirts, a pretty list; And when I tried to steal away I found my study full of whist! Then, first to come, and last to go, There always was a Captain Hogg— What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?

Now was not that an awful dream For one who single is and snug— With Pussy in the elbow-chair, And Tray reposing on the rug?— If I must totter down the hill 'Tis safest done without a clog— What d'ye think of that, my cat? What d'ye think of that, my dog?



ON SAMUEL ROGERS. LORD BYRON.

Question.

Nose and chin would shame a knocker, Wrinkles that would puzzle Cocker: Mouth which marks the envious scorner, With a scorpion in each corner, Turning its quick tail to sting you In the place that most may wring you: Eyes of lead-like hue, and gummy; Carcass picked out from some mummy Bowels (but they were forgotten, Save the liver, and that's rotten); Skin all sallow, flesh all sodden— Form the Devil would frighten God in. Is't a corpse stuck up for show, Galvanized at times to go With the Scripture in connection, New proof of the resurrection? Vampyre, ghost, or ghoul, what is it? I would walk ten miles to miss it.

Answer.

Many passengers arrest one, To demand the same free question. Shorter's my reply, and franker— That's the Bard, the Beau, the Banker. Yet if you could bring about, Just to turn him inside out, Satan's self would seem less sooty, And his present aspect—Beauty. Mark that (as he masks the bilious Air, so softly supercilious) Chastened bow, and mock humility, Almost sickened to servility; Hear his tone, (which is to talking That which creeping is to walking— Now on all-fours, now on tiptoe), Hear the tales he lends his lip to; Little hints of heavy scandals, Every friend in turn he handles; All which women or which men do, Glides forth in an innuendo, Clothed in odds and ends of humor— Herald of each paltry rumor. From divorces down to dresses, Women's frailties, men's excesses, All which life presents of evil Make for him a constant revel. You're his foe—for that he fears you, And in absence blasts and sears you: You're his friend—for that he hates you, First caresses, and then baits you, Darting on the opportunity When to do it with impunity: You are neither—then he'll flatter Till he finds some trait for satire; Hunts your weak point out, then shows it Where it injures to disclose it, In the mode that's most invidious, Adding every trait that's hideous, From the bile, whose blackening river Rushes through his Stygian liver. Then he thinks himself a lover: Why I really can't discover In his mind, age, face, or figure: Viper-broth might give him vigor. Let him keep the caldron steady, He the venom has already. For his faults, he has but ONE— 'Tis but envy, when all's done. He but pays the pain he suffers; Clipping, like a pair of snuffers, Lights which ought to burn the brighter For this temporary blighter. He's the cancer of his species, And will eat himself to pieces; Plague personified, and famine; Devil, whose sole delight is damning!

For his merits, would you know 'em? Once he wrote a pretty Poem.



MY PARTNER. W. MACKWORTH PRAED.

At Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill Of folly and cold water, I danced, last year, my first quadrille With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter. Her cheek with summer's rose might vie, When summer's rose is newest; Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky, When autumn's sky is bluest; And well my heart might deem her one Of life's most precious flowers, For half her thoughts were of its sun, And half were of its showers.

I spoke of novels:—"Vivian Gray" Was positively charming, And "Almack's" infinitely gay, And "Frankenstein" alarming; I said "De Vere" was chastely told. Thought well of "Herbert Lacy," Called Mr. Banim's sketches "bold," And Lady Morgan's "racy;" I vowed the last new thing of Hook's Was vastly entertaining; And Laura said—"I dote on books, Because it's always raining!"

I talked of music's gorgeous fane, I raved about Rossini, Hoped Ronzo would come back again, And criticized Paccini; I wished the chorus singers dumb. The trumpets more pacific, And eulogized Brocard's APLOMB And voted Paul "terrific." What cared she for Medea's pride Or Desdemona's sorrow? "Alas!" my beauteous listener sighed, "We MUST have storms to-morrow!"

I told her tales of other lands; Of ever-boiling fountains, Of poisonous lakes, and barren sands, Vast forests, trackless mountains; I painted bright Italian skies, I lauded Persian roses, Coined similes for Spanish eyes, And jests for Indian noses; I laughed at Lisbon's love of mass, And Vienna's dread of treason; And Laura asked me where the glass Stood at Madrid last season.

I broached whate'er had gone its rounds, The week before, of scandal; What made Sir Luke lay down his hounds And Jane take up her Handel; Why Julia walked upon the heath, With the pale moon above her; Where Flora lost her false front teeth, And Anne her false lover; How Lord de B. and Mrs. L. Had crossed the sea together; My shuddering partner cried—"Oh, God! How could they in such weather?"

Was she a blue?—I put my trust In strata, petals, gases; A boudoir pedant?—I discussed The toga and the fasces; A cockney-muse?—I mouthed a deal Of folly from Endymion: A saint?—I praised the pious zeal Of Messrs. Way and Simeon; A politician?—It was vain To quote the morning paper; The horrid phantoms come again, Rain, hail, and snow, and vapor.

Flat flattery was my only chance, I acted deep devotion, Found magic in her every glance, Grace in her every motion; I wasted all a stripling's lore, Prayer, passion, folly, feeling; And wildly looked upon the floor, And wildly on the ceiling; I envied gloves upon her arm, And shawls upon her shoulder; And when my worship was most warm, She "never found it colder."

I don't object to wealth or land And she will have the giving Of an extremely pretty hand, Some thousands, and a living. She makes silk purses, broiders stools, Sings sweetly, dances finely, Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday-schools, And sits a horse divinely. But to be linked for life to her!— The desperate man who tried it, Might marry a barometer, And hang himself beside it!



THE BELLE OF THE BALL. W. MACKWORTH PRAED.

Years—years ago—ere yet my dreams Had been of being wise and witty; Ere I had done with writing themes, Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty; Years, years ago, while all my joys Were in my fowling-piece and filly: In short, while I was yet a boy, I fell in love with Laura Lilly.

I saw her at a country ball; There when the sound of flute and fiddle Gave signal sweet in that old hall, Of hands across and down the middle, Hers was the subtlest spell by far Of all that sets young hearts romancing: She was our queen, our rose, our star; And when she danced—oh, heaven, her dancing!

Dark was her hair, her hand was white; Her voice was exquisitely tender, Her eyes were full of liquid light; I never saw a waist so slender; Her every look, her every smile, Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought't was Venus from her isle, I wondered where she'd left her sparrows.

She talk'd of politics or prayers; Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets; Of daggers or of dancing bears, Of battles, or the last new bonnets; By candle-light, at twelve o'clock, To me it matter'd not a tittle, If those bright lips had quoted Locke, I might have thought they murmured Little.

Through sunny May, through sultry June, I loved her with a love eternal; I spoke her praises to the moon, I wrote them for the Sunday Journal. My mother laughed; I soon found out That ancient ladies have no feeling; My father frown'd; but how should gout Find any happiness in kneeling?

She was the daughter of a dean, Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother just thirteen. Whose color was extremely hectic; Her grandmother, for many a year, Had fed the parish with her bounty; Her second cousin was a peer, And lord-lieutenant of the county.

But titles and the three per cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents, Oh! what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the muses.

She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading; She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading; She warbled Handel; it was grand— She made the Catalina jealous; She touch'd the organ; I could stand For hours and hours and blow the bellows.

She kept an album, too, at home, Well fill'd with all an album's glories; Paintings of butterflies and Rome, Patterns for trimming, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter; And autographs of Prince Laboo, And recipes of elder water.

And she was flatter'd, worship'd, bored, Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted, Her poodle dog was quite adored, Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laugh'd, and every heart was glad, As if the taxes were abolish'd; She frown'd, and every look was sad, As if the opera were demolishd.

She smil'd on many just for fun— I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first the only one Her heart thought of for a minute; I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely molded; She wrote a charming hand, and oh! How sweetly all her notes were folded!

Our love was like most other loves— A little glow, a little shiver; A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows—and then we parted.

We parted—months and years roll'd by; We met again for summers after; Our parting was all sob and sigh— Our meeting was all mirth and laughter; For in my heart's most secret cell, There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-room belle, But only Mrs.—Something—Rogers.



SORROWS OF WERTHER. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

Werther had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter.

Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled, And his passion boiled and bubbled. Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter.



THE YANKEE VOLUNTEERS. W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

["A surgeon of the United States army says, that on inquiring of the Captain of his company, he found THAT NINE-TENTHS of the men had enlisted on account of some female difficulty."]—Morning Paper.

Ye Yankee volunteers! It makes my bosom bleed When I your story read, Though oft 'tis told one. So—in both hemispheres The woman are untrue, And cruel in the New, As in the Old one!

What—in this company Of sixty sons of Mars, Who march 'neath Stripes and Stars, With fife and horn, Nine tenths of all we see Along the warlike line Had but one cause to join This Hope Folorn?

Deserters from the realm Where tyrant Venus reigns, You slipped her wicked chains, Fled and out-ran her. And now, with sword and helm, Together banded are Beneath the Stripe and Star- embroidered banner!

And so it is with all The warriors ranged in line, With lace bedizened fine And swords gold-hilted— Yon lusty corporal, Yon color-man who gripes The flag of Stars and Stripes— Has each been jilted?

Come, each man of this line, The privates strong and tall, "The pioneers and all," The fifer nimble— Lieutenant and Ensign, Captain with epaulets, And Blacky there, who beats The clanging cymbal—

O cymbal-beating black, Tell us, as thou canst feel, Was it some Lucy Neal Who caused thy ruin? O nimble fifing Jack, And drummer making din So deftly on the skin, With thy rat-tattooing.

Confess, ye volunteers, Lieutenant and Ensign, And Captain of the line, As bold as Roman— Confess, ye grenadiers, However strong and tall, The Conqueror of you all Is Woman, Woman!

No corselet is so proof, But through it from her bow, The shafts that she can throw Will pierce and rankle. No champion e'er so tough, But's in the struggle thrown, And tripped and trodden down By her slim ankle.

Thus, always it has ruled, And when a woman smiled, The strong man was a child, The sage a noodle. Alcides was befooled, And silly Samson shorn, Long, long ere you were born, Poor Yankee Doodle!



COURTSHIP AND MATRIMONY. A POEM, IN TWO CANTOS. PUNCH.

CANTO THE FIRST.

COURTSHIP.

Fairest of earth! if thou wilt hear my vow, Lo! at thy feet I swear to love thee ever; And by this kiss upon thy radiant brow, Promise afiection which no time shall sever; And love which e'er shall burn as bright as now, To be extinguished—never, dearest, never! Wilt thou that naughty, fluttering heart resign? CATHERINE! my own sweet Kate! wilt thou be mine?

Thou shalt have pearls to deck thy raven hair— Thou shalt have all this world of ours can bring, And we will live in solitude, nor care For aught save for each other. We will fling Away all sorrow—Eden shall be there! And thou shalt be my queen, and I thy king! Still coy, and still reluctant? Sweetheart say, When shall we monarchs be? and which the day?

CANTO THE SECOND.

MATRIMONY.

Now MRS. PRINGLE, once for all, I say I will not such extravagance allow! Bills upon bills, and larger every day, Enough to drive a man to drink, I vow! Bonnets, gloves, frippery and trash—nay, nay, Tears, MRS. PRINGLE, will not gull me now— I say I won't allow ten pounds a week; I can't afford it; madam, do not speak!

In wedding you I thought I had a treasure; I find myself most miserably mistaken! You rise at ten, then spend the day in pleasure;— In fact, my confidence is slightly shaken. Ha! what's that uproar? This, ma'am, is my leisure; Sufficient noise the slumbering dead to waken! I seek retirement, and I find—a riot; Confound those children, but I'll make them quiet!



CONCERNING SISTERS-IN-LAW. PUNCH. I.

They looked so alike as they sat at their work, (What a pity it is that one isn't a Turk!) The same glances and smiles, the same habits and arts, The same tastes, the same frocks, and (no doubt) the same hearts The same irresistible cut in their jibs, The same little jokes, and the same little fibs— That I thought the best way to get out of my pain Was by—HEADS for Maria, and WOMAN for Jane; For hang ME if it seemed it could matter a straw, Which dear became wife, and which sister-in-law.

II.

But now, I will own, I feel rather inclined To suspect I've some reason to alter my mind; And the doubt in my breast daily grows a more strong one, That they're not QUITE alike, and I've taken the wrong one. Jane is always so gentle, obliging, and cool; Never calls me a monster—not even a fool; All our little contentions, 'tis she makes them up, And she knows how much sugar to put in my cup:— Yes, I sometimes HAVE wished—Heav'n forgive me the flaw!— That my very dear wife was my sister-in-law.

III.

Oh, your sister-in-law, is a dangerous thing! The daily comparisons, too, she will bring! Wife—curl-papered, slip-shod, unwashed and undressed; She—ringleted, booted, and "fixed in her best;" Wife—sulky, or storming, or preaching, or prating; She—merrily singing, or laughing, or chatting: Then the innocent freedom her friendship allows To the happy half-way between mother and spouse. In short, if the Devil e'er needs a cat's-paw, He can't find one more sure than a sister-in-law.

IV.

That no good upon earth can be had undiluted Is a maxim experience has seldom refuted; And preachers and poets have proved it is so With abundance of tropes, more or less apropos. Every light has its shade, every rose has its thorn, The cup has its head-ache, its poppy the corn, There's a fly in the ointment, a spot on the sun— In short, they've used all illustrations—but one; And have left it to me the most striking to draw— Viz.: that none, without WIVES, can have SISTERS-IN-LAW.



THE LOBSTERS. [Footnote: Appeared at the time of the Anti-popery excitement, produced by the titles of Cardinal Wiseman, etc.] PUNCH.

As a young Lobster roamed about, Itself and mother being out, Their eyes at the same moment fell On a boiled lobster's scarlet shell "Look," said the younger; "is it true That we might wear so bright a hue? No coral, if I trust mine eye, Can with its startling brilliance vie; While you and I must be content A dingy aspect to present." "Proud heedless fool," the parent cried; "Know'st thou the penalty of pride? The tawdry finery you wish, Has ruined this unhappy fish. The hue so much by you desired By his destruction was acquired— So be contented with your lot, Nor seek to change by going to pot."



TO SONG-BIRDS ON A SUNDAY. PUNCH.

Silence, all! ye winged choir; Let not yon right reverend sire Hear your happy symphony: 'Tis too good for such as he.

On the day of rest divine, He poor townsfolk would confine In their crowded streets and lanes, Where they can not hear your strains.

All the week they drudge away, Having but one holiday; No more time for you, than that— Unlike bishops, rich and fat.

Utter not your cheerful sounds, Therefore, in the bishop's grounds; Make him melody no more, Who denies you to the poor. Linnet, hist! and blackbird, hush! Throstle, be a songless thrush; Nightingale and lark, be mute, Never sing to such a brute.

Robin, at the twilight dim, Never let thine evening hymn, Bird of red and ruthful breast, Lend the bishop's Port a zest.

Soothe not, birds, his lonesome hours, Keeping us from fields and flowers, Who to pen us tries, instead, 'Mong the intramural dead.

Only let the raven croak At him from the rotten oak; Let the magpie and the jay Chatter at him on his way. And when he to rest has laid him, Let his ears the screech-owl harry; And the night-jar serenade him With a proper charivari.



THE FIRST SENSIBLE VALENTINE. (ONE OF THE MOST ASTONISHING FRUITS OF THE EMIGRATION MANIA.) PUNCH.

Let other swains, upon the best cream-laid Or wire-wove note, their amorous strains indite; Or, in despair, invoke the limner's aid To paint the sufferings they can not write:

Upon their page, transfixed with numerous darts, Let slender youths in agony expire; Or, on one spit, let two pale pink calves' hearts Roast at some fierce imaginary fire.

Let ANGELINA there, as in a bower Of shrubs, unknown to LINDLEY, she reposes, See her own ALFRED to the old church tower Led on by CUPID, in a chain of roses; Or let the wreath, when raised, a cage reveal, Wherein two doves their little bills entwine; (A vile device, which always makes me feel Marriage would only add your bills to mine.)

For arts like these I've neither skill nor time; But if you'll seek the Diggings, dearest maid, And share my fortune in that happier clime, Your berth is taken, and your passage paid. For reading, lately, in my list of things, "Twelve dozen shirts! twelve dozen collars," too! The horrid host of buttons and of strings Flashed on my spirit, and I thought—of you.

"Surely," I said, as in my chest I dived— That vast receptacle of all things known— "To teach this truth my outfit was contrived, It is not good for man to be alone!" Then fly with me! My bark is on the shore (Her mark A 1, her size eight hundred tons), And though she's nearly full, can take some more Dry goods, by measurement—say GREEN and SONS.

Yes, fly with me! Had all our friends been blind, We might have married, and been happy HERE; But since young married folks the means must find The eyes of stern society to cheer, And satisfy its numerous demands, I think 'twill save us many a vain expense, If on our wedding cards this Notice stands, "At Home, at Ballarat, just three months hence!"



A SCENE ON THE AUSTRIAN FRONTIER. PUNCH.

"Dey must not pass!" was the warning cry of the Austrian sentinel To one whose little knapsack bore the books he loved so well "Thev must not pass? Now, wherefore not?" the wond'ring tourist cried; "No English book can pass mit me;" the sentinel replied. The tourist laughed a scornful laugh; quoth he, "Indeed, I hope There are few English books would please a Kaiser or a Pope; But these are books in common use: plain truths and facts they tell—" "Der Teufel! Den dey MOST NOT pass!" said the startled sentinel.

"This Handbook to North Germany, by worthy Mr. MURRAY, Need scarcely put your government in such a mighty flurry; If tourists' handbooks be proscribed, pray have you ever tried To find a treasonable page in Bradshaws Railway Guide? This map, again, of Switzerland—nay, man, you needn't start or Look black at such a little map, as if't were Magna Charta; I know it is the land of TELL, but, curb your idle fury— We've not the slightest hope, to-day, to find a TELL in your eye (Uri)."

"Sturmwetter!" said the sentinel, "Come! cease dis idle babbles! Was ist dis oder book I see? Das Haus mit sieben Gabbles? I nevvare heard of him bifor, ver mosh I wish I had, For now Ich kann nicht let him pass, for fear he should be bad. Das Haus of Commons it must be; Ja wohl! 'tis so, and den Die Sieben Gabbles are de talk of your chief public men; Potzmiekchen! it is dreadful books. Ja! Ja! I know him well; Hoch Himmel! here he most not pass:" said the learned sentinel.

"Dis PLATO, too, I ver mosh fear, he will corrupt the land, He has soch many long big words, Ich kann nicht onderstand." "My friend," the tourist said, "I fear you're really in the way to Quite change the proverb, and be friends will neither Truth nor PLATO. My books, 'tis true, are little worth, but they have served me long, And I regard the greatness less than the nature of the wrong; So, if the books must stay behind, I stay behind as well." "Es ist mir nichts, mein lieber Freund," said the courteous sentinel.



ODE TO THE GREAT SEA-SERPENT ON HIS WONDERFUL REAPPEARANCE. PUNCH.

From what abysses of the unfathom'd sea Turnest thou up, Great Serpent, now and then, If we may venture to believe in thee, And affidavits of sea-faring men?

What whirlpool gulf to thee affords a home! Amid the unknown depths where dost thou dwell? If—like the mermaid, with her glass and comb— Thou art not what the vulgar call a Sell.

Art thou, indeed, a serpent and no sham? Or, if no serpent, a prodigious eel, An entity, though modified by flam, A basking shark, or monstrous kind of seal?

I'll think that thou a true Ophidian art; I can not say a reptile of the deep, Because thou dost not play a reptile's part; Thou swimmest, it appears, and dost not creep.

The Captain was not WALKER but M'QUHAE, I'll trust, by whom thou some time since wast seen And him who says he saw thee t'other day, I will not bid address the corps marine.

Sea-Serpent, art thou venomous or not? What sort of snake may be thy class and style? That of Mud-Python, by APOLLO shot, And mentioned—rather often—by CARLYLE?

Or, art thou but a serpent of the mind? Doubts, though subdued, will oft recur again— A serpent of the visionary kind, Proceeding from the grog-oppressed brain?

Art thou a giant adder, or huge asp, And hast thou got a rattle at thy tail? If of the Boa species, couldst thou clasp Within thy fold, and suffocate, a whale?

How long art thou?—Some sixty feet, they say, And more—but how much more they do not know: I fancy thou couldst reach across a bay From head to head, a dozen miles or so.

Scales hast thou got, of course—but what's thy weight? On either side 'tis said thou hast a fin, A crest, too, on thy neck, deponents state, A saw-shaped ridge of flabby, dabby skin.

If I could clutch thee—in a giant's grip— Could I retain thee in that grasp sublime? Wouldst thou not quickly through my fingers slip, Being all over glazed with fishy slime?

Hast thou a forked tongue—and dost thou hiss If ever thou art bored with Ocean's play? And is it the correct hypothesis That thou of gills or lungs dost breathe by way?

What spines, or spikes, or claws, or nails, or fin, Or paddle, Ocean-Serpent, dost thou bear? What kind of teeth show'st thou when thou dost grin?— A set that probably would make one stare.

What is thy diet? Canst thou gulp a shoal Of herrings? Or hast thou the gorge and room To bolt fat porpoises and dolphins, whole, By dozens, e'en as oysters we consume?

Art thou alone, thou serpent, on the brine, The sole surviving member of thy race? Is there no brother, sister, wife, of thine, But thou alone, afloat on Ocean's face?

If such a calculation may be made, Thine age at what a figure may we take? When first the granite mountain-stones were laid, Wast thou not present there and then, old Snake?

What fossil Saurians in thy time have been? How many Mammoths crumbled into mold? What geologic periods hast thou seen, Long as the tail thou doubtless canst unfold?

As a dead whale, but as a whale, though dead, Thy floating bulk a British crew did strike; And, so far, none will question what they said, That thou unto a whale wast very like.

A flock of birds a record, rather loose, Describes as hovering o'er thy lengthy hull; Among them, doubtless, there was many a Goose, And also several of the genus Gull.



THE FEAST OF VEGETABLES, AND THE FLOW OF WATER. PUNCH.

New Year comes,—so let's be jolly; On the board the Turnip smokes, While we sit beneath, the holly, Eating Greens and passing jokes

How the Cauliflower is steaming, Sweetest flower that ever blows. See, good old Sir Kidney, beaming, Shows his jovial famed red nose.

Here behold the reign of Plenty,— Help the Carrots, hand the Kail; Roots how nice, and herbs how dainty, Well washed down with ADAM'S Ale!

Feed your fill,—untasted only Let the fragrant onion go; Or, amid the revels lonely, Go not nigh the mistletoe!



KINDRED QUACKS. PUNCH.

I overheard two matrons grave, allied by close affinity (The name of one was PHYSIC, and the other's was DIVINITY), As they put their groans together, both so doleful and lugubrious:

Says PHYSIC, "To unload the heart of grief, ma'am, is salubrious: Here am I, at my time of life, in this year of our deliverance; My age gives me a right to look for some esteem and reverence. But, ma'am, I feel it is too true what every body says to me,— Too many of my children are a shame and a disgrace to me."

"Ah!" says DIVINITY, "my heart can suffer with another, ma'am; I'm sure I can well understand your feelings as a mother, ma'am. I've some, as well,—no doubt but what you're perfectly aware on't, ma'am, Whose doings bring derision and discredit on their parent, ma'am."

"There are boys of mine," says PHYSIC, "ma'am, such silly fancies nourishing, As curing gout and stomach-ache by pawing and by flourishing."

"Well," says DIVINITY, "I've those that teach that Heaven's beatitudes Are to be earned by postures, genuflexions, bows, and attitudes."

"My good-for-nothing sons," says PHYSIC, "some have turned hydropathists, Some taken up with mesmerism, or joined the homoeopathists."

"Mine," says DIVINITY, "pursue a system of gimcrackery, Called Puseyism, a pack of stuff, and quite as arrant quackery."

Says PHYSIC, "Mine have sleep-walkers, pretending through the hide of you, To look, although their eyes are shut, and tell you what's inside of you."

"Ah!" says DIVINITY, "so mine, with quibbling and with caviling, Would have you, ma'am, to blind yourself, to see the road to travel in."

"Mine," PHYSIC says, "have quite renounced their good old pills and potions, ma'am, For doses of a billionth of a grain, and such wild notions, ma'am."

"So," says DIVINITY, "have mine left wholesome exhortation, ma'am, For credence-tables, reredoses, rood-lofts, and maceration, ma'am."

"But hospitals," says PHYSIC, "my misguided boys are founding, ma'am."

"Well," says DIVINITY, "of mine, the chapels are abounding, ma'am."

"Mine are trifling with diseases, ma'am," says PHYSIC, "not attacking them."

"Mine," says DIVINITY, "instead of curing souls, are quacking them."

"Ah, ma'am," says PHYSIC, "I'm to blame, I fear, for these absurdities."

"That's my fear too," DIVINITY says; "ma'am, upon my word it is."

Says PHYSIC, "Fees, not science, have been far too much my wishes, ma'am."

"Truth," says DIVINITY, "I've loved much less than loaves and fishes, ma'am."

Says each to each, "We're simpletons, or sad deceivers, some of us; And I am sure, ma'am, I don't know whatever will become of us."



THE RAILWAY TRAVELER'S FAREWELL TO HIS FAMILY. PUNCH.

'T was business call'd a Father to travel by the Rail; His eye was calm, his hand was firm, although his cheek was pale. He took his little boy and girl, and set them on his knee; And their mother hung about his neck, and her tears flowed fast and free.

I'm going by the Rail, my dears—ELIZA, love, don't cry— Now, kiss me both before I leave, and wish Papa good-by. I hope I shall be back again, this afternoon, to tea, And then, I hope, alive and well, that your Papa you'll see.

I'm going by the Rail, my dears, where the engines puff and hiss; And ten to one the chances are that something goes amiss; And in an instant, quick as thought—before you could cry "Ah!" An accident occurs, and—say good-by to poor Papa!

Sometimes from scandalous neglect, my dears, the sleepers sink, And then you have the carriages upset, as you may think. The progress of the train, sometimes, a truck or coal-box checks, And there's a risk for poor Papa's, and every body's necks.

Or there may be a screw loose, a hook, or bolt, or pin— Or else an ill-made tunnel may give way, and tumble in; And in the wreck the passengers and poor Papa remain Confined, till down upon them comes the next Excursion-train.

If a policeman's careless, dears, or if not over-bright, When he should show a red flag, it may be he shows a white; Between two trains, in consequence, there's presently a clash, If poor Papa is only bruised, he's lucky in the smash.

Points may be badly managed, as they were the other day, Because a stingy Company for hands enough won't pay; Over and over goes the train—the engine off the rail, And poor Papa's unable, when he's found, to tell the tale.

And should your poor Papa escape, my darlings, with his life, May he return on two legs, to his children and his wife— With both his arms, my little dears, return your fond embrace, And present to you, unalter'd, every feature of his face.

I hope I shall come back, my dears—but, mind, I am insured— So, in case the worst may happen, you are so far all secured. An action then will also lie for you and your Mamma— And don't forget to bring it—on account of poor Papa.



A LETTER AND AN ANSWER. PUNCH.

THE PRESBYTERS TO PALMERSTON.

The Plague has come among us, Miserable sinners! Fear and remorse have stung us, Miserable sinners! We ask the State to fix a day, Whereon all men may fast and pray, That Heaven will please to turn away The Plague that works us sore dismay, Miserable sinners!

PALMERSTON TO THE PRESBYTERS.

The Plague that comes among you, Miserable sinners! To effort hath it strung you? Miserable sinners! You ask that all should fast and pray; Better all wake and work, I say; Sloth and supineness put away, That so the Plague may cease to slay; Miserable sinners!

For Plagues, like other evils, Miserable sinners! Are GOD'S and not the Devil's, Miserable sinners! Scourges they are, but in a hand Which love and pity do command: And when the heaviest stripes do fall, 'Tis where they're wanted most of all, Miserable sinners!

Look round about your city, Miserable sinners! Arouse to shame and pity, Miserable sinners! Pray: but use brush and limewash pail; Fast: but feed those for want who fail; Bow down, gude town, to ask for grace But bow with cleaner hands and face, Miserable sinners!

All Time GOD'S Law hath spoken, Miserable sinners! That Law may not be broken, Miserable sinners! But he that breaks it must endure The penalty which works the cure. To us, for GOD'S great laws transgressed, Is doomsman Pestilence addressed, Miserable sinners!

We can not juggle Heaven, Miserable sinners! With one day out of seven, Miserable sinners! Shall any force of fasts atone For years of duty left undone? How expiate with prayer or psalm, Deaf ear, blind eye, and folded palm? Miserable sinners!

Let us be up and stirring, Miserable sinners! 'Mong ignorant and erring, Miserable sinners! Sloth and self-seeking from us cast, Believing this the fittest fast, For of all prayers prayed 'neath the sun There is no prayer like work well done, Miserable sinners!



PAPA TO HIS HEIR, A FAST MINOR. PUNCH.

My son, a father's warning heed; I think my end is nigh: And then, you dog, you will succeed Unto my property.

But, seeing you are not, just yet. Arrived at man's estate, Before you full possession get, You'll have a while to wait.

A large allowance I allot You during that delay; And I don't recommend you not To throw it all away.

To such advice you'd ne'er attend; You won't let prudence rule Your courses; but, I know, will spend Your money like a fool.

I do not ask you to eschew The paths of vice and sin; You'll do as all young boobies, who Are left, as you say, tin.

You'll sot, you'll bet; and, being green, At all that's right you'll joke; Your life will be a constant scene Of billiards and of smoke.

With bad companions you'll consort With creatures vile and base, Who'll rob you; yours will be, in short, The puppy's common case.

But oh, my son! although you must Through this ordeal pass, You will not be, I hope—I trust— A wholly senseless ass.

Of course at prudence you will sneer, On that theme I won't harp; Be good, I won't say—that's severe; But be a little sharp.

All rascally associates shun To bid you were too much, But, oh I beware, my spooney son, Beware one kind of such.

It asks no penetrative mind To know these fellows: when You meet them, you, unless you're blind, At once discern the men.

The turgid lip, the piggish eye, The nose in form of hook, The rings, the pins, you tell them by, The vulgar flashy look.

Spend every sixpence, if you please, But do not, I implore, Oh! I do not go, my son, to these Vultures to borrow more.

Live at a foolish wicked rate, My hopeful, if you choose, But don't your means anticipate Through bill-discounting Jews.



SELLING OFF AT THE OPERA HOUSE A POETICAL CATALOGUE. PUNCH.

Lot One, The well-known village, with bridge, and church, and green, Of half a score divertissements the well-remembered scene, Including six substantial planks, forming the eight-inch ridge On which the happy peasantry came dancing down the bridge. Lot Two, A Sheet of Thunder. Lot Three, A Box of Peas Employed in sending storms of hail to rattle through the trees. Lot Four, A Canvas Mossy Bank for Cupids to repose. Lot Five, The old Stage Watering-pot, complete—except the nose. Lot Six, The favorite Water-mill, used for Amina's dream, Complete, with practicable wheel, and painted canvas stream. Lots Seven to Twelve, Some sundries—A Pair of Sylphide's Wings; Three dozen Druid's Dresses (one of them wanting strings). Lots Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen—Three Services of Plate In real papier mache—all in a decent state; One of these services includes—its value to increase— A full dessert, each plate of fruit forming a single piece. Lot Seventeen, The Gilded Cup, from which Genarro quaffed, Mid loud applause, night after night, Lucrezia's poisoned draught. Lots Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Three rich White Satin Skirts, Lot Twenty-one, A set of six Swiss Peasants' Cotton Shirts. Lot Twenty-two, The sheet that backed Mascaniello's tent. Lot Twenty-three, The Long White Wig—in wool—of Bide-the-Bent. Lots Twenty-three to Forty, The Fish—Soles, Cod, and Dace— For pelting the Vice-regal Guard in Naples' Market-place. Lot Forty-one, Vesuvius, rather the worse for wear. Lots Forty-two to Fifty, Priests' Leggings—at per pair. Lot Fifty-one, The well-known Throne, with canopy and seat, And plank in front, for courtiers to kneel at Sovereigns' feet. Lot Fifty-two, A Royal Robe of Flannel, nearly white, Warranted equal to Cashmere—upon the stage at night— With handsome ermine collar thrown elegantly back; The tails of twisted worsted—pale yellow, tipped with black. Lots Fifty-three to Sixty, Some Jewellery rare— The Crown of Semiramide—complete, with false back hair; The Order worn by Ferdinand, when he proceeds to fling His sword and medals at the feet of the astonished king. Lot Sixty-one, The Bellows used in Cinderella's song. Lot Sixty-two, A Document. Lot Sixty-three, A Gong. Lots Sixty-four to Eighty, Of Wigs a large array, Beginning at the Druids down to the present day. Lot Eighty-one, The Bedstead on which Amina falls. Lots Eighty-two to Ninety, Some sets of Outer Walls. Lot Ninety-one, The Furniture of a Grand Ducal Room, Including Chair and Table. Lot Ninety-two, A Tomb. Lot Ninety-three, A set of Kilts. Lot Ninety-four, A Rill. Lot Ninety-five, A Scroll, To form death-warrant, deed, or will. Lot Ninety-six, An ample fall of best White Paper Snow. Lot Ninety-seven, A Drinking-cup, brimmed with stout extra tow. Lot Ninety-eight, A Set of Clouds, a Moon, to work on flat; Water with practicable boat. Lot Ninety-nine, A Hat. Lot Hundred, Massive Chandelier. Hundred and one, A Bower. Hundred and two, A Canvas Grove. Hundred and three, A Tower. Hundred and four, A Fountain. Hundred and five, Some Rocks. Hundred and six, The Hood that hides the Prompter in his box.



WONDERS OF THE VICTORIAN AGE. PUNCH.

Our gracious Queen—long may she fill her throne— Has been to see Louis Napoleon. The Majesty of England—bless her heart!— Has cut her mutton with a Bonaparte; And Cousin Germans have survived the view Of Albert taking luncheon at St. Cloud.

In our young days we little thought to see Such legs stretched under such mahogany; That British Royalty would ever share At a French Palace, French Imperial fare: Nor eat—as we should have believed at school— The croaking tenant of the marshy pool. At the Trois Freres we had not feasted then, As we have since, and hope to do again.

This great event of course could not take place Without fit prodigies for such a case; The brazen pig-tail of King George the Third Thrice with a horizontal motion stirr'd, Then rose on end, and stood so all day long, Amid the cheers of an admiring throng. In every lawyer's office Eldon shed From plaster nose three heavy drops of red. Each Statue, too, of Pitt turn'd up the point Of its proboscis—was that out of joint? While Charles James Fox's grinn'd from ear to ear, And Peel's emitted frequent cries of "Hear!"



TO THE PORTRAIT OF "A GENTLEMAN," IN THE ATHENAEUM GALLERY. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

It may be so—perhaps thou hast A warm and loving heart; I will not blame thee for thy face, Poor devil as thou art.