Part 1 — H. W. Longfellow. (continued 2)

The shades of night were falling fast, As through an Eastern village passed A youth who bore, through dust and heat, A stencil plate, that read complete— SAPOLIO! His brow was sad, but underneath, White with "Odonto" shone his teeth. And through them hissed the words, "Well, blow Me tight if here is 'ary show!" SAPOLIO! On household fences, gleaming bright, Shone "Gargling Oil," in black and white. Once "Bixby's Blacking" stood alone, He straight beside it clapped his own— SAPOLIO! "Try not my fence," the old man said, "With 'Mustang Liniment' 'tis spread, Another vacant spot thar ain't," He answered with a dash of paint— SAPOLIO! "O, stay," the maiden said, "a rest Pray give us! What with 'Bixby's Best,' And 'Simmons' Pills,' we're like to die." He only answered, "Will you try— SAPOLIO?" "Beware them Peaks! That wall so bright Is but a snow bank, gleaming white, Your paint won't stick!"; came the reply, "I've done it! How is that for high?" "SAPOLIO." One Sabbath morn, as heavenward White mountain tourists slowly spurred, On ev'ry rock to their dismay, They read that legend strange, alway "SAPOLIO." There on the summit, old and fat, Shameless, but vigorous he sat, While on their luggage as they passed, He checked that word, from first to last, "SAPOLIO."

The shades of night were falling fast, As through the ancient city passed, A youth who scorned to pause or stop, Until he reached that noted shop, 13, CROSS CHEAPING. In happy homes he saw the light, Of household fires gleam warm and bright; He heeded not the cheerful coal, But strode straight onward to his goal, 13, CROSS CHEAPING. "Beware of rain," an old man said, "Dark lowers the tempest overhead," The youth made quite a little speech, "I fear no rain if once I reach 13, CROSS CHEAPING." "Oh stay," a maiden said, "and rest; Put not your strength to further test," A smile lurked in his bright blue eye, And merrily he made reply: "13, CROSS CHEAPING." "Once safely there, I shall forget My tired feet, and dread of wet; Whilst buying where I've bought before; Whilst choosing from that well-filled store, 13, CROSS CHEAPING." "Their BOOTS have richly earned their fame; Their SHOES have gained an envied name; What matters mud, however thick, When once your feet are shod by DICK, 13, CROSS CHEAPING."

The shades of night were falling fast, When on the word his eyes he cast— That word which struck him with amaze— Couched in the adverts' meant to praise. PILOSAGINE. Sleep from his eyelids fastly fled, As to himself he wondering said: "If it be true that I can buy What will produce a beard, I'll try PILOSAGINE." * * * * "Tempt not the trash," in tones full rough, His father urged, "Like other stuff That you have oft and often tried 'Tis sure to prove." The youth replied, "PILOSAGINE." PILOSAGINE at once applied, The wished-for three for which he sighed, Imperial, beard, moustache, soon felt; And thankful is he that e'er he spelt PILOSAGINE.

I. The drizzling rain was falling fast, As thro' the streets of London passed A youth who bore a neat and nice Umbrella with the strange device, "THE IMPERCEPTIBLE." II. His step was firm, erect his form, As heedless of the gathering storm He homeward hied with dauntless mien Beneath that elemental screen— "THE IMPERCEPTIBLE." III. He saw umbrellas creased and torn, By wet and angry persons borne, And sorrowing o'er their wretched plight, He pitied those who lacked that night "THE IMPERCEPTIBLE." IV. "Best try a cab," an old friend said; "Dark lowers the tempest overhead. The rain will faster fall anon;" But still that youth relied upon "THE IMPERCEPTIBLE." V. "O stay," a maiden said, "I'd fain Ask a brief shelter from the rain." The astonished youth gazed at the fair, And gently answered, "You may share, "THE IMPERCEPTIBLE."

The shades of night were falling fast, When through a western suburb passed A man who bore upon his back A placard, with this word in black— "OZOKERIT." His brow was dark, his eye beneath Gleamed like a lantern o'er his teeth, Which gnashing ceaselessly he sung That fragment of an unknown tongue— "OZOKERIT." In humble homes he saw the light Of candles—if anything less bright Above, the glimmering gas lamps shone, The contrast wrung from him a groan. "OZOKERIT." "Trust not the gas," the old man said, "Dingy and dull the lamps o'er head— The illumination is ill supplied," But loud that sandwich bearer cried, "OZOKERIT." "O stay," the maiden said, "or rest Until your mystery is guessed!" A wink obscured his cunning eye, As still he mentioned in reply— "OZOKERIT." Beware the peeler, stern and staunch, With bull's-eye pendant at his haunch. This was the pleasant last "Good-day," A voice replied, some streets away, "OZOKERIT." At break of day, while reeled along, Shouting their oft repeated song. Some "Jolly Dogs," with blinking stare, They heard a voice ring through the air, "OZOKERIT." The speaking, tracing by the sound, They, sitting on a doorstep, found A man, who bore upon his back A placard, with that word in black, "OZOKERIT." There on the doorstep, cold and flat, Puzzled by pondering he sat; And with the hoarseness of catarrh, He sighed, "I wonders what it are!" "OZOKERIT." From Fun, October 22, 1870.

I. SOLEMNLY, mournfully Dealing its dole, The Curfew Bell Is beginning to toll. Cover the embers, And put out the light, Toil comes with the morning, And rest with the night. Dark grow the windows, And quenched is the fire, Sound fades into silence,— All footsteps retire. No voice in the chambers, No sound in the hall! Sleep and oblivion Reign over all! LONGFELLOW.

I. Suddenly, joyfully, Leaving the Row, The London Belle Is beginning to go. Cover the couches And shut out the light, Calls cease in the morning, And parties at night. Closed are the windows, And out is the fire. The knockers are silent All footmen retire. No groom in the chambers, No porter in hall: Dust and brown holland Reign over all! II. The season is ended, And closed like the play, And the swells that adorned it Vanish away. Dim grow its dances, Forgotten they'll be, Like the ends of cigars, Thrown into the sea. Squares lapse into silence, The Railways are full The windows are papered, The West End is dull. Fewer and fewer The people to call Sweeps and the charwoman, Reign over all.

TARDILY, wearily, Reacheth its goal The Session of '80, Tired old soul! Cover the benches, And put out the light; Divisions are over, And sittings all night. The bells are all dumb, And idle the wire; Rant sinks into silence, Reporters retire. Fewer and fewer The few footsteps fall; Quiet and Constables Reign over all! Punch, September 18, 1880.

I STOOD on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark-church tower. * * * * How often, oh, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on the bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky! LONGFELLOW.

I stood on the bridge at midday, And the crowd was striking in power, And the roar rose from the City, And the docks about the Tower. And I made a bright reflection On the waters under me, Like a muddy highway flowing With steamers to the sea. * * * * How often, oh, how often, In omnibus or fly, I have crossed the bridge at midday, When you hardly could get by. How often, oh, how often I have wished the crowd beside Were at Jericho or elsewhere, Or the pathways were more wide. For my heart was hot and restless, And my mind was full of care, Lest the train I wished to go by Might start 'ere I got there. * * * * And I think how many thousand Of crowd-encumbered men, Each striving to stem the current, Have missed their trains since then. I see the long processions Of the cabs and the 'busses go, And the eager people restless, Because they must walk so slow. And for ever, and for ever, For all that a party knows, As long as the cabs and the 'busses Must pause with their frequent "whoas," To cross it in either direction Will take an hour or near, So you simply must start at eleven, If by twelve you would cross it clear. Fun, November 3, 1866.

I SAT in the Rink at midday; The clocks were striking the hour, But you would not have known, for the April sun Was quenched in a copious shower. I saw the raindrops falling In puddles in the street, And I envied the throng that was passing along With wet, but unrollered feet. And far in the hazy distance Of that dripping April day, My snug hearth fire gleam'd redder and higher, Because I was far away. The rattle of wheels rang round me, With a quaint and wooden roar, And groups of the fair, with dishevelled hair, Were lying about on the floor. E'en I, in a moment of madness, Had snatched at the fatal cup. And my rollers were on, but I sat all alone, For alas! I could not get up. And like those rinkers rolling Amongst their woodon piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me That filled my eyes with tears. How often, oh, how often, In the days that had gone by, I had waltzed in that room at midnight, With a fixed and a vacant eye. How often, oh, how often, I had wished that a cab from afar, Would bear me away in its bosom To my rooms, and a mild cigar. For my limbs were hot and restless, And my boots a serious care, And the burden of mild flirtation, Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it is changed and vanished, It has fallen over the brink; Before, we were sad, but now we are mad, And the ball-room is turned to a rink. Yet whenever I watch these rinkers Amongst their wooden piers, Like the sound of April raindrops, Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Of skate-encumbered men, Each bearing his burden of ladies, Have rinked on this floor since then. I see the long procession, Still tottering to and fro, The young feet clumsy and rapid, The old feet clumsy and slow. And for ever, and for ever, As long as the raindrops fall, As long as we've angling ladies, (And angular too) at all, The Rink and its ceaseless rollers, And its broken limbs, shall appear As the symbol of Bedlam's madness And its accurate image here! KIT NUBBLES

I. I stood on the bridge at midnight, As "Travis" was striking the hour; And the moon rose o'er the city Aslant the Dock Co.'s tower. II. I stood and recalled how savage, In the day that's just gone by, I was stopped by that bridge at midday, And watched it raised on high. III. For my heart was hot and restless, My business full of care; And the check thus put upon me Seemed longer than I could bear. IV. And I thought how many thousands Of work-encumbered men, On hearing the bell a-ringing, Have cursed this bridge since then. V. I see the long procession Still pacing to and fro— The master, the clerk, the workman; The Dockmen, officious and slow. VI. And forever, and forever, As long as the Company goes, As long as we brook the fashion Of transit, and bow to our woes. VII. So long we shall lose our appointments, So long by our spouses be told That we're ten minutes late as usual, And our dinner is getting cold.

I STOOD on the shore at even, And I looked out into the west, Out over the pathless ocean, As the sun sank down to rest. I saw him dip into the billows, And the sea was one blaze of light, As if day's expiring effort Was to blacken the darkness of night. From my feet to the far horizon Was a golden sparkling road, A type of the path that leads us From earth to God's abode. As darkness fell on the waters, I heard the sea-birds' cry, And the mighty ocean answered With its waves in an endless sigh. Then I thought how like the sunlight We find our hopes depart, And the ocean's endless sighing Found an echo in my heart. F. W. D., St. Alban Hall.

BESIDE the ungathered rice he lay, His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair Was buried in the sand, Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep, He saw his Native Land * * * * The forests, with their myriad tongues, Shouted of liberty: And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud, With a voice so wild and free, That be started in his sleep, and smiled At their tempestuous glee. He did not feel the driver's whip, Nor the burning heat of day; For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep, And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul Had broken and thrown away! LONGFELLOW.

I. BESIDE an untouched ice he lay, An eighteenpenny cigar in his hand, He shook his hair with an angry air At the sound of a distant band. Then he dreamt in the mist and shadow of sleep He was a beggar in the Strand. II. Wide through his frock-coat's gaping seams His fancy shirting showed; He had no gloves, no crutchy cane, No nosegay a la mode; And he saw a man, with a tinkling pan, Crying m-u-lk all down the road! III. He felt quite sore, and very lean, His face was sadly tanned; His bones stuck out on both his cheeks, And he could hardly stand. A tear dropped from the sleeper's lids, His Havanna from his hand. IV. And then the dismal vision showed The way in which he sank; From golden chains, to aches and pains, With no balance at the bank. For this woe he could feel, and it caused him to reel, He had but himself to thank. V. From a popular man, dubbed a wit and a wag, To a pauper without a sous; From morn till night, like an unhappy wight, Cut or shunned by all he knew. And this was his fate, by stopping up late, And losing his money at "loo!" VI. How he had wasted his time and his tin By keeping and driving a team. The care and the cash he had spent on his weeds, All this he saw in his dream. And, as his thoughts sped, the blood in his head Curdled up like so much cream. VII. He thought of the good he might have done For love and charity; And with anguish bowed, he cried out aloud A word that began with a "d!" He started and woke—and exceedingly riled, Rang the bell for a Soda and B. VIII. How did he feel as he took out his watch, And consulted the time of day? Had he learnt a lesson from the Land of Sleep? I hope for my sake he may! And I think the moral did reach its goal, For he's got quite stingy they say.

INTO the Silent Land! Ah! who shall lead us thither? Clouds in the evening sky more darkly gather, And shattered wrecks lie thicker on the strand. Who leads us with a gentle hand Thither, O thither, Into the Silent Land? LONGFELLOW.

INTO the Irish Land! Ah! who shall lead us thither? Clouds in the Western sky less darkly gather, And household wrecks less thickly dot the strand. Who leads us with a friendly hand, Thither, oh thither, Into the Irish Land? O Land! O Land! For which poor Pat hath plotted, GLADSTONE, mild herald by kind fate allotted, Beckons, and with his blessed Bill doth stand, To lead us with a friendly hand Into the Land whence we've long been parted, Into the Irish Land! Punch, August 13, 1881.

"Into the Oyster Land! Ah! Who shall lead us thither?"

IN his chamber, weak and dying, Was the Norman baron lying; Loud without the tempest thundered, And the castle-turret shook. In this fight was Death the gainer, Spite of vassal and retainer, And the lands his sires had plundered, Written in the Doomsday Book. * * * * Every vassal of his banner, Every serf born to his manor, All those wronged and wretched creatures By his hand were freed again. And, as on the sacred missal He recorded their dismissal, Death relaxed his iron features, And the monk replied, "Amen!" Many centuries have been numbered Since in death the baron slumbered By the convent's sculptured portal. Mingling with the common dust. But the good deed, through the ages Living in historic pages, Brighter grows and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust. LONGFELLOW.

In his chamber, mine adjoining, Was the German Baron dining. Loud his voice with passion thundered, And with fear the kellner shook. As I listened it was plainer That he bullied this retainer, Forasmuch as he had blundered; Or it might have been the cook. Just outside, upon the Linden, On an instrument (a wind 'un) Played a minstrel most demurely, Dismal as the parish waits. And so loud he kept on getting, While his frau stood by him, knitting, That I thought, "The Baron, surely, Will demolish all the plates." "Spare a groschen, princely stranger! May you never be in danger Of the want of means to spare 'un, Or a couple, if so be." Then the minstrel went on playing, Not a single word more saying; And exclaimed the shuddering Baron, "Miserere Domine!" Tears upon his eyelids glistened While in agony he listened To the instrument (a wind 'un) Which the minstrel he did play. Then unto the kellner ready, "Take this double thaler," said he, To the minstrel of the Linden, Begging him to go away." In that hour of deep contrition He beheld with double vision All the sins he had committed, And he said in accents thick To the kellner, "Loo' here, kellner, You're a 'spec'ble kind o' felner; I'm a felner to be pitied; I'm a mis'ble felner! Hic. "Can you feel for one in sorrow? I shall make my will to-morrow; I shall leave you all my money, Every single thing that's mine. Watch—repeater; ring—carbuncle; Kellner you're my long-lost uncle. Just discovered this—how funny! Fesh another bolowine." Many hours the clock has numbered Since the German Baron slumbered; And his boots are at the portal Of his chamber, free from dust; And an instrument (a wind 'un) Sounds again upon the Linden, Waking that unhappy mortal From the snorings of the just. GODFREY TURNER. Tom Hood's Comic Annual, 1871.

"SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armour drest, Comest to daunt me! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me?"

THOU who, when fears attack Bidst them avaunt, and Black Care, at the horseman's back, Perching, unseatest; Sweet when the morn is grey; Sweet when they've cleared away Lunch, and at close of day Possibly sweetest. I have a liking old For thee, though manifold Stories, I know are told, Not to thy credit. * * * * Cats may have had their goose Cooked by tobacco juice; Still why deny its use Thoughtfully taken? We're not as tabbies are: Smith take a fresh cigar! Jones, the tobacco jar! Here's to thee, Bacon!

Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, how precious are thy pleasures! Not hymned alone in summer-time With hoarse enthusiastic rhyme, Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, but hailed in pewtern measures! Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week, how coarse the cads who "put on" Their three half-crowns for Insulaire, Or intimate Sir Joseph's "square." Oh, Derby week, oh, Derby week—as if I cared a button! Saturnian feasts, Saturnian feasts, you ape, despite Dame Grundy. We laugh until the dread bell rings, But oh, the aches to-morrow brings, And Derby week, and Derby week, that reckoning on the Monday! The welsher's book, the welsher's book, is mirror of thy glories: It's ready when their horse comes in, But somewhat muddled when you win. The welsher's book, the welsher's book, whips Black's in point of stories! So Derby week, oh, Derby week, your usual style, we think, errs, In ending in too cheerful nights, Headaches and debts, green veils and fights, And Derby week, oh, Derby week, Dutch dolls and British drinkers. Funny Folks, June 8, 1878.

Queen Sigrid the Haughty sat proud and aloft, In her chamber that looked over meadow and croft; She held in her hand a ring of gold That was brought to her by a henchman old. King Olaf had sent her that wedding gift; But knowing King Olaf was prone to thrift, She gave the ring to her goldsmiths twain, Who smiled as they handed it back again. Then Sigrid the Queen in her haughty way, Asked, "Why do you smile, my goldsmiths, pray?" They answered, "Queen, if the truth be told, The ring is Brummagem—'t isn't gold!" The colour flushed over forehead and cheek, She simply stamped—but she did not speak. A footstep rang on the outer stair, And in strode Olaf with royal air. He kissed her hand, and he whispered love, And (just for the rhyme) he murmured "Dove!" She smiled with contempt as she said "Oh, king! Step it—and get five bob on that ring!" The face of King Olaf was dark with gloom, He swore as he strode about the room. She raised her brows and looked at the King— "To swear before ladies is not the thing!" "Why should I wed thee," he cried, "old maid? A faded beauty, a heathen jade!" He swore a swear, and he stamped a stamp, And he fetched her a whack with his gingham Gamp. They placed the King in a dungeon vault, Because he was guilty of an assault, With Tupper for supper, and hot cross buns They slowly starved him, those savage ones, And his only drink was Petroleum— And he'd been accustomed to Red Heart Rum! A SHORTFELLOW.

DOWN by the Serpentine, Found I the Skaterman— Found him a-wiping his Eyes with his ulster-sleeve, Eyes full of scalding tears, Red with much blubbering. Red was his nose likewise— Deeply I pitied him. "Cheer up, O Skaterman! Never say die!" says I. "Cheer up, my hearty!"—so Tried I to comfort him, Slapping his back, whereby Coughed he like anything, Forth went my heart to him, Lent him my wipe, I did, Dried his poor nose and eyes, Sitting aside of him Holding his hand. "Hark to the Skald!" I says, "Tell him what's up with thee; Thor of the Hammer will Come to thine aid!" Then spake the Skaterman, Rumbling with muttered oaths Deep in his diaphragm, Grumbling at Thor: "Blow Thaw and Scald!" he cried; "Blow heverythink!" he cried, Salt tears a-rolling down Alongside his nose. "See these here 'Hacmes,' Sir, New from the Store they are, Never been used afore, Twelve-and-six thrown away! Friga the Frigid came, Friga, great Odin's wife, Bound up the river-gods, Laid out an icy floor Mete for the Skaterman. Then I began to hoard. Weekly and weekly hoard, All of my saving to Buy these here things— Came Thaw, the thunder-god, Brake up the Ice-bound stream— Twelve-and-six thrown away, That's what's the matter, Sir— Thaw, he be blowed!" Then, with a wild shriek, he Upped with his knobby stick, Smote on the Acme steel, Smote with a mighty stroke, Smote it and broke it up Into small flinderkins, Banged it and smashed it up Into smithereens. Shocked, then I left him there, Grumbling at Thor! Punch's Almanack, 1884.

This is the place: be still for a while, my high-pressure steamboat! Let me survey the spot where the Mormons builded their temple. Much have I mused on the wreck and ruin of ancient religions, Scandinavian, Greek, Assyrian, Zend, and the Sanskrit, Yea, and explored the mysteries hidden in Talmudic targums, Caught the gleam of Chrysaor's sword and occulted Orion, Backward spelled the lines of the Hebrew graveyard at Newport, Studied Ojibwa symbols and those of the Quarry of Pipestone, Also the myths of the Zulus whose questions converted Colenso, So, methinks, it were well I should muse a little at Nauvoo. Fair was he not, the primitive Prophet, nor he who succeeded, Hardly for poetry fit, though using the Urim and Thummin. Had he but borrowed Levitical trappings, the girdle and ephod, Fine twined linen, and ouches of gold, and bells and pomegranates, That, indeed, might have kindled the weird necromancy of fancy. Had he but set up mystical forms, like Astarte or Peor, Balder, or Freya, Quetzalcoatl, Perun, Manabozho, Verily, though to the sense theologic it might be offensive, Great were the gain to the pictured, flashing speech of the poet. Yet the Muse that delights in Mesopotamian numbers, Vague and vast as the roar of the wind in a forest of pine-trees, Now must tune her strings to the names of Joseph and Brigham. Hebrew, the first; and a Smith before the Deluge was Tubal, Thor of the East, who first made iron ring to the hammer; So on the iron heads of the people about him, the latter, Striking the sparks of belief and forging their faith in the Good Time Coming, the Latter Day, as he called it,—the Kingdom of Zion. Then, in the words of Philip the Eunuch unto Belshazzar, Came to him multitudes wan, diseased and decrepit of spirit, Came and heard and believed, and builded the temple of Nauvoo. All is past; for Joseph was smitten with lead from a pistol, Brigham went with the others over the prairies to Salt Lake. Answers now to the long, disconsolate wail of the steamer, Hoarse, inarticulate, shrill, the rolling and bounding of ten-pins,— Answers the voice of the bar-tender, mixing the smash and the julep, Answers, precocious, the boy, and bites a chew of tobacco. Lone as the towers of Afrasiab now is the seat of the Prophet, Mournful, inspiring to verse, though seeming utterly vulgar: Also—for each thing now is expected to furnish a moral— Teaching innumerable lessons for who so believes and is patient. Thou, that readest, be resolute, learn to be strong and to suffer! Let the dead Past bury its dead and act in the Present! Bear a banner of strange devices, "Forever" and "Never!" Build in the walls of time the fame of a permanent Nauvoo, So that thy brethren may see it and say, "Go thou and do likewise!"

A strange vibration from the cottage window My vagrant steps delayed, And half abstracted, like the ancient Hindoo, I paused beneath the shade. What is, I said, this unremitting humming, Louder than bees in spring? As unto prayer the murmurous answer coming, Shed from Sandalphon's wing. Is this the sound of unimpeded labour, That now usurpeth play? Our harsher substitute for pipe and tabor, Ghittern and virelay? Or, is it yearning for a higher vision, By spiritual hearing heard? Nearer I drew, to listen with precision, Detecting not a word. Then, peering through the pane, as men of sin do, Myself the while unseen, I marked a maiden seated by the window, Sewing with a machine. Her gentle foot propelled the tireless treadle, Her gentle hand the seam: My fancy said, it were a bliss to peddle Those shirts, as in a dream! Her lovely fingers lent to yoke and collar Some imperceptible taste; The rural swain, who buys it for a dollar, By beauty is embraced. O fairer aspect of the common mission! Only the Poet sees The true significance, the high position Of such small things as these. Not now doth Toil, a brutal Boanerges, Deform the maiden's hand; Her implement its soft sonata merges In songs of sea and land. And thus the hum of the unspooling cotton, Blent with her rhythmic tread, Shall still be heard, when virelays are forgotten, And troubadours are dead.

SHOULD you ask me why these columns Filled with words of many speakers— Why this record of their doings, With their frequent repetitions, Their inane deliberations, And their aggravating dulness? I should answer, I should tell you, "That I write them as I hear them, As I hear, and as I see them;— That the world may learn what happens In the painted, gilded chamber, In the chapel of St. Stephen's, At the House of Talkee-Talkee, Where, upon the woolsack, patient, Lolls the Chancellor, hard-headed, Where, enthroned above the table, Sadly sits and broods the Speaker." Should you ask me why he sits there? I should answer, I should tell you, "'Tis because the people will it; 'Tis because they send up members Who will talk for moons together; Nought accomplishing, yet spouting, Like the dolphin, Mishe-no-zha, Weak and watery stuff for ever." If still further you should ask me, Saying "But what do these members, And the many like unto them, In the House of Talkee-Talkee?" I should answer your enquiry Straightway in such words as follow:— "Much they love to hear their voices Talking rubbish at all seasons: Many 'mongst them seize all chances For the riding of their hobbies; Ride them late and ride them early, Ride them through the Standing Orders; Ride them without bit or bridle, Knowing not, nor caring whither." And if once again you query, Saying, "Is this all they do there?" I should answer your fresh query, I should meet your new conundrum Right away in some such fashion As the following, for instance, I should tell you, "There are many Who will bide their time with patience, Knowing that to them by waiting Will come all the things they long for. That M.P. means oft More Power; That 'twill bring them briefs and clients, Make them 'guinea-pigs' and chairmen, Knight them, maybe, in the future; Or ennoble them if only They will spend their money freely For the party they belong to." If you really had the conscience To make any more enquiries, I would answer, I should tell you Not to ask more leading questions, But to wait and read these columns. In these records find your answers, In these lines replies discover.

To the gilded, painted chamber Of the House of Talkee-Talkee, Comes a crowd of various people, Comes a flock of noble ladies, Painted most, and all decolletees; Come the Bishops and the Judges, Gravely taking up their places; Clad in their state robes, the Judges, Like to agéd washerwoman; In their puffed lawn sleeves, the Bishops, Fussy, like the hen that cackles Over new-laid egg or chicken; Come diplomatists by dozens, Blazing with their numerous orders, Which they gladly take, like bagmen; Come with their vermilion buttons And their petticoats of satin, Wond'ring much, the Chinese Envoys:— Wond'ring why it is the ladies Care to sit squeezed up like herrings? How it is their faces glow so With the ruddy hues of nature? Wond'ring why it is the nobles Moon about with hideous cloaks on, Making them appear round-shouldered, Mute-like, "Jarvie-ish," ungainly? Why it is Lord Coleridge carries 'Neath the folds of his the head-gear Known in slang phrase as a "stove-pipe!" Why in swallow-tail of evening Mr. Pierrepoint walks at noon-day? Why the Primate greets profusely Fezzed Musurus when he enters? Why the latter comes to gaze on These ill-fated dogs of Christians That his former masters cheated? And their wonderment continues As they hear the charivari, See the entrances and exits, Watch staid men in green and silver, Rushing here and running thither. Others, clad in velvet small-clothes, Pottering in among the benches, Nought effecting but confusion. * * * * Entered are at last the household, And the Queen comes through the doorway, Sits she in her dress of velvet On the throne, and all is silent. Only for a minute's space though, For, from down a distant lobby, Comes the sound of pattering footsteps, Like the rush of many waters, By the shore of Gitche Gumee, By the shining Big Sea Water. Nearer, nearer, comes the pattering, Louder, louder grow the voices, More pronounced the hurried scuffling. Now it seems as though the sound wave Rolled close to the chamber's portal, And, 'midst loud complaints and laughter, Plainly heard by all who sat there, Comes unto the bar the Speaker; At his heels are Stafford Northcote, And Ward Hunt, the Tory giant, After them the deluge! Members Fight and push, and pull and scuffle; Loudly wrangle for their places, And protest with scanty measure Of politeness or good breeding; Whilst their premier, safe translated, Smiles a smile that's cold and selfish. But at length the Commons settle Into order as behoves them. And the Chancellor upstanding Mounts the throne's wide steps, and kneeling To his sovereign he offers Her own speech, which she declining, He unrolls, and then distinctly With a voice and tone majestic (Picked up in his constant practice), Read it in this way and this wise:— "Listen to these words of wisdom Sounding much but meaning little, That with much elaborate caution, In the Cabinet we hit on. Oh, my faithful Lords and Commons, As it is so far from likely That you read the daily journals, As it is so very certain You've heard nothing that has happened, I will tell you what you cannot By remotest chance have heard of: Know ye then, my trusted children, There has been a war in Turkey, And my Ministers have written Some despatches on the subject; So if, later on, my Commons Should find out the vote for foolscap And for ink and quills is swollen, They will know the cause and pass it; But let me haste on to tell you In thrice twenty lines the items That for weeks have been known fully Through the papers to the people. Know ye then, my Lords and Commons (This is likewise news important, I have journeyed far to tell you), We joined Europe in a Conference, And we sent our trusty cousin, Robert Cecil, Salisbury's Marquis, To take part in its discussions? Know ye not that Robert Cecil, Lordly master he of Hatfield, Went and saw, but did not conquer— Went and talked, but did not manage Well his coaxing or his bluster; Nay, came back completely vanquished, And must do without his dukedom? Need I add, my knowing children, How his failure grieved his colleagues— How Lord Derby wept to hear it— How Lord Beaconsfield has felt it? Still bewails it much in private, And in public should his lips curl, That is merely force of habit. Know ye too, my legislators, My most able statute-makers, That my Indian subjects vastly Liked the squibs let off at Delhi, By my dreamy poet-Viceroy; And, about to die of famine, They enjoyed the show immensely. All the Colonies are prosp'rous! Which, if I am not mistaken, Will be news to many of them, Say, for instance, to Barbadoes. Gentlemen, who pull the purse-strings, I presume you will, as usual, Vote sufficient of the needful. Go, then, and in these great labours May the spirit of the Master, Gitche Manito, the Mighty Aid you, lest they should o'erwhelm you." Then uprose the Queen, and vanished, And a hubbub fills the Chamber: Peers take off their robes of velvet; Ladies cover up their shoulders, And the throng is quickly scattered; Yet was very full the chamber— Full of Lords, and full of strangers, All come down, and feeling curious How the Earl and eke the Marquis Would get on when brought together; Some there were who thought the Marquis Would upon the Earl his back turn; Some who thought the Earl would curl his Upper lip, and snub the Marquis; Others that the Marquis, smarting With the knowledge that he'd been offered Coolly on the Eastern altar, That he had been made a victim; Had been sent to wreck his prestige, 'Mongst the diplomatic breakers, Would dig up the buried hatchet From the Quarterly's shut pages, Would dash down the friendly peace-pipe, And his tomahawk turn wildly On his former foe, Ben Dizzy; But it did not come to pass so, For on Thursday all was quiet, And the Salisburian lion Lay down with the Dizzian lambkin. And the Marquis keeps his vengeance For a more convenient season, If, indeed, he has not hopes still Of a dukedom for his failure. After this they talked for four hours, But the talk meant simply nothing!

As the "brave" re-seeks his wigwam, Left deserted in the autumn, When the early spring-tide tempts him To return and hunt the bison— To return and trap the beaver— To return and scalp the "pale-face"— To return, in short, and do for Many beasts and birds and fishes; So unto their long-left places, To their worn and padded places, Where they sought for reputation— Where they strove for loaves and fishes— Where they hounded down the helpless— Where they vexèd those in office— Where they howled and snored and hooted— Where they quite wore out the Speaker, Harried Adderley and Holker, Tried in vain to draw Ben Dizzy, And gave forth such endless rubbish— Came the M.P.'s for the Session. Came in state, too, Mr. Speaker With the mace and with his chaplain;— Gold the mace, and Byng his chaplain; Whereupon did Captain Gossett, In his normal tights and ruffles, "Tile" the door till prayers were over. Thus all present fell to praying, Let us hope they prayed in earnest, For delivery from envy, Spite and malice and Kenealy. Prayed for sense (God knows most want it), Prayed for very frequent count-outs, And for early dissolution. [Left Praying. Now the mace is on the table From his oaken throne the Speaker, In his hand the Queen's speech holding, Tries to read it, but half through it, Something ails him, and he falters. May we not trace his emotion To the thought of what's before him? How can he fail to remember That the bores have re-assembled. Stronger both in lung and purpose, That when they left town last August. And he knows he can't escape them, That his eye perforce will caught be By the Lewises and Lawsons, By the Biggars and the Whalleys, By the Newdegates and Parnells, This is why his voice completely Fails him and prevents his reading, This is why his accents die out, Like the last song of Pu-kee-wis, Of the dying swan, Pu-kee-wis; This is why they have to bring him Of the water from his cistern (Let us hope it first was filtered), Which he drinks, and so recovers; Drinks, and so concludes his reading. Then, since there is no amendment, One would think that when the mover And the seconder had spoken That the House would straightway scatter; Little do they know, who think so, Of the ways of Mr. Gladstone! Little do they understand him, If they think he can keep silence When the Eastern question's talked of! Could they fancy Whalley speechless, With the Jesuits on the tapis? Could they picture Doctor "Dewdrops" Dumb upon the Magna Charta? Or the Common Serjeant henceforth Dropping his deceased wife's sister? Could they e'en think Holker clever? Couple modesty and Jenkins? Take from Lewis his white waistcoats, Or from Plimsoll his last hobby? Could they do all this? it's doubtful, Even then, if Mr. Gladstone Could be really kept from speaking. When the Eastern question's mentioned, He is always running over With a tide of verbal fulness; At a moment's notice ready To break through his lips or flow out In a pamphlet from his study, Just as when the cat, Me-aw-nee, Sees a mouse she pounces on it; As the buffalo, Shu-shu-kah, At the sight of crimson's maddened; As the sturgeon, Minhe-nah-ma, Meets a mackerel, but to bolt it, As the 'possum, Pau-ku-kee-wis, When it finds a gum-tree, climbs it, So does this M.P. for Greenwich Seize upon the Eastern question, Be it in, or out of, season, Be it apropos or useless, Be it positively dangerous To allude to it in public; So on Thursday seized he on it, Even though he knew the time was Not yet come to talk upon it, Poured his stream of words upon it, Swamped it with his fluent diction; And when he had talked a column, Was informed by Gathorne Hardy, That the questions he'd propounded Would be answered in the blue-books; That the information asked for Would be printed in the blue-books; That, in short, his speech was useless— Verba et præterea nihil. Whereupon the Speaker vanished, And the House broke up its sitting. Truth, February 15, 1877.

STRAIGHT across the Big-Sea-Water, From the Portals of the Sunset, From the prairies of the Red Men, Where Suggema, the mosquito. Makes the aggravated hunter Scratch himself with awful language; From the land of Hiawatha, Land of wigwams, and of wampum, Land of tomahawks and scalping, (See the works of J. F. COOPER), Comes the mighty PAHTAHQUAHONG, Comes the Chief of the Obijways. Wot ye well, we'll give him welcome, After manner of the Pale Face, Show him all the old world's wonders, Griffins in the public highways, Gormandising corporations, And the Market of Mud-Salad. Show him, too, the dingy Palace, And the House of Talkee-Talkee; Where the Jossakeeds—the prophets— And the Chieftains raise their voices. Like Iagoo the great boaster, With immeasurable gabble, Talking much and doing little, Till one wishes they could vanish To the kingdom of Ponemah— To the Land of the Hereafter! We will show him all the glories Of this land of shams and swindles, Land of much adulteration, Dusting tea and sanding sugar, And of goods not up to sample; Till disgusted PAHTAHQUAHONG, Till the Chief of the Obijways, President of Indian Council, Missionary swell, and so forth, Cries, "Oh, let me leave this England, Land of Bumbledom and Beadles, Of a thousand Boards and Vestries; Let me cross the Big-Sea-Water, With Keewaydin—with the Home Wind, And go back to the Ojibways!" Punch, March 12, 1881.

"I stood in the quad at midnight, As the bells were tolling the hour; And the moon shone o'er the city, Behind the Tron Kirk tower." "Among the black stone gables The ghostly shadows lay; And the moonbeams from the rising moon, Falling, made them creep away." "With weary brain and mind opprest, I stood in the quad and pondered—"

Should you ask of what I'm writing, With the scented smoke of segars Curling around my weary head, With the odours of the class-rooms, And its wild reverberations Of the many interruptions Of its bands of many students, Rankling in my ears and nostrils? Why my head I scratch so often? Why I ask my muse to aid me With her bright poetic fire? Why I burn the gas at midnight? Why I have so many books— Poetry books on prosy subjects, Books of songs by Burns and Moore, Ponderous books for words referring, Webster's Unabridged and Walker's Poet's Rhyming Dictionary— Strewed around me on the table? I should answer, I should tell you, "'Tis because I am composing A natal song to Alma Mater." 'Tis thy year, O Alma Mater, Of thy great Tercentenary. Time, thy years three hundred measures With his glass; the mighty Hour-glass Marks thy seconds, passing quickly, With grains of sand for e'er falling Through its glassy neck so slender, Let us sing to her, O students, A pæan song of natal greetings, Let us spread our banquet-tables In the halls of Edina's town. Let us drain to her good welfare Many bottles filled with good wine From the vineyard of the Loire, From the Spanish town of Xeres, From the town of great Oporto, From the country of the Deutchers, From the flow'ry land of Champagne; Let us drain the pewter tankards, Filled with Bass's bittery beer And with Dublin's triple X stout; Let us drain our glassy goblets, Filled with the wine of Gooseberry, Filled with clarets made in London, And with other imitations; Let us brew the Festive Toddy From the whisky, great Tanglefeet, On that morn—her natal morning! Sons and daughters of old Scotland, Land of Oatcakes and of Whisky, Don your costumes made for Sunday; O ye students of Edina, Put your "go-to-meetings" on you; O ye Dons, that festal morning, Don ye your gowns and mortar boards; Let the Billirubin warble One of his impromptu ditties, Physiologic songs of praise— Sing the praise of Alma Mater; Let the great, her mighty surgeon, Throw his dazzling, lustrous sheen Of his intellect most massive, In a speech of his own making, Stock full of jokes and anecdotes— Speak the praise of Alma Mater; Let them all, her swell Professors, Puff her up above the skies. From the Gardens to the Meadows, From the Loch—great Duddingston— To the station of Haymarket, From the Place of the Lunatics To the town of Portobello— Where the many donkey-riders Ride along its dirty sands; Where the fellows go on Sunday For a walk, and drink the Ozone Wafted round promiscuously; Where they go to meet their damsels, And walk with them along the strand— From Merchiston to Warriston, Let merry songs of praises ring On that day, her happy birthday. Now join with me, ye students all, Wish her now, your Alma Mater, Greatest wealth and prosperity. Hail to thee, O Alma Mater, School above schools upon this earth! Hail to thee, thou great Alchemist! Hail to thee, O Verdant Pasture! Hail to thee, O Parenchyma! Hail to thee, thou Grecian Pet! Hail to thee, the great Kail Runter! Hail to thee, O Billirubin! Hail to thee, O Wells of Water! Hail to thee, the Kitchen Surgeon! Hail to thee, thou Man of Physic! Hail to thee, thou Just Lawgiver! Hail to thee, the great Drug Speaker! Hail to thee, her Story-teller! Hail to thee, the great Dissector! Hail to thee, O Damsonjamer! Hail to thee, her Organ Grinder! Hail to thee, thou Fossilfeller! Hail to thee, O Afterglower! Hail to thee, the Celtic Chairer! Hail to thee, O Wandering Jew! Hail to thee, the Magna Charta! Hail to thee, O great Kirkpaddy! Hail to thee, Cephalic Mewer! Hail to thee, no Small Pertater! Hail to thee, the great Schoolboarder! Hail to thee, her Comet-gazer! Hail to thee, the Soda-fountain! Hail to thee, thou Cubic Crystal! Hail to thee, O Science Gossip! Hail to thee, the Engine-Driver! Hail to thee, thou great Darwiner! Hail to thee, the Eye-restorer! Hail to thee, O great Lunatic! Hail to thee, her long Gatekeeper! Hail to ye, her famous Children! Hail to ye, O Students' Council! Hail to ye, her many Students! Hail to me, her Song Composer! Hail to ye, all her Children, Friends, And Near Relations, on that day! All hail to our Alma Mater On her natal morn be given!!![5]

THE dirty snow was thawing fast, As through the London streets there passed A youth, who, mid snow, slush, and ice, Exclaimed, "I don't care what's the price— A Plumber!" His brow looked mad, his eye beneath Was fixed and fierce—he clenched his teeth, While here and there a bell he rung, But found not all the shops among A Plumber. He saw his home, he saw the light Wall-paper sopped—a gruesome sight. He saw his dining-room afloat, He cried, "I'll give a fi' pun note— A Plumber!" "O stop the leak!" his wife had said; "The ceiling's cracking overhead. The roaring torrent's deep and wide"— "I'll go and fetch," he had replied, "A Plumber." "Pa ain't at home," the maiden said, When to the plumber's house he sped. He searched through London low and high, But nowhere could he catch or spy A Plumber. Next morn, a Peeler on his round, A mud-bespattered trav'ller found, Who grasped the "Guide to Camden Town" With hand of ice—the page turned down At "Plumbers." They brought a parson to his side, He gently murmured ere he died— "My house has floated out to sea, I am not mad—it's not d. t.— It's Plumbers."

IT comes as a boon and a blessing to men When your missus as was disappears from your ken. ANONYMOUS. When from the wife you get a parting benison, Her sister will console you— ALFRED TENNYSON. When weary, worn, and nigh distraught with grief, You mourn Maria in your handkerchief, Rush, rush to Aunty, and obtain relief. AN F.S.A. OF OVER 100 YEARS. Beneath the spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands— With Mrs. Smith it's all U P, She's gone to other lands. But he goes on Sunday to the church, And hears her sister's voice; He leaves his scruples in the lurch, And she makes his heart rejoice. The morning sees his suit commenced, The evening sees it done— Next day the Parson ties the knot, And Pa and Aunt are one. LONGFELLOW. O blood-bitten lip all aflame, O Dolores and also Faustine, O aunts of the world worried shame, Lo your hair with its amorous sheen, Meshes man in its tangles of gold; O aunts of the tremulous thrill, We are pining—we long to enfold The Deceased Wife's Fair Relative Bill. SWINBURNE.

THE dinner hour had come at last, The evening sun was sinking fast; I sat me down in sorry mood, And darkly look'd upon the food. Dyspepsia! My happy comrades' bright eyes beam'd, And o'er the steaming potage gleam'd; Alas! not mine to find relief In whitebait's flavour bright and brief. Dyspepsia! "Try not the duck," my conscience said; 'Twill lie upon your chest like lead; Delusion all, that bird so fair; The sage and onions are a snare. Dyspepsia! "Oh, taste!" our hostess cried, and press'd A portion of a chicken's breast; I view'd the fowl with longing eye, Then answer'd sadly, with a sigh, Dyspepsia! I mark'd with fix'd and stony glare A brace of pheasants and a hare; A tear stood in my bilious eye, When helping friends to pigeon-pie. Dyspepsia! "Beware the celery, if you please; Beware the awful Stilton cheese." This was the doctor's last good-night; I answered feebly, turning white, "Dyspepsia!" The scarcely-tasted dinner done, Old Port and walnuts next came on; I kept my mouth all closely shut; But how I long'd for just one nut! Dyspepsia! Some nuts I had, at early day, (Morn was just breaking cold and grey), I, starting up, with loud ha! ha! Felt falling, like a falling star. Dyspepsia!

The shades of night were falling fast, As through a lonely village passed A youth, who rode 'mid snow and ice A two-wheeled thing of strange device— A Bicycle. His brow was sad, his eye below Flashed like his bicycle's steel glow, While like a silver clarion rung A bell, which on the handle hung— Of the Bicycle. In cosy sheds he saw the light Of bicycles well cleaned and bright; Along the road deep ruts had grown, And from his lips escaped a moan— "My Bicycle!" "Try not that road," the old man said, "'Tis full of holes, you'll break your head; The farm pond, too, is deep and wide;" But loud the bicyclist replied, "Rot! Bicycle!" "Beware the oak-tree's withered arm, Beware the holes, they'll do you harm!" This was the peasant's last good-night; A voice replied, "Don't fear, all right— Vive Bicycles!" At break of day, as in a brook A passenger did chance to look, He started back, what saw he there? His voice cried through the startled air, "A Bicycle!" A bicyclist, upon the ground, Half buried in the dirt, was found Still hugging, in his arms of ice, That two-wheeled thing of strange device, The Bicycle. There in the twilight cold and grey, Helpless, but struggling, he lay, While, now no longer bright and fair, His bicycle lay broken there— Poor Bicycle!

The shades of night were a coming down swift, Upidee, Upida. The snow was heapin' up, drift on drift, Upidee, Upida. Through a Yankee village a youth did go, Carrying a flag with this motto— "Upidee, Upida." On his high forehead curled copious hair, He'd a Roman nose, and complexion fair, A bright blue eye, with an auburn lash, And he ever kep' a shoutin' thro' his moustache, Upidee, Upida! About half-past nine, as he kep' gettin' upper He saw a lot of families a sitting down to supper; He eyed those slippery rocks, he eyed 'em very keen And he fled as he cried, and he cried as he was fleein'— "Upidee, Upida." "Oh take care," cried an old man, "stop; It's blowing gales up there on top; You'll be blown right off the other side," But the humorous stranger still replied, "Upidee, Upida." "Beware the branch of the sycamore tree, And rolling stones, if any you see;" Just then the farmer went to bed, And a singular voice replied overhead, "Upidee, Upida." "Oh, stay!" the maiden said, "and rest, Your weary head upon this breast." On his Roman nose a tear-drop come, As he ever kep' a shoutin' as he upward clum, "Upidee, Upida!" About a quarter to six in the next forenoon A man accidentally going up too soon Heard repeated above him, as much as twice, Those very same words, in a very weak voice, "Upidee, Upida." The very same man about a quarter to seven (He was slow a-gettin' up, the road being uneven), Found buried up there, among the snow and ice, That youth with the banner with the strange device, "Upidee, Upida." He was dead, defunct, beyond any doubt, The lamp of his life was quite gone out, On the dreary hill-side the youth was a layin', There was no more use for him to be sayin', "Upidee, Upida!"

The shades of night were falling fast, As through the streets of London passed A party with a packet nice, On which was seen the strange device— Exitium. "Hi, stay!" the Bobby cried, "you man." Says he, "You'll catch me if you can." Three rapid strides, and he was gone; From Bobby's lips escaped a groan— Exitium. At break of day, as in a fright, The Bobbies came from left and right, Each murmured, starting in a scare; A crash resounded through the air— Exitium. There in the twilight cold and grey— In ruins stately buildings lay, And o'er the land the news is spread: "Another Fenian escapade!" Exitium.

Use not the coke, the old man said, The stove must be by small coal fed. The heap of slack is deep and wide, But still their saucy voices cried, Don't bother us! Printer's Devil, Northampton, 1884.

I went to bed at eleven, At the sign of the Azure Boar, And I knew that my room was seven, For I'd seen it upon the door. With a flickering, flaring candle, That glimmered like sickly Hope, I found out my way to the handle, And I flung the portal ope, When a gentleman—not to my thinking— Was placed in the door upright; It was evident he had been drinking, For he hiccuped out in the night; And he spoke in a language mighty, That rang through the chill and gloom; And he asked me, "Highty-tighty," "What the deuce do you do in my room?" And never of warning mildly A word had the stranger said, Ere he took up a bootjack wildly, And hurled it at my head; And down with a noise and clatter It fell o'er the winding stair, And some one cried, "What's the matter?" And I said, "I am not aware!" And whenever I feel dyspeptic, And whenever my soul's unwell, And whenever I've got lumbago, And whenever my eyelids swell, I see the man with the bootjack, He swears as he used to swear, And I hear the implement falling And clattering down the stair; And I say to myself at twilight, A vindictive person's a brute; I'd rather have been on the skylight Than down at the staircase foot! For whatever evil you suffer, The words of the sage rehearse, "Though things may be bad, you duffer, They might be a good deal worse."

THESE are the green woods of Cliefden. The glorious oaks and the chestnuts All appertain to the Duke, whose residence stands in the distance— Stands like a toyhouse of childhood, besprinkled all over with windows— Stands like a pudding at Christmas, a white surface, dotted with black things. Loud from the neighbouring river, the deep voiced clamorous bargée Roars, and in accents opprobrious holloas to have the lock opened. These are the green woods of Cliefden. But where are the people who in them Laughed like a man when he lists to the breath-catching accents of Buckstone? Where are the wondrous white waistcoats, the flimsy baréges and muslins, Worn by the swells and the ladies who came here on pleasant excursions? Gone are those light-hearted people, flirtations, perhaps love—even marriage, All have had woeful effect since Mrs. Merillian's picnic; And of that great merry-making, some bottles in tinfoil enveloped, And a glove dropped by Jane Page, are the vestiges only remaining! Ye who take pleasure in picnics, and dote on excursions aquatic, Flying the smoke of the city, vexations and troubles of business, List to a joyous tradition of one which was once held at Cliefden— List to a tale of cold chicken, champagne, bitter beer, lobster salad! * * * * * EDMUND H. YATES.

BRIGHTLY blazed up the fires through the long dark days of November, Glimmered the genial lamp in the wainscoted rooms of the College, Brightest of all in the rooms of De Whyskers, "the talented drinker." Thence came the festive song, and the clink of the bottles and glasses, Thence came the chorus loud, abhorred of the Dean and the Fellows. There sat De Whyskers the jolly, the drinker of curious liquors, There sat De Jones, and De Jenkyns, stroke oar of the Boniface Torpid; There too, De Brown, and De Smith, well known to the eyes of the Proctors, Heedless of numberless ticks, and the schools, and a "plough" in futuro, Sat by the ruddy-faced fire, and quaffed the bright vintage of Xeres. Merrily out to the night through the fogs and the mist of November Floated the breath of the weed through the fields of the dark Empyrean, Rose the melodious sounds of the "dogs" which are known as "the jolly," "Slapping" and "banging" along through that noisy and meaningless ditty. But silence! the welkin now rings (whatever the meaning of that is), A rumour of battle is heard, and the wine and the weeds are deserted. Out to the darkling High, where the cad and the commoner struggle, Out to the noise, and the din, and the crowd of the unwashed mechanics, Went forth De Whyskers the bold, brimfull of the valour of Holland, Flashed both his eyes in the dark with a gleam that was quite meteoric, As flashes the pheasant's tail when he hears the first gun in October. Now with a yell and a spring the cads came up to the onset, Cursing and swearing amain, and throwing their arms out like thunder. Stopping before All Saints' the hideous work of Dean Aldrich, Stopping De Whyskers made emphatic the sign for the battle, Thereon he let fall a blow swift like an armourer's hammer, Down on his face fell a cad as falls an oak on the mountains, Forth from his nose came "the red" as oft in the vintage the dresser Squeezes the blushing grape on the plains of Estremadura. Now from the end of the High a rush of the cads overwhelming Sweeps as the sea sweeps on in the long dark nights of the winter, Howling as howl the wolves through the snow in the forests of Sweden; Blow after blow is struck, as the flakes come down in the snowstorm. Now from the Turl to the Broad, and St. Giles's, abode of the peaceful, Even to Worcester the slow, or Botany Bay, as they call it, Down by Trinity Gates, and Balliol beloved of the scholar, Down by the temple of Tom, whence the Curfew rings in the gloaming Thundered the fray till the rain came down on the scene as a damper. College Rhymes (T. and G. Shrimpton, Oxford, 1865.)

Happy thy name, O BURNS! for burns, in thy native Doric, Meaneth the free bright streams, exhaustless, pellucid, and sparkling, Mountain-born, wild and erratic, kissing the flow'rets in passing, Type of thy verse and thyself—loving and musical ever; And the streams by thy verse made immortal are known by our giant rivers, Where the emigrants sing them to soothe the yearnings for home in their bosoms, And the Coila and gentle Doon, by the song of the Celtic wanderer, Are known to the whispering reeds that border the great Mississippi. Thou wert the lad for the lasses! lasses the same are as misses; And here we have misses had pleased you—Missouri and the Mississippi. And "green grow the rushes" beside them—as thy evergreen chorus would have them. Thou wert the champion of freedom!—Thou didst rejoice in our glory! When we at Bunker's Hill no bunkum display'd, but true courage! Jubilant thou wert in our Declaration of Independence! More a Republican thou than a chain-hugging bow-and-scrape Royalist! Even the Stars and the Stripes seem appointed the flag of thy destiny;— The stars are the types of thy glory, the stripes thou didst get from Misfortune.

THIS is the metre Columbian. The soft-flowing trochees and dactyls, Blended with fragments spondaic, and here and there an iambus, Syllables often sixteen, or more or less, as it happens, Difficult always to scan, and depending greatly on accent, Being a close imitation, in English, of Latin hexameters— Fluent in sound, and avoiding the stiffness of commoner blank verse, Having the grandeur and flow of America's mountains and rivers, Such as no bard could achieve in a mean little island like England; Oft, at the end of a line, the sentence dividing abruptly Breaks, and in accents mellifluous follows the thoughts of the author. I. In the old miracle days, in Rome the abode of the saintly, To and fro in a room of her sacred conventual dwelling, Clad in garments of serge, with a veil in the style of her Order, Mass-book and rosary too, with a bunch of keys at her girdle, Walk'd, with a pensive air, Beatrice the Carmelite sister. Fair of aspect was she, but a trifle vivacious and worldly, And not altogether cut out for a life of devout contemplation. More of freedom already had she than the rest of the sisters, For hers was the duty to ope the gates of the convent, and take in Messages, parcels, et cetera, from those who came to the wicket. Ever and often she paused to gaze on the face of Our Lady, Limn'd in a picture above by some old pre-Raphaelite Master; Then would she say to herself (because there was none else to talk to), "Why should I thus be immured, when people outside are enjoying Thousands of sights and scenes, while I'm not allowed to behold them, Thousands of joys and of changes, while I am joyless and changeless? No, I can bear it no longer. I'll hasten away from the Convent: Now is the time, for all's quiet; there's no one to see or to catch me." So resolving at length, she took off her habit monastic, And promptly array'd herself in smuggled secular garments; Then on the kneeling-desk she laid down the keys, in a safeplace, Where some one or other, or somebody else, would certainly find them. "Take thou charge of these keys, blest Mother," then murmured Beatrice, "And guard all the nuns in this holy but insupportable building." And as she spoke these words, the eyes of the picture were fasten'd With mournful expression upon her, and tears could be seen on the canvas; Little she heeded, however, her thoughts had played truant before her, Then stole she out of the portal, and never once looking behind her, Wrapp'd in an ample cloak, and further concealed by the darkness, Out through the streets of the city Beatrice quickly skedaddled. II Out in the world went Beatrice, her cell was left dark and deserted; Scarce had she gone, when lo! with wonderment be it related— Down from her canvas and frame, there stepp'd the blessed Madonna, Took up the keys and the raiment Beatrice had quitted, and wore them, Also assuming the face and figure of her who was absent; Became in appearance a nun, so that none could discover the difference. Save that the sisters agreed that Beatrice the portress was growing Better and better, as one who aspired to canonization; Daily abounding in grace, a pattern to all in the convent; Till it would not have surprised them to see a celestial halo Gather around her head, and pinions spring from her shoulders, That, when too good for this world, she might fly away to a better. Her post was below her deserts, and so by promotion they made her Mistress of all the novices seeking religious instruction. Such was her great success in that tender and beautiful office, Her pupils all bloomed into saints, and some of the very first water. III. Many a day had pass'd since Beatrice escaped from the convent, Much had she seen of the world, and its wickedness greatly distress'd her; Oft she repented her act, and long'd to return, yet she dared not; Oft was determined to go, still she "stood on the order of going." Thus it at last occurr'd that her convent's secular agent Entered one day, in the house where the truant sister was staying, But changed as she was in appearance, he did not know her from Adam; Whilst he in his clerical garb was to her a familiar figure. "Now I shall learn," thought she, "what they say of my flight and my absence." And so she eagerly asked of the nuns and of sister Beatrice, As of a friend she had known when living near to the convent. "Truly," the factor replied, "She is still the pride of our sisters, Favourite too of the abbess, and worthy of all our affection. Would there were more of her kind in some houses monastic I know of," Puzzled and rather distress'd, then answer'd the truant religieuse, "She whom I speak of, alas! was less of a saint than a sinner, She fled from the veil and the cell, so surely you speak of another?" "Not in the least, my child," the secular agent responded; "Sister Beatrice, the saint-like, did not run away from the cloister, Mistress is she of the novices. Why should she go? Stuff and nonsense!" "What can it mean?" thought Beatrice, "and who is my double and namesake?" So when the agent was gone, resolved she would settle the question, Off to the convent she went, and knocked at the portal familiar, Ask'd for the sister Beatrice, was shown to the parlour and found a Counterpart of herself, as she was in her days of seclusion. Down on her knees went Beatrice—the why and the wherefore she knew not. "Welcome, my daughter, again," said her double, the blessed Madonna; "Now I restore you your keys, your robe, and your other belongings, Adding the excellent name and promotion I've won in your likeness; Be you a nun as before, but more pious; farewell, take my blessing." Speaking, she melted away in the holy pre-Raphaelite picture. Again was Beatrice "herself," like Richard the third, à la Shakespeare, Growing in grace from that day, and winning the glory of Saintship; While each of the pupils she taught, went to heaven as surely as she did. Such is the metre Columbian, but where is the bard who devised it? Tenderest he of the poets who wrote in the tongue of (New) England, Where the minstrel who sang of "Evangeline," also "Miles Standish?" Alas! he will never again pour forth his effusions pathetic, But his name and his fame endure, and this characteristic measure In honour of him I adopt, without any thought of burlesquing. Thus on the ear its cadence, like sounds from the labouring ocean, Breaks, and in accents mellifluous follows the thoughts of the author.