Volume 100 — A DEAD FROST.
Reading edition
When I saw you on "a January morning," With a very little pair of skates indeed, And the frosty glow your fairy face adorning, I was suddenly from other passions freed. And the year at its imperial beginning Showed the woman who alone was worth the winning; Though the growing flame awhile I tried to smother Like a brother; And that's a very common phase indeed, As we read. My hat and stick I suddenly found fleeting, And they whistled o'er the surface, smooth and black, And the ice, with an unwonted warmth of greeting, Slapt me suddenly and hard upon the back. I didn't mind your laughing, if the laughter Had left no sting of scorn to rankle after. Though I'd joyously have flung myself before you To adore you, Still to sit with all one's might upon the ice Isn't nice. When I met you in the lordly local ball-room, Where you queen'd it, the suburban world's desire, Though your programme for my name had left but small room, I somehow snatched five valses from the fire. And I did stout supper-service for your mother, While you wove the self-same spells o'er many another, And I said, no doubt, the sort of things that they did, In the shaded Little nook beneath the palms upon the stair, To my fair. But I noticed, as I learned to know you better, And you ceased to wile the victim at your feet, There was very little silk about the fetter, And 'twere flattery to say your sway was sweet: Nay, you made the light and airy shrine of beauty A centre for the most exacting duty, And the fealty of the family undoubting Met with flouting, As a tribute which was nothing but your due, As they knew. Your Papa is getting elderly and bulky, And he loves you as the apple of his eye, Yet very little things will make you sulky, And to meet his little ways you never try. And I see him look a trifle hurt and puzzled, And his love for you is often check'd and muzzled; Yet I think, upon the whole, that I would rather Be your father, Than the lover you could torture at your ease, If you please.
STRANGE, BUT TRUE.
Sir,—Under the heading of "Ecclesiastical Intelligence" in the Times of Saturday, I read that, "The LORD CHANCELLOR has preferred the Rev. W.R. WELCH, of Hull, to the Vicarage of Withernwick, East Yorkshire," I presume the LORD CHANCELLOR knows both the gentleman and the place thoroughly, and so wisely elects which he prefers; but to one who, like myself and thousands of others, know neither, it strikes me that I would certainly prefer the place to the parson, however worthy. It is, indeed, gratifying to see that the Highest Representative of Law and Order in the realm, after HER GRACIOUS MAJESTY, is so utterly uninfluenced by any mercenary motives. I send this by Private Post, an old soldier, and am yours enthusiastically,
NOODLE DE NOODLE.
The Retreat, Hanwell-on-Sea.
"BETTER LATE THAN NEVER."—Two Jurymen, says a paragraph in last Saturday's Times, wrote to the Solicitor acting for a female prisoner, one CUTLER, who had been convicted of perjury and sentenced at Chester, to say that they "gave in to a verdict of Guilty because it was very late, and one gentleman had an important business engagement at home." This recalls the line, "And wretches hang that Jurymen may dine." The remainder of ELLEN CUTLER's sentence of five years' penal servitude is remitted. It is satisfactory to know that these two had the courage of their opinions before it was too late.
SYMPATHETIC EGOISM OF GENIUS.
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A Study.
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"DON'T RUN AWAY YET, OLD MAN! IT'S QUITE EARLY, AND I WANT TO HEAR ALL ABOUT YOUR ACADEMY PICTURE, WHICH I'M TOLD IS SPLENDID."
[Proceeds to describe his own at great length, and then suddenly finds out how late it is, and bolts!