CHAPTER X.

When Frank Heartwell visited the estate of Mr. Wendover, near Fowey, and had an interview with Helen, the merchant had journeyed to the metropolis to examine the property that had been so strangely discovered in the cottage at Finchley, and which had been deposited for security in his mansion; for his steward had discovered amongst the papers, deeds involving a vast amount, together with several thousand pounds in bank-notes, the whole belonging, he had every reason to believe, to a person then in existence. Mr. Wendover went down to Finchley, and ascertained by a registry of names and documentary evidence, that an extensive conspiracy, connected with the revolutionary societies of the day, had been in fearful progress, and that one of the principal leaders and agents had formerly been in possession of the cottage, where arms and ammunition had been collected to carry out their traitorous designs; but the promptitude of the government had arrested some of the chiefs in the intended insurrection, and the voice of the nation had so unequivocally declared against revolution, that the plan had been abandoned, and the arms remained in concealment. On examining the deeds, he was much struck by reading in numerous places the name of Heartwell; and even the parcels of bank-notes which were found in a tin-box had similar superscriptions on the envelopes which inclosed them; with only this difference, that the christened name in the former was Thomas, and on the latter Frank.

Mr. Wendover was well acquainted with Mrs. Heartwell's affecting history, and he could not help connecting the discovery of the wealth with the great loss she had sustained, especially as frequent mention was made of Calcutta, where a valuable property was situated; still there was nothing of a definite nature to prove the fact. The merchant, though fond of money, was also an honourable man: he might have appropriated the treasure to his own use, but he determined to institute a rigid investigation, and then act with integrity. He accordingly waited on Mrs. Heartwell, and minutely inquired into every circumstance of her melancholy story; from thence he repaired to the agent and banker, through whose hands the documents had passed; and here at once his doubts were set at rest, for most of the papers were identified by the clerk (now a partner in the firm), who had delivered them up in Brady's office, and produced the acknowledgment of their being received, in which the whole were distinctly noted and set forth, so as accurately to correspond with those which were found; and on referring to the books, the very numbers of the bank-notes were ascertained.

All was thus far perfectly satisfactory, and Mr. Wendover lost no time in communicating the intelligence to Mrs. Heartwell, to whom the acquisition of riches was only acceptable, as tending to promote the welfare of her son. Everything was put in proper train to secure her right, and she now experienced a melancholy satisfaction in returning to the cottage, as she cherished a fervent hope that there the mystery which hung over the fate of her husband would be solved. At no time had she yielded to utter despondency; but the merchant strongly suspected that the lieutenant had been decoyed or forced to the cottage, murdered, and his remains deposited in some of the vaults underground, which (under pretence of requiring repairs, so as not to wound Mrs. Heartwell's feelings) were immediately ordered to be cleared, and every part strictly examined. This was faithfully executed, but nothing whatever was discovered to elucidate the affair, beyond the fact, that the former occupants were men of daring and desperate character, whose names were unknown in the neighbourhood.

Mr. Wendover returned to Cornwall for the purpose of removing his family to the metropolis; he promised Mrs. Heartwell to inform her son of the events which had transpired, and if possible to put into Plymouth and perform it personally. After some delay the anxious mother wrote all the particulars to the young officer, and the letter reached Plymouth on the very day that Frank sailed for the Mediterranean, so that he departed wholly ignorant of his good fortune.

Young Heartwell's breast glowed with warm and joyous feelings, when the thoughts of his having rescued Helen from death dwelt upon his mind:--and when did he forget it? He had shown her proud father that he was not undeserving of friendship and patronage, and he had again proved to Helen the devotedness of his regard. The Mediterranean offered a fair field for promotion to those who were determined to merit it; for Nelson was there, and his name carried with it a conviction that daring achievements and good conduct would not be suffered to sink into oblivion.

The frigate made a quick passage to Gibraltar, where she was suffered to remain only a few hours, and was then directed to pursue her way with despatches for Sir Horatio Nelson. It was known that the French fleet was out from Toulon, and the gallant admiral in pursuit, but his exact situation rested on conjecture. With a fine breeze the captain steered for Sicily, and found the fleet at Syracuse, preparing to get under weigh; the despatches were delivered, the supernumeraries of the frigate were transferred to the flag-ship--the Vanguard; and thus Frank and his two humble friends, Ben and Sambo, had the honour of being within the same heart-of-oak with the gallant hero whose fame has been immortalised throughout the world, and whose name is sanctified by a nation's gratitude. Nelson was ever kind and considerate to young officers,--he looked upon them as under his immediate protection and care, and Frank's appearance and manners very soon attracted his notice; he inquired relative to his future prospects--learned the story of his life--had been acquainted with his father, and he now promised to befriend the son, should the young man prove deserving of his patronage. As a pledge of his future intentions, he promoted a meritorious midshipman to the rank of lieutenant, and gave Frank the vacant rating, "in order," as the admiral said, "to give him a stronger claim upon the Admiralty when they had captured or destroyed the fleet of the enemy," for he entertained no doubt of the result could he but fall in with them.

The Battle of the Nile is a matter recorded in the pages of history, and no Englishman can be ignorant of its details--therefore description will be unnecessary here. Ben was in his glory, and though his gun was twice nearly cleared of men, and himself severely wounded, he continued nobly performing his duty, taking a steady aim in the darkness by the fire of their opponents, the Spartiate and Aquilon--exclaiming as he applied the match to the priming, "Hurrah! there it goes, my boys! What's the odds so as you're happy?"

Frank was on the quarter-deck near the undaunted chief when he fell wounded into the arms of Captain Berry, and Nelson's face was instantly covered with blood that deprived his remaining eye of sight--a piece of langridge having struck him across the forehead and cut away a portion of skin, that hung down like a flap. Frank assisted in carrying the brave admiral to the cockpit, and was witness to his magnanimity, when he refused to have his own wounds dressed until those who had precedence of him were attended to. He recognised the midshipman by his voice--pressed his hand--requested Captain Berry not to forget his interests, and bade the young man "farewell," for Nelson believed that he was dying. Happily for his country, the hero lived--the enemy was beaten, and Frank, with strong certificates and recommendation, was sent home in one of the captured ships that he might be enabled to pass his examination at Somerset House, and avail himself of Nelson's kind intentions. It would be impossible to describe the emotions that agitated the young officer when apprised on his arrival of the events that had occurred to advance his good fortune, and the prospect of a favourable consideration in the esteem of Mr. Wendover, which promised him future happiness with the dear girl he so ardently loved.

As soon as possible he obtained leave of absence, and Ben, whose wounds required attention, accompanied him to London. The meeting with his mother and Helen was joyous and delightful; but still there came painful thoughts of his father blending with those of a happier mood, and, like Mr. Wendover, he connected circumstances together till something like conviction had established itself that the cottage was the spot in which his parent had been plundered and destroyed.

Helen was no longer forbidden to hold intercourse with Frank--the merchant himself now sanctioned the intimacy, and never ceased expressing his admiration at the young man's conduct when his yacht was wrecked. Ben found an asylum at the cottage; but when commiserated on account of the injuries he had sustained, he declared that he was proud of his "honourable scars."--"They were gained," he would say, "under Nelson, fighting for my king and country--and what's the odds so as you're happy?"

Frank passed his examination very creditably--he was not forgotten by Earl Chatham--his testimonials were excellent, and three days afterwards he was presented with a lieutenant's commission, appointing him to a seventy-four, recently launched at Woolwich; he joined without delay, as the duties would not prevent his frequent visits to Finchley. It was at the close of a dull November afternoon that he sat in the parlour of the cottage alone; for on his arrival about an hour previous, he ascertained that his mother and Ben had suddenly been summoned to the City on business of importance, and the servant-man had driven them to town in her own little carriage--the gardener had been sent for to the manor-house, and no one remained but the maid-servant and a young girl. More than once the lieutenant rose from his seat, and taking his hat, prepared to set out, and pass an hour or two with Helen, but, anxious to learn the purport of his mother's embassy, and conjecturing that she would not be long before she made her appearance, he again seated himself in restless anxiety.

The early shades of evening began to fall heavily, and there was a sickly yellow mistiness in the atmosphere that gave a jaundiced complexion to the visions of the mind. Frank felt its influences, and was growing somewhat melancholy, when a stranger alighted from his horse at the gate, rung the bell, and having inquired for Mrs. Heartwell, rather intrusively walked into the house, and entered the parlour; but observing the lieutenant, he became evidently embarrassed, though, instantly recovering himself, he made a suitable apology in homely language. His dress and manners were those of a plain elderly country farmer--a drab great-coat with its cape encompassed his person, a capacious silk handkerchief was round his neck, his hair was cropped and grizzly, surmounted by a broad-brimmed hat, and he carried a hunting whip in his hand. Frank stirred the fire so as to throw a stronger light into the room, and having requested the stranger to take a chair, politely required his business. "You are, I understand, young gentleman, about to quit this cottage," replied he, "and as I am retiring from farming, and like the situation, I should be happy to take it off your hands--either as tenant, or by purchase."

"I am utterly unable, sir, to afford you any satisfactory answer on the subject," said Frank; "the cottage belongs to Mr. Wendover, the lord of the manor, and I am not yet certain that our quitting it has been decided upon, though I admit it may take place."

"In the event of your leaving, would the gentleman you have named feel disposed to part with it, think you?" inquired the stranger. "I would give him a handsome price--for in fact there are early associations connected with the place that attach me to it. You, perhaps, would exercise your influence in my favour?"

The mention of early associations aroused Frank's curiosity, he rang the bell, and ordered candles to be brought, and as soon as they were placed upon the table, he once more adverted to the pleasantness of the cottage, and then enquired, "Pray, sir, is it long ago since you resided here?"

"Yes--yes--I may say it is seventeen or eighteen years," responded the stranger. "I lived with a relation then, and admire the situation so much that I should like to pass the rest of my days upon the spot."

The lieutenant felt his blood tingle down to his fingers' ends at the mention of the period--it was one full of deep interest to him, and casting a searching look at the man, he demanded, "You must know Brady, then?"

The question was like an electric shock to the stranger--he started, his countenance became contorted, and in the wild rolling of his eye, Frank was instantly reminded of the period at which he had first seen it when a child in the lawyer's room at Lincoln's Inn. He sprang from his chair, and grasping the man by the collar, exclaimed, "You--you are my father's murderer!" Brady drew a pistol, and presented it at Frank's head--the lieutenant knocked up the muzzle, and the ball flew harmlessly to the ceiling. At this moment two men rushed in to the lawyer's rescue, but not till Frank had wrenched the pistol from his hand, and struck him a severe blow with the butt--the next instant the candles were extinguished, and Heartwell lost consciousness through the stunning effects of a hit on the back of his head, and resigned his grasp; he quickly, however, regained it, and a desperate struggle ensued. At this moment the gardener returned from the manor-house--he had seen a light waggon standing on the common under the care of a boy, and on entering the gate, had been nearly knocked down by a tall stout man, who mounted a horse that was in waiting, and galloped off. Hurrying into the cottage, his timely succour turned the fate of the encounter--the two scoundrels were overmatched; one contrived to steal away, Frank still grasped the other, and having managed to get hold of his dirk that lay upon a sofa, the fellow was wounded past resistance and sank upon the floor. Lights were brought; the lieutenant gazed earnestly on the face of his prisoner--it was not Brady, but Shipkins; for the lawyer, though desperately hurt, had taken advantage of Frank's momentary weakness to throw down the candles and effect his escape, and the lieutenant had unknowingly seized the clerk in his stead.

Great were the consternation and alarm of Mrs. Heartwell on her return from the metropolis, to which she had been deluded by a pretended message got up by the vile confederates. The gardener too was similarly deceived; for the scoundrels, unaware that the treasure had been removed, had hoped to find the cottage destitute of protection, so that they might easily carry off the booty they expected to find. Frank's presence had disconcerted Brady, who invented a plausible excuse, but villany met with detection and punishment, as already described.

When calmness was somewhat restored, it was proposed to send Shipkins to prison in the waggon which had brought him out on his nefarious excursion; but the man was evidently dying, and Mrs. Heartwell conjectured that by detaining him at the cottage, and treating him with kindness, he might be induced to make admissions and confessions which would tend to elucidate the past. At first, however, he was stubborn and morose, and refused the assistance that was proffered him--he was not aware that his last hour was so near at hand, but when assured by a surgeon that he had not long to live, and he was earnestly exhorted to unburthen his mind of guilty concealment before entering the presence of his Maker, the hitherto hardened sinner was subdued--the near approach of death, and the terrors of a future state, wrought powerfully on his conscience, and these increased as his physical energies decayed.

None can tell the agonised suspense of Mrs. Heartwell and the agitation of her son as that period seemed to be drawing nearer and nearer which, they expected, would disclose the fate of a husband and a father. Frank, though much hurt, would not quit his mother, and both occasionally visited the room of the dying man. Remorse at length prevailed, and willing to atone as far as practicable for his misdeeds, he requested that a magistrate might be sent for to take his deposition. Mr. Wendover, acting in that capacity, promptly attended, and to him he revealed acts of enormity and crime in which he and Brady had for years been engaged, particularly the circumstances connected with the victim of their diabolical practices--Lieutenant Heartwell.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 17: I believe it was the same room in which Fauntleroy was confined, previously to trial.]

THE FIRE-KING FLUE.

I.

_Who_ burnt the _House of Lords_? Who, sir, who? An answer broke Through fire and smoke, "_I_ burnt it down, And it wasn't in joke! With a horrible flare-up I caused it to glare up, I _done_ it 'quite brown' To astonish the town! Yes, _I_ burnt it down!" You, you! Who are you? "Why, I am the Fire-King Flue!"

II.

_Who_ burnt _St. Stephen's Chapel_? Ay, who, sir, who? In thunder the same, Through fume and flame, The answer came, "_I_ burnt the chapel, And panted to grapple With Abbey and _Hall_; 'Twere easy to do As roasting an apple, Or smashing a stall-- For I am the Fire-King Flue!"

III.

_Who_ fired the _Royal Exchange_? Yes, who, sir, who? The reply as before Came in ravage and roar-- "_I_ fired the 'Change With a bad kitchen range! Should I do it once more When 'tis rear'd up anew, You must not think it strange, Since I'm fire-proof too; Yes, I am the Fire-King Flue!"

IV.

_Who_ tried to fire the _Bank_? Ah! who, sir, who? "Why, _I_ tried the Bank, Though it wouldn't quite do; And the City may thank The fire-brigade With their hose and tank; Or the blaze _I_ made Would have fired that too-- Yes, I, the great Fire-King Flue!"

V.

Oho! is it so? Then we pretty well know, Who set fire to the _Tower_. We do, we do! In evil hour, King Flue, 'twas _you_! With your red-hot pipe For mischief ripe-- With your fiery breath Bringing ruin and death-- With your cast-iron face, You set fire to the place-- Oh! pest of our race, Grim, ghastly, Fire-King Flue!

VI.

_Who_ burnt _Woolwich Dockyard_, eh? Who, who, who? "_I_--King Flue! A bit of a flare, you'll say; Yes, thanks to the drum and gong, And the engines thundering along, And sappers and miners, All regular shiners, Marines and artillery, And convicts that flock'd As if freed from the pillory; Or between me and you The Dockyard had been dock'd, As sure as my name's King Flue!"

VII.

_Who'll_ set the Thames on fire? "_I_ will," says Flue; "'Tis the thing I should like to do! Only give me the Tunnel To use for a funnel Of thrice-heated air, And you'll see such a flare! Or the Monument--that would do; In fact I should much prefer it; 'Twould make such a capital _flue_; Or when the tide turning Found out it was burning, 'Twould do for a poker to stir it."

VIII.

To save our notes and gold, And our trophies now too few; To save our buildings old And to save our buildings new; Tell us, Braidwood, what shall we do? Spirits Aquatic, help us through, For we're in the clutch of fierce King Flue! This prayer at least put up, Good people, before you sup: "God bless the Queen, and her loving Prince, And the Royal Infants _two_; And castle and palace Preserve from the malice Of this terrible Fire-King Flue!"

* * * * *

P.S.--May we ask who threw That shell in the _Horse Guards_, With one in the barrack-yards To blow up the _Gallery_ too? "Ha ha! Ho ho!" roars Flue, "With that I had nothing to do; So mind number one, For foul deeds may be done, Without coming through a foul flue!"

[Formerly, when a public building was scorched or burnt, the accident was accounted for by saying, "Oh! the _plumbers_ have been at work"--or "It was the carpenter's glue-pot." "The flue" in these days supersedes every explanation; it is the great mystery that solves all other mysteries.]

A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF MR. JOHN LEAKEY.

BY JOHN COPUS.

Mr. John Leakey inherited an income of five hundred a-year, and a very neat cottage, situated on the high road about three miles from C----, in one of the finest parts of the county of Essex. Of his parentage little need be said. His father was a clergyman, his maternal parent a cook in his grandfather's establishment whom his progenitor rashly married. This fact was a constant source of misery to the sensitive John, and will fully account for the decided antipathy, manifested by him on all occasions, to that useful class of domestics in general, and especially to that particular individual who happened for the time to superintend the culinary department of Hill Cottage. Indeed his language regarding cooks was occasionally quite shocking. His maiden sister Jemima, a highly nervous female of spare and meagre proportions, frequently went into small fits caused by John's outrageous and unbecoming language or conduct, when the subject of cooks was by any chance introduced.

"If I had my way," worthy John would say with stern voice and solemn countenance, "I'd let no woman be a cook who was not fifty at least; had it not been for Jane Grubbings I might hold up my head as a gentleman. They are all of them a set of vicious, impudent, and designing hussies. I attribute half the miseries of human life to cooks."

"No doubt, John--like enough!" replies the ever calm and peaceful Jemima, anxious to agree with her brother in all things; "I've always said that nothing causes greater misery than indigestion, and badly-cooked things, you know, cause _it_; don't they, John?"

"Jemima, you're a jackass, so hold your tongue!" was the tender answer given to poor Jemima's remarks, on this and on every occasion.

It may be necessary to give the reader some idea of Mr. Leakey. He was a large tall man, of an unwieldy form and ogre-like gait. His countenance was broad and singularly flat; his eyes large and heavy; and as to his nose, I am quite at a loss in what category to class that nasal organ of his. At the top it was all very well, but in its descent it was like the stone gathering moss--_a vires acquirit eundo_ kind of affair; for by the time it reached its termination it was fearfully broad. It was a family nose not maternally but paternally obtained, and that was one comfort. He had it in full vigour at school, and Jemima told a story about it. "Poor John," she would say to a gossip, "certainly has a funny nose. When he was at school, a procacious boy (Jemima occasionally miscalled words) took it into his head, d'ye know, that John had pushed it on purpose into his face, and every morning regularly when he got up, he used to pull it as hard as he could to ascertain, as he said, whether that sneaking nose of Leakey's _would_ come out." A poor Irishman too who had applied for relief at Hill Cottage, and been repulsed, spoke of Leakey as a "quare gentleman anyhow! wid a face for all the world as if a crowner's quest had been on it, and the crowner being a great man, had sat on his face entirely, and the rist of them on his body, and brought in a vardict of '_Found Soft_.'"

Enough, however, has been said of John's personal appearance; I only add that he wore bluchers, with trousers tightly strapped over them, cherished flannel waistcoats and comforters, was an intolerable politician because he never read anything but the ----, which was his oracle; and on the whole was a little close-fisted.

Years had flown quietly over Hill Cottage, from which, farther than occasionally to C----, neither John nor his sister Jemima had ever gone; nor indeed did they wish to go. Great, consequently, was the amazement and consternation which prevailed in their quiet little breakfast parlour, when there came from Mr. Jiggins, John's agent in town, a letter announcing said John's accession to some property, and the necessity of his appearance in the great metropolis for a few hours at the least.

"Three hundred a-year, John!" exclaimed his sister; "indeed you are a very fortunate man."

"Ay, ay! no doubt, Jemima; but what in the name of goodness gracious am I to do in London? I've not been there for thirty-five years."

"Well, love!" soothingly answered Jemima; "you can go up at seven by the Star, you know, and return again the same night. So you'd better write and tell Mr. Jiggins when you mean to go, and he can arrange matters accordingly." And John did write forthwith, appointing the hour of twelve on the following Tuesday, to meet the necessary parties at Jiggins' offices, in Tokenhouse Yard.

On Tuesday morning the whole household was in motion as early as four, the coach leaving at seven. There was such a wrapping of shawls, airing of musty camlet cloaks, and putting up of sandwiches and ginger lozenges, as never was seen before. Nay, Jemima insisted on his carrying a basket with him in which she told him had been placed the _Rousseaux_ left at yesterday's dinner.

The arrival of the Star at Hill Cottage put an end to all these preparations, and with fear and trembling Mr. Leakey was consigned to the inside of the coach. Jemima, elevated on her pattens, and bearing a lantern, came down to the end of the little garden for the purpose of recommending her brother to the especial care of the coachman Burrell, adding by way of further inducement on his part to attend to her request, a small fib, to the effect that "indeed he had not been at all well lately."

Nimrod has so eloquently described the utter amazement of a gentleman of the old school when travelling by a modern ten-mile-an-hour coach, as to render it quite unnecessary for me to attempt any description of worthy John's surprise at the rapid progress made by the Star towards the metropolis; how he gazed in silent wonder at the splendid teams of cattle which at every stage stood ready in their glittering harness to carry him on to town; and finally, how he marvelled when in the space of four hours he was safely landed in Aldgate, having travelled thirty-eight miles in that short time: on all this it is unnecessary for me to dilate. His troubles now seemed to crowd upon him.

"Vant a cab, sir?" eagerly demands an impudent-looking fellow, rushing up, whip in hand, to where the unhappy Leakey stood utterly confounded by the bustle which surrounded him. "Gen'lm'n called me, Bill," exclaims a second in a chiding voice; "I see him a noddin' his head as he come along!" "Don't you go vith them, sir!" angrily breaks in a third; "I've got a reg'lar comfortable old jarvey, sir, cut down o' purpose for you, 'cos I know'd you vos a coming up to-day--and sich a hoss--only cab fares, sir--this vay!" And he was beginning to drag off the unresisting Leakey, when, "Come, just move orf!" exclaims the burley voice of Burrell; "I'll put you into a coach, sir, and remember I leaves this here place at hafe past three, punctooal!" So John was placed in a coach.

"Vhere's shall I drive, sir?" demands the coachman. "Oh! ah!" exclaims our hero, drawing forth a card from which he reads--"a basket,--an umbrella,--a camlet cloak,--two shawls,--a great-coat,--a comforter,--a pair of galoshes,--all right--and self?--yes, then drive to Mr. Jiggins' offices in Tokenhouse Yard, Lothbury." "Wery good, sir." And off they went.

Arrived at Mr. Jiggins's office, he found that worthy engaged, and the other parties not arrived. "Give Mr. Leakey a chair, Jemes," said Mr. Jiggins, "and here's this morning's paper, sir; splendid leader, Mr. Leakey; powerful writing. Stir the fire, Jemes, and put some more coals on--that'll do."

So Leakey was placed on a chair before the fire to amuse himself with a perusal of a paper of whose existence he was only conscious by the fearful denunciations contained occasionally in the ---- against it. There sat Leakey, still enveloped in his panoply of cloth and camlet, shawl and galoshes, eyeing "the leader" which had been the subject of Jiggins's eulogium. He read on. Could his eyes have ceased to possess discriminating power? or was there living the caitiff wretch so utterly reprobate as to call his loved ---- by such names? It was too true. The more he read, the more convinced was he of the utter depravity of the human heart, and especially of the horrible wickedness of the man who could coolly declare that long article in the ----, over which he, John Leakey, had only yesterday gloated, to be "_twaddle_." His anger was excessive; another moment and he would have cast "that pestilential rag," as he ever afterwards denominated the vituperating journal, into the fire, had not Jiggins at that moment entered, and with him the men whose presence was required for the settlement of John Leakey's affairs.

Scarcely checking his excited feelings, John suffered himself to be led to business. This being, after a time, satisfactorily finished, an adjournment took place to a neighbouring hostel; John, for once in his life, on the strength of three hundred a-year added to his former property, being generous enough to volunteer tiffin. The beefsteaks were done to a turn, the stout magnificent, the sherry first-rate. Jiggins had no particular business to call him home, so, with the two gentlemen beforenamed, thoroughly enjoyed himself at Leakey's expense, making fun occasionally of poor John, who, luckily, at all times rather obtuse, was becoming more and more muddled and confused every moment, so as not to dream, when his friends burst out into a loud laugh, that he was the subject of it. At half-past three, Jiggins accompanied our friend to Aldgate, saw him safely deposited once more in the Star, and as it was now raining heavily, and he had no further inducement to remain, wished him good-bye, and returned to Tokenhouse Yard.

The coach was full inside, and John had just satisfactorily arranged his camlet, &c., when Burrell came to the door, put his head gently in at the window, as he stood on the steps, and said, "Have you any objection, gen'lm'n, to let a young ooman ride inside? it's raining fearful, and she'll get her death, I know she will, outside."

"No, no!" gruffly responded the other three. It would have been well had John been equally opposed to five inside. As it was, however, "tiffin" had enlarged his heart, and he said, "Oh, yes, Burrell, I'll make room for her; you know, gentlemen, it would be a sad thing if she got her death through our unkindness."

The persons addressed made no reply, nor had Leakey much time to consider the prudence of his act, before the door was opened, and Burrell handed a good-looking young woman into the coach, who seeing no disposition on the part of the other three to make room for her, very quietly sat down on Mr. J. Leakey's knees, being no mean weight. This was, however, scarcely a voluntary act, for the coach moved on at the moment and forced her to assume that position. Thus for twelve miles did he sit, at times wincing rather under his somewhat uncomfortable position, and not particularly pleased with the undisguised amusement of the others.

Eventually he was liberated, for the three hard-hearted individuals left the coach at the end of twelve miles, and Leakey and the interesting female were left together. John felt that some little stimulus to his exhausted spirits might be desirable, so called for a glass of brandy-and-water; of which he drank as much as he wished for, and offered the rest to his fair _vis-à-vis_, who really seemed a very pleasing kind of person. She thanked him, and saying, "Here's to your very good health, sir," smirked, and drank it off. When the coach went on again, Leakey felt wonderfully invigorated, and entered into conversation with the lady, who proved highly communicative as to the respectability of her mother, and the moral excellence of all her relations. It was a very critical moment for an old bachelor, muddled as poor John most undoubtedly was. He called to mind Jemima's spare figure and not very beautiful face, and more than once thought how much pleasanter it would be to have at the head of his table so comely and intelligent a person as seemed the interesting individual now before him.

"Infatuated a second time" (as Julia Mannering says to Bertram on his arrival from Portanferry at Woodburne, but _why_ I never could discover)--"Infatuated a second time" was our hero, for a second glass of brandy-and-water was had at the next stage, and duly consumed between the lady and himself. Leakey was now thoroughly fuddled, and the lady more agreeable than ever. In short--for the afflicting, the humiliating truth will force its way--before the coach stopped to change for the last time, the frantic John Leakey had actually proposed to his unknown enslaver--nay, worse--he was her accepted!

It was not until this climax of his folly had put a temporary stop to conversation that he had time to think at all. Muddled as he was, he began to fear he had been too hasty. The fair lady was silent, as labouring under powerful emotions; and the coach having changed at C----, was not more than a mile from Hill Cottage, when she said, mildly--

"It's a very fortnit circumstance, sir, as I met with you; becos, I'm a going to a old genlm'n as lives near here--as----"

"Eh?" groaned John, "as--what, eh?"

"Oh, I was a going as _cook_; on'y, in course, I shan't stay with him long."

"As cook! my gracious me!" exclaimed, or rather screeched, the miserable man; "what's the gentleman's name?--tell me quick!"

"Mr. Leakey, sir!"

When Burrell opened the coach-door as soon as Hill Cottage was gained, he found the unhappy John Leakey perfectly frantic. "Coachman, Burrell, take her away! she's a cook! she's a vicious, designing, impudent thing! she's made me propose to her--me--me--the son of a cook--Oh! o-oh! o-o-oh!"

Draw we a veil over the proceedings which followed. Mr. Leakey, what with brandy and agony of mind, was put to bed perfectly raving. The cook was taken in for the night, and on being attacked by Jemima was scarcely restrained from flying at that exemplary spinster, who called her all the names she had ever heard her brother apply to women of her class. Next morning cook was dismissed, and shortly threatened an action, which Leakey was glad to compromise by the payment of one hundred pounds; making at the same time a solemn vow that he never would travel inside a coach again, or if he did, that he never would take compassion on a woman so far as to let her ride inside, though it should rain cats, dogs, and hedgehogs!

OMNIBUS CHAT.

It is essential to the full effect of a parody, whatever that may be, that the original--or, in other words, the thing parodied--should be familiar to the reader. Now, several parodies which we have this month received, undoubtedly possess that advantage. We have had three or four versions of "The Sweet Little Cherub that sits up aloft," dictated by the happy event that has given a young Prince to Wales, and a glad Promise to all England; we have received half-a-dozen parodies on "Gray's Elegy," suggested by the conflagration at the Tower; and we have also been favoured with a like number of variations of the "Beggar's Petition," commemorative of the detection of the fasting philosopher, Bernard Cavanagh, in the act of purchasing a "saveloy." But although the originals are all well known, we are tempted to pass these parodies by, in favour of one upon a poem which should be well known too. We allude to Alfred Tennyson's "Mariana at the Moated Grange." Whoso knoweth it not, will wisely let what follows attract his notice to a singularly touching production; and whoso remembereth it, will read with better relish, and no irreverence to the Beautiful thus companioned by the Burlesque, our accomplished correspondent's ingenious story of

THE CLERK.

A PARODY.

With black coal-dust the walls and floor Were thickly coated one and all; On rusty hinges swung the door That open'd to the gloomy wall; The broken chairs looked dull and dark, Undusted was the mantel-piece, And deeply speck'd with spots of grease Within, the chamber of the clerk. He only said, "I'm very weary With living in this ditch;" He said, "I am confounded dreary, I would that I were rich."

His bills came with the bells at even; His bills came ere their sound had died; He could not think why bills were given, Except to torture clerks--and sigh'd. And when the flickering rushlight's flame In darkness deep could scarce be seen, He mutter'd forth his bottled spleen, Unheard by aught of mortal frame. He said, "My life is very dreary With living in this ditch;" He said, "I am tarnation weary, I would that I were rich."

Upon the middle of the bed, Sleeping, he dream'd of hoarded gold; Sovereigns were jingling in his head, And in his ken was wealth untold. But when he woke, no hope of change, In silver or in circumstance, Before his sorrowing eyes did dance; He thought that it was very strange-- But only said, "My life is dreary, I'll go to sleep," he said; He said "I am infernal weary, I would that bill were paid."

About six fathoms from the wall, A blackened chimney (much askew) Smoked in his face--and round and small The chimney-pots destroy his view, Hard by--a popular highway, With coal-dust turned to pitchy dark, Where many a little dog doth bark, Some black, some mottled, many grey. He only said, "My life is dreary With living in this ditch;" He said, "I am fatigued and weary, I would that I were rich."

E. P. W.

The intense melancholy of the solitary clerk, sighing in his ditch, brought up our scientific reporter, Charles Hookey Walker, with some lucid and valuable notes of an appropriate discourse lately delivered; we append them here, for the benefit of all the doleful clerks throughout her Majesty's dominions.

THE BRIGHTISH ASSOCIATION.--_Section B.--Chemistry and Mineralogy._

_President_--The Rev. Hugh Wells. _Vice-Presidents_--Dr. Durham & Prof. Hammer.

"ON THE FORMATION AND ANALYSIS OF A DIRECT SIGH." By Mr. F. Silly.

The author stated that the _sigh-direct_ was that to which he had paid the greatest attention. The "_sigh-direct_," he explained, was entirely different from the "_sigh-inverse_," the one being the production of the heart, and the other of the brain; the first being the thing itself, the second merely the symbol of the thing. He found the sigh-direct to consist generally of floating ideas, in the forms of "O dear!" "Ah me!" and "Alas!" held in solution by about their own bulk of a vague composition, formed of wishes and a cloud-vapour (of that class which is used as a site for erecting castles in the air upon), but which were so mixed and intercorporated, as to be inseparable to the nicest analysation. From the analysis, he had determined that the prime motive of a sigh is a longing for more; and that the functions thus acted upon expand the animal economy to its greatest extent, for the purpose of gratifying the longing for getting as much as it can of something, which, in this case, is only air. And this led him to a concluding remark on the extreme uselessness and futility of sighing, perceiving, as he did, that it only gave extra work to the muscles, for no tangible consideration.

Mr. W. R. FIXE read a memoir on the probability of there being a constant chemical action, producing results yet unknown, in the interior of the earth, and that a current of electric fluid was constantly circulating through mineral veins; and that this circulation through the veins of living rocks was of as much importance in the formation of new productions, as the circulation of the blood in the veins of living men.

* * * * *

Our esteemed reporter proceeded to describe the proceedings of another Section.

_Section D.--Zoology and Botany._

_President_--Sir Ely Phante. _Vice-Presidents_--Proffs. Munky and Nape.

"A NEW METHOD OF SUPPLYING AGRICULTURAL SURFACES." By S. Sappy.

The author had often remarked the tendency of thatched roofs to grow corn; and it struck him that these, at present unemployed surfaces, should be made use of to conduce to the support of the inmates of houses. By growing corn in this manner a family might render itself partially independent of the farmer, grow its own wheat, and thus, at once, be elevated in the scale of existence! He would call this practice stegoculture. He had introduced it in some of his tenants' cottages, and could assure the Association that nothing could have answered better than that experiment.

Mr. SOFT observed it was one of those beautifully simple discoveries of application, as he would phrase it, which, like Columbus's egg, only required to be set up in the right manner, to stand a monument of ingenuity and genius to all future ages!

Mr. PLUNKEY (from the Statistical section) said, that this discovery had relieved his mind of a heavy weight; he had long hoped for some light to dissipate the gloom with which he viewed the increase of population, while the land did not increase, but, on the contrary, diminished; for, as generations sprung up, houses rose also; thus, as more crop-ground was needed, more ground was needed for buildings. But with the aid of stegoculture, he had now no reason to apprehend a scarcity of growing-room, but, on the contrary, it was evident to any geometrist, that the two sides of a roof were of greater area than the ground they cover, thus giving an increase instead of a diminution of surface. With the impressions he had of the usefulness of this mode of culture, he looked forward to the time when agriculture would vanish before the spread of human habitations, and the science of stegoculture become of universal application.

The PRESIDENT read a letter from Professor de Lenz, and the Schah Pyez, (Professor of Twigology in the University of Cairo), giving an animated description of their discovery of the skeleton of a male flea in the folds of a mummy cloth.

The secretary then read the report of the committee which was appointed last year to inquire into the reason, "why crocodiles laid eggs." The report stated, that, the Association having furnished them with means (£500) to prosecute this inquiry, so important to science; they found it absolutely necessary to take a long and arduous journey into Egypt, to investigate the facts upon the spot. They had run great risks in pursuing their researches: having killed a crocodile for the purpose of dissection (which act had filled the Arabs with horror, as they consider the crocodile holy), they had narrowly escaped becoming martyrs in the cause of science. They had examined many hieroglyphics, and had discovered upon some of the most ancient, figures of a crocodile with wings,--this proved them to have been at one and the same time inhabitants of the water, the earth, and the air, and therefore, from their assimilation to the functions of birds, they laid eggs. This the committee had concluded was the reason of the phenomenon. They also stated, that, from the various facts which had come under their notice during this inquiry, they had no doubt that dragons at one time existed,--and proposed that a grant should be made for the purpose of searching for the skeleton of the famous Dragon of Wantley.

Mr. SMITH (of London) read a paper showing that the popular story of "Jack and the Bean-stalk" was founded upon the old tradition of the Lotus-eaters, and that the idea of the tale had been taken from the alleged power the Lotus-fruit had in producing an elevation-above-the-clouds sort of feeling in the eater,--which was only transferred into reality in the case of Jack: the injunction of Pythagoras to his disciples to abstain from _beans_, being supposed to refer to the Lotus, may have given the idea of a bean-stalk to the novelist.

Dr. DAUB stated, that by watering the ground round the roots of flowers with different chemical solutions, suited to the changes in colour wished for, he had been able to alter the tints of the petals to various colours, thus producing an agreeable and novel effect.

PLAYING ON THE PIANO.

The above communication having been read, a speculative listener suggested as a subject for one of the learned professors, the sympathetic connection which evidently exists between Music and Fire. He cited, as an old example of this, the fiddling of Nero during the burning of Rome; and related, as a recent proof of the secret affinity, the following story: "It is known," he said, "that during the fire at the Tower the soldiers in the fortress, as well as others, were occupied in removing the furniture of many of the inhabitants;" and free access was of course afforded them for that purpose. In one instance, a lady who had rushed up to the top of the house to secure some valuables, was, on descending after a short absence to the drawing-room, astonished to see two enormous 'British Grenadiers' _attempting_ to play the _Piano_; upon being discovered, they struck up the 'Grenadiers' March' to 'double-quick time,' carrying off the 'upright grand' in a very orderly and soldier-like manner.

By the way, as we have here recurred to the subject with which we opened this Number, the fire at the Tower, we may mention that a relic of the wheel of the Victory is yet in existence; for a friend of ours assures us that while the fire was raging in the upper floors of the Armoury he saw a person _saw_ off one of the handles of the said wheel; and if he have not yet given it into the hands of the proper parties, we would recommend him to do so at once, or it may be made a _handle_ against him.

It was upon another occasion that a lady and gentleman, who had just seen their opposite neighbour's house burnt down, were discussing the spectacle with great seriousness. "How I grieved," said the lady, "to see poor Mrs. Tims's beautiful damask curtains on fire." "Ah," returned her husband, who had a musical taste, "I didn't so much mind the curtains; but what grieved me most was to see the fireman _playing_ upon that capital grand piano of theirs."

The subject next started was equally seasonable--though not seductive. The poet is evidently in the situation of one of her Majesty's subjects that we know of--who is the parent of more of her Majesty's subjects than we do know of--who, in fact, declares that his house is so "full of children" he cannot _shut the street-door for them_.

NOVEMBER WEATHER.

Autumn leaves are falling round us Now, in all the late green gardens! Summer flowers would quite astound us-- --Rare are they as "Queen Ann's fardens!"

Once green lanes are now mere sloshes; Garden walks are quite unpleasant; Cloaks, umbrellas, and goloshes, Now are aught but evanescent!

All the shrubberies are dripping-- Plots of grass are soft and spungy-- Roads seem only made for slipping-- And we fall like--Missolunghi!

Now the streets are clear of rabble-- Shopkeepers find no employment-- Ducks and geese keep gabble, gabble-- Mocking us with their enjoyment!

Now we cry, "When _will_ it leave off?"-- "What a very nasty day 'tis!"-- "There!--'tis clearing, I believe, off!"-- "No--how tiresome!--that's the way 'tis!"

"Sarah," says mama, "my dear love, Don't waste time in looking out there, Come, and learn your lesson here, love-- --Jacky, mind what you're about there!"

"John dear, MIND! you'll break that window, Come away, John, there's a darling!-- Jane, love, put away that pin, do!-- Tom, _do_ keep that dog from snarling!"--

"There! you've broke it, John!" "O please, ma, --Couldn't help it!"--(here a blubber) (Enter Pa.) "Why how you tease ma!-- Peace, you little squalling lubber!"

"Pray, my dear, don't let the children Break the panes and roar like this now-- Lauk, the noise is quite bewild'ring!" "Pa, give little Jane a kiss now."

Sweet to be "shut in" and quiet, Pleasant souls all snug together! But when "brats" are there to riot, Heaven defend us from wet weather!--

C. H. W.

MRS. TODDLES.

Even the most agreeable offices and employments of life are sometimes accompanied by melancholy misadventures; and the pleasure which we enjoy from month to month in the good-humoured reader's company, is now subject to a very serious drawback; for a painful duty is imperatively imposed upon us. We have to express our deep and poignant regret at being the medium, innocently and unconsciously, of wounding the susceptible feelings of a lady. We have hurt the feelings of Mrs. Toddles, by publishing some particulars of her life. It is true, we did not consider them to be in the slightest degree calculated to produce such an effect, nor did we vouch for their accuracy: no matter; her feelings are hurt, her sensibilities are shocked; and that deeply-injured lady is entitled to, and is hereby offered, the expression of our most sincere and heartfelt regret.

Thus far in deference and delicacy to Mrs. Toddles. We must now proceed to state that we have received a letter from Col. Walker, or Talker, as he appears to sign himself, in which he remonstrates with us for publishing some professed particulars of the life of Mrs. Toddles, demands satisfaction and atonement on her part, and declares that even while his letter was being written, that injured lady was in violent hysterics. We conclude from the tone of the gallant Colonel's complaints, that the public mention of Mrs. T.'s "age" has given offence; and our correspondent is pronounced to be totally misinformed on that as on other points. We grant this to be possible; we did not vouch for the accuracy of Mr. Sly's statement, and are of opinion that no gentleman can know a lady's age so well as she knows it herself. Our maxim is, that every lady has a right to be, at all periods of her life, exactly what age she pleases--thirty odd at sixty-two if she likes. We also admit that every lady has a right to go into hysterics as often as she sees occasion; but because Mrs. T. chooses to exercise these sacred privileges of her sex, we do not recognise Col. Talker's right to threaten us with "law," or to attempt to frighten us with notices of "action." We are not to be intimidated there; we have too many lawyers among our acquaintances, and very pleasant fellows they are too.

But, after all, we cannot conceive that there is any very great harm done; for we are perfectly well aware, whatever Col. Talker may say, that Mrs. T.'s "fit" was not of a nature to show that her sensibilities had been _very_ seriously shocked, and we shall at once let the Colonel into our secret. We beg to tell him candidly that _we know all about it_. The fact is, that a correspondent of ours happens to reside exactly opposite Mrs. T.'s first floor, and without wishing to spy into other people's apartments, or affairs, could not help being a spectator of the scene he thus describes.

He says that Col. T., entering Mrs. T.'s apartment on the first floor aforesaid, found that lady in a state of great excitement, the "Omnibus," No. 7, in her hand. After pointing in a very agitated manner to the last page, she drew forth her pocket handkerchief. The gallant Colonel paced the room evidently moved; he then appeared to be attempting to soothe her, but in vain--she shook her bonnet violently, and went off in a fit. The Colonel hereupon, instead of rushing to the chimney-piece for the smelling-bottle, seized a pint decanter, and hastily quitted the house. Immediately after, the bit of a girl was seen attempting to force a glass of cold water upon her mistress, which only seemed to make her worse; for she kicked the girl's shins with those dear little bits of black legs of hers most violently, something in the manner of Mr. Punch after he has been thrown from his horse. The gallant Colonel, after a short absence, knocked at the street door, and the moment the girl left the room to admit him, up jumped Mrs. Toddles--fact!--ran to the looking-glass over the fire-place, put her bonnet to rights, completing the adjustment with the usual side glances right and left, and then, to the utter astonishment of our informant, she resumed her seat--_and her fit_!--Oh, Mrs. T.!

We suppress the remainder of our informant's description, merely remarking, that the pint decanter, when Colonel T. drew it from his pocket, contained, to all appearance, some strong restorative, the virtue and quality whereof the Colonel at once tested, by tossing off a bumper in the most gallant manner. We have since ascertained that it was _peppermint_.

Whether our statement will be satisfactory to Colonel Walker we neither know nor care; but with respect to Mrs. Toddles we have expressed our contrition, and promise never to mention her age again. Any kindness we can render her will be at all times hers, and as a slight token of our sincerity, we respectfully beg that lady's acceptance of a pound of mixed tea, (eight-shilling green, and six-shilling black, very good,) which is left at our publisher's, if she will send her girl for it.

JACK-O'LANTERN.

Every man has his Jack-o'lantern;--in dark night, in broad noon day--in the lonely wild, or in the populous city--each has his Jack-o'lantern.

To this man Jack comes in the likeness of a bottle of old port, seducing him from sobriety, and leaving him in a quagmire; to that man, he appears in the form of a splendid phaeton and a pair of greys, driving him into bankruptcy, and dropping him into the open jaws of ruin. To one he presents himself in the guise of a cigar, keeping him in a constant cloud; to another he appears in no shape but that of an old black-letter volume, over which he continues to pore long after his wits are gone. Here you see Jack blazing in scarlet, and luring his dazzled follower on by military trappings alone to the pursuit of glory; and there Jack jumps about in the brilliant motley of harlequin, tempting a grave and leaden-heeled victim to dance away his nights and days. Jack-o'lantern is to some people, a mouldy hoarded guinea--and these he leads into the miser's slough of despond; with others, when he pays them a visit, he rolls himself up into the form of a dice-box--and then he makes beggars of them.

Poetry is one man's Jack-o'lantern, and a spinning-jenny is another's. Fossil bones, buried fathoms deep in the earth, act Jack's part, and lure away one class to explore and expound; Cuyps and Claudes, in the same way, play the same part with a second class, and tempt them to collect, at the sacrifice of every other interest, or pursuit in life. Jack will now take the likeness of a French cook, and draw a patriot from his beloved country to enjoy a foreign life, cheap; and now he will assume the appearance of a glass of water, persuading the teetotaller, who "drank like a fish" in his young days, to go further astray, and drink a great deal more like a fish in his old days.

Jack-o'lantern has some attractive shape for every age and condition. In childhood, he lures us, by overhanging clusters of cherries and currants, into regions consecrated to steel-traps and spring-guns; in after-age, he takes us irresistibly into the still more dangerous region of love and romance, winning us by his best lights--the bright eyes of woman; and to the very end of our days he finds some passion or prejudice wherewith to woo us successfully--some straw wherewith to tickle us, how wise-soever, and unwilling we may be.

The very seasons of the year--each has its Jack-o'lantern. The bright glancing sunshine of a spring morning, when it tempts us into a sharp east-wind under promise of sultriness;--the rich luxuriousness of summer, when it fills us with aches and cramps, after revelling in romps among the grass. Christmas--yes, Christmas itself has its Jack-o'lantern. We do not mean the great blazing fire, which has been properly called the heart and soul of it; no, Jack plays his part amidst the roysters in the jovial time, by urging extra plum-pudding, which involves extra brandy with it; by suggesting mince-pies, and other irresistibles, that involve a fit of indigestion; by conjuring up blind-man's-buff, to lead one into the peril of rent skirts, and bruised heads; or by appearing in the form of a pack of cards, to the loss perhaps of one's money or one's temper * * *

Moralize we no longer upon Jack-o'lantern; he has led us to Christmas, and let him leave us there in pleasant company.

CHRISTMAS.

BY SAM. SLY.

Now is the time For all things prime! Cramm'd Turkeys, dropsied Lambs, and oily Geese, Forced Chickens, bloated Pigs, and tons of grease; Sir-loins of suet--legs, and wings, of fat, And boys from school, to say they "can't touch that;" Mountains of Mutton, tubs of tails and blubber, Larks by the yard, like onions on a string, And giblets by the pailful is a thing Enough to turn the stomach of a grubber, Unless he tweak his nose and shut his eyes. And then again there's piles of Lemon-peel, Hillocks of nutmegs, currants, plums, and figs; And children gazing "merry as the grigs," Longing (for that which joy cannot conceal) That some of these may sweeten their "minced pies."

Now, men get civil--lads more mild appear, Than they were wont to do throughout the year; The hat is doff'd--civilities come fast That after Christmas who shall say will last? Now, pens are busy writing out "old scores," And birds get pert and hop about our doors, Fighting their comrades for the largest crumbs. See that old lady shivering as she goes, Furr'd to the eyes, and muffled to the nose, And he who thumps his sides to warm his thumbs. Mark the lone berry on the Mountain Ash Like a child's coral on a leafless twig-- Watch the Tom-tit That's shaking it: He's getting desperate--bolting it slap dash-- A decent mouthful for a throat not big. Now here's a pretty lesson for all sinners, Hunger's the sauce to sweeten Christmas dinners. The fire burns blue--the nearest part gets roasted-- The "off-side" suffers in the frigid zone; Just like a slice of bread that's been half toasted-- One spot is brown'd--the other cold as stone. The winds are hoarse, the sun gets shy and cool, That is, he's not so warm with his embraces-- And old Jack Frost instead begins to rule, So with his brush puts rouge on ladies' faces; A tint more lovely than the finest powder, And speaking to the eye and heart much louder. Now friends get close--and cousins meet their cousins, Babbies their daddies--aunts their pretty nieces; The jokes go round, and lies perhaps by dozens, And Jacky pulls his master all to pieces. Now prayers and cards are all the go-- How's that you ask? Well, I don't know; I only know--the fact is so!

A SNAP-DRAGON:

CONSISTING OF A SONG, A SONNET, AND A SERENADE.

A "JOLLY" SONG--BY CHARLES HOOKEY WALKER, ESQ.

Leave, O! leave, that set of fellows, Who are always sensible; They give one the blues and yellows-- 'Tis most reprehensible! Stretch your mouths from ear to ear, Never mind your beauty: Wisdom never holds it dear-- Laugh, and do your duty!

Laughing does a person good, Muscles exercising; Helping to digest the food-- So 'tis not surprising That by laughing all grow fat, Chasing off the yellows, The blue devils, and all that; Laugh, then, jolly fellows!

Push the bottle round the board, Tell the tale so merry, Sing the songs that are _encored_. Let's be happy--very! Push the bottle round about, Let us hear your singing, Give it voice, and troll it out. Set the glasses ringing!

"Here's a health to her I love! Hip! hip! hip! hurra, sirs!" "D'ye think, sir, that the gods above Shave themselves with razors?" "No, sir, to be sure they don't, But with shells of oysters!" "Wine with me, sir?" "No, I won't!" Thus go on the roysters.

Laughing, quaffing, glee and fun! That's the time of day, sir; Laugh that life was e'er begun, Laugh your life away, sir! Never wish you ne'er were born, Don't sit sadly sighing; Morn and eve, from eve to morn, Laugh, for time is flying!

SONNET TO "SOME ONE."

And thou wert there! and I was not with thee! Thy bright eyes shone on many, but their ray Was just as if you had been Alice Gray, And hadn't braided up your hair for me. This method of expressing it, you see, Implies the same as if I were to say (As _vide_ song) your eyes were turned away, And my heart's breaking!--as it ought to be-- (And so it is of course). This world is drear! Most drear--without thee, SOME ONE! at my side! Death! peace! I'll go and drown myself, that's clear! In the affairs of men I'll find _my_ tide. Yes! life has now no music for my ear, Except that tune of which the old cow died!--C. H. W.

THE HOMOEOPATHIST'S SERENADE.

BY DR. BULGARDO.

The toiling sun has sped To his ever-distant goal; And the moon hangs overhead Like a silver parasol. Long has she not unfurled Her banner thus on high, But looked, for all the world, Like a muffin in the sky.

The tears saline, I weep, Have no effect I see; The screech-owl talks in her sleep, But thou say'st nought to me. Thy eyelashes, love, are soft, And long as a skein of silk; Thou'rt harmless, it strikes me oft, As a grain of sugar of milk.

WHAT DO YOU DO THAT FOR?

BY JOHN COPUS.

In this age of "why and because," wherein even Master Thomas is considered to be devoid of his proper share of intellects unless he demand a full and clear statement of the grounds on which papa considers it expedient that he should learn his letters--in this age of essays, treatises, and commissions, wherein a plethoric pig cannot quietly stuff itself to death without some Diabolus Gander investigating the probable causes which eventually led to that result--it has come into the head of one deeply and many times pondering, to call the attention of a discerning and inquiring public to various little customs and practices prevalent in the world; and this with a view of eliciting at some future time satisfactory explanations of their probable origin and rationale from abler pens and keener intellects than my own, rather than with the intention of supplying them myself.

* * * * *

Mr. Brown has seated himself in his cosey arm-chair by the fire, in his little parlour at Camberwell, having just bid adieu to the "bus" which daily conveys him to and from the City, and, with handkerchief spread over his broad countenance, is settling himself to sleep, surrounded by a wife and various olive branches; when--"Oh, my gracious evins!" exclaims his amiable spouse, a comely dame, of warm feelings, and peculiarity in expressing them, "here's Johnny been and cut hisself in such a manner you never see! Lawky-daisey me! Mr. Brown! Mr. Brown!! Johnny's a'most cut his finger orf!"

"Tsut, tsut, tsut, tsut!--deary me!--poor fellow!--tsut, tsut, tsut!" responds that individual, starting up.

Now, what on earth _do you do that for_, Brown? Come, roundly, your reason, sir? Do pray tell me _why_ you produced the series of peculiar sounds represented by "tsut, tsut," &c. You are a stout man, and a sober man,--why, in the name of all that's unaccountable, _did_ you utter them? But the fact is, you are not alone, Brown, in your inability to solve this difficult question. For I never yet encountered the man who _could_ satisfactorily explain to me how or why those sounds have come to be admitted into general society, as heralds or harbingers of a condoling and sympathising speech, or indicative, without further remark, of inward and heartfelt commiseration for suffering humanity in the breast of him who utters them. Philosophers, just explain this!

* * * * *

"Let us go and hear Miffler preach this morning," said a friend to me the other morning, in the country: "his congregation is composed entirely of the poorest, and, I should think, the most ignorant portion of our agricultural population. But they say that he manages to preach so plainly, that every one can understand and follow him."

So off we set, and a pleasant walk across the fields brought us to Elmsleigh church--one of those exceedingly picturesque old places, with a funny wooden steeple, or spire, if it can be called so, rising from the still more ancient square tower. We found Mr. Miffler in the reading-desk already, and, by his scarlet hood, knew him an Oxonian (we subsequently found he had been a first-class man). After reading the prayers exceedingly well, he ascended to the pulpit, and commenced his sermon. Now, supposing his congregation to have consisted of men of my friend's mental calibre, it was an exceedingly good and intelligible sermon; but to the majority of those present it was about as intelligible as High Dutch would have been, or Hebrew without the points. I could not help glancing at a countryman in his smockfrock and leggins, whose countenance forcibly recalled to my mind one of those grotesque satyrs occasionally seen carved on old chimney-pieces; and wondering as I gazed at him what train of thought the words which Miffler had just uttered--"_the noxious dogmas exhibited in certain patiestic commentators, subsequent to the Nicene council_"--had conjured up in his mind! Then again Miffler gravely informed his hearers that _ambition_ was a deadly sin, warning them against it. Ambition!--to a clodhopper whose only aspiration after greatness is to get Farmer Jeffreys to keep him on at work through the winter!

Miffler, _what do you do that for_? But you, again, do not stand alone. Are there not many, many Mifflers guilty of the same absurdity, and equally unable with your reverend self to give any satisfactory reason for so doing, except that their predecessors have done it before them? Oh, ye hebdomadal boards, caputs, and convocations, explain all this!

* * * * *

"Yes, I assure you, Johnson, you never saw or heard of such a perfect fool in all your life. He literally thinks I am going to support him in idleness, and he doing nothing."

"No!"

"Yes! And, would you believe it, he called on poor Thompson, and tried to persuade him that I had behaved so shabbily to him that he really shall be obliged to cut me!"

"No!"

"Yes! and he told Brown, I owed him ever so much money."

"No!"

Johnson! _what do you do that for?_ Why in the name of common sense do you say No! no! no! when you thoroughly believe all that poor Dickson has been telling you? This is a peculiar custom. Philosophers, all of you, attend to it. It needs explanation.

* * * * *

"Here's an invitation again from that odious Mrs. Peewitt!" says the fair but excitable Mrs. Framp, as she opens a scented envelope, and extracts therefrom an elegant note. "Yes! here it is:--

"'Mrs. John George Peewitt requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Framp's company to an evening party on Wednesday the --, at half-past eight.--Plover Lodge, Tuesday morning. An early answer will oblige.'"

"Now, my dear Framp," continues his lady wife, "I literally hate and detest that abominable Mrs. Peewitt!"

"Well, Laura, she is no favourite of mine, I promise you," retorts the male Framp: "and as to that Peewitt, he's a vulgar little brute. So you'd better answer it at once, Laura, declining it, you know--eh?"

In the course of the same afternoon Mrs. J. G. Peewitt is gratified by the reception of this--

"Mrs. Framp _feels exceedingly grieved_ that she and Mr. Framp are unable to accept Mrs. J. G. Peewitt's kind invitation for Wednesday,----inst.--Grumpion Parade, Tuesday afternoon."

Now Mrs. Framp, _what did you do that for_? Between you and me, and to speak in plain English--you are a story-teller, Mrs. Framp. A story-teller! And you, old gentleman--the man Framp I address--are equally guilty of the fib, as an accessory before the fact. Again, this is a prevalent custom. Philosophers, summon moralists to your aid, and descant on this subject.

* * * * *

"I am sure you sing, Mr. Frederick," says a pasty-faced individual of the 'female sect,' to a young gentleman in white satin waistcoat and red whiskers, who has been pottering about the piano for some time.

"No, indeed, Miss Gromm!" he replies. "I assure you that I scarcely sing at all."

"Oh! I am quite sure, now, you do sing. Pray do sing. Will you look over this music-book? there are a great many songs in it. I am sure you will find something that will suit you."

"Oh! upon my word, Miss Gromm, I scarcely ever sing."

Fred! you know you've brought all your music with you to-night, and have practised it carefully over with your pretty sister Bessy, purposely to sing at the Gromms'.

Thus adjured, Mr. Frederick begins to turn over the leaves of the music-book, his eyes resting occasionally on such songs as 'The Rover's Bride,' 'The British Oak,' 'Wanted a Governess,' and other songs which Fred abominates. At last he turns to a very pretty girl sitting near him, and says faintly, "Bessy! did you bring any of _your_ music?" His sister, who has been watching his proceedings, in mute surprise answers innocently enough, "Oh! yes, Fred, I brought _all your songs_, you know!" Fred looks blue; but by the time the neat case containing them has been presented to him by a servant, he has recovered himself. Now, reader, what song do you suppose this young gentleman, who scarce sings at all, will select? You are a judge of music, and you pronounce his selection admirable--for it falls on 'Adelaide,' a song of which _I_ (but this quite _entre nous_) would sooner be the composer than of any song that ever was sung: but you fear lest Fred would not do justice to it, as he sings so seldom. You are wrong. A finer tenor, better taste, and more correct ear, one rarely meets with in private than are possessed by Fred. Every one exclaims that it is a treat to hear him sing. And so it is.

Now, my excellent good Fred, _what the deuce did you do that for_? I mean, why did you lessen the pleasure which otherwise we should have all experienced, by giving us so unfavourable a view of your character at the outset--by fibbing, my friend--downright fibbing?--There are not a few Freddys, though of various degrees of excellence. This therefore is a practice which, as in the last case, calls for the investigation of moralists--aided by the Royal Academy of Music, perhaps.

This is an endless subject. I have, as it were, but just touched upon it. Let others, their bosoms expanding at the thought of conferring endless benefits on the human race by so doing, rush eagerly and at once on the grand task of following it up. Let them explore all societies. Let an emissary be despatched into the crowded saloons of my Lady Hippington. Let an accredited and competent reporter be sent to the dinner-table of Mr. Titmouse, as well as into the doubtful regions of lower life. And let their desire be, to afford as strong, as cogent, and as rational explanations of the varied customs and practices with which they may become acquainted, as my friend Tam Ridley gave when asked for his reasons for using a peculiar form of speech.

"Hoy, Jem!" said that individual, a jolly Yorkshire lad, as he pulled up his waggon opposite to a hostelrie in the North Riding,--"Hoy, Jem! what has't getten to sup te' 'morn?" "What has I getten to sup t' 'morn, Tam?" responded mine host, making his appearance in the doorway. "Ay, lad! what hast getten to sup, I say?" "Why a, I'se getten yal--dos't like yal, Tam?" "Ay! I does." "Why a then, wil't have a sup?" "Ay! I will." "Wil't have it _otted_, Tam?" "Ay! I will." "Why a, now, what maks thee say _Ay_ sae aften?" "Why a, then, _I'll mebbe say_ YES, _when t' days is langer and t' weather's warmer_!"

LINES BY A Y--G L--Y OF F--SH--N,

WHO "NEVER TOLD HER LOVE, BUT LET CONCEALMENT," ETC.

"She speaks, yet she says _n--th--g_!"--R--O AND J--T.

Go, bid the st--rs forget to shine, The o--n-tides to ebb and flow, Bid fl--rs forget to blush and pine, But bid not me to b--n--sh w--e!

Thou canst not guess my s--rr--w's source, My pass--n's spring thou canst not see; Thou knowest not its depth and force,-- Thou dreamest not 'tis l--ve for th--!

Fiercer than fires in Æ--a's breast My s--cr--t burns in this lone h--t; D--y brings no light, sl--p yields no rest, And h--vn no air, but where th-- art.

I listen to the w--nds at night, They speak of th-- in whispers fine; In D--n's or Au--ra's light, I see no beauty, none but th--!

All l--ve save mine's an idle tale Of Hy--n's torch and C--d's bow; I envy Cl--p--ra's wail, Or S--pho leaping, wild, below.

For V--ry's _pâté_ holds for me-- Or G--nt--r's soup--no poison rare; And leaping from a b--lc--y, Were quite absurd--in Belg--ve Square.

My s--st--r raves of H--w--ll, Ja--s, And thinks with dr--ss to ease my thrall; She deems not of d--vour--g flames Beneath one's f--fty-g--nea sh--wl!

M--ma to M--rt--r and St--rr Drags me with sweet maternal haste; My p--rls of s--l they can't restore, Nor l--fe's bright d--m--ds, turn'd to paste!

P--pa and br--th--r N--d would win My spirit forth to ball and rout; They think of course to t--ke me in-- Alas! they only t--ke me out!

In vain R--b--ni's sweetness now, In vain Lab--che's boldest air; In vain M--cr--dy plays,--if th--, Th--, the Ad--r'd one, art not there!

Whilst thou, unbless'd with st-ck or l-nd, Hast not one cr--wn per annum clear, Thou knowest not that--"here's my h-nd, With f-ft--n th--s--d p---ds a year."

And _were_ it known, this pass--n wild, Then d--th would at my h--rt-st--gs tug! No, none shall know that th-- art styled, The H-n-r-ble Fr-nk F-tz M--gg!

L. B.

THE FROLICS OF TIME.

A STRIKING ADVENTURE.

BY LAMAN BLANCHARD.

How I came to find myself, at midnight and in the dark, stretched on a sofa in a strange house, is of no consequence to my story; yet for the prevention of all uncharitable surmises it may be as well to mention, that the young friend whom I had deemed it prudent to see safe home from Greenwich to Lewisham, had participated more freely than I had in the revelries that sometimes succeed to whitebait; and that, tired and sleepy, I had not irrationally preferred the scanty accommodation of a sofa, proffered by the old servant, the family being in bed, to a return to town on a wet and dreary night.

"This will do very well," I said, drowsily glancing at the length of a sofa in a large room on the ground-floor; and released from my boots only, I declined the offer of bed-clothes, and declared that I should sleep without rocking. "No, no, pray don't leave the light," cried I, as the venerable domestic set down in the fire-place a huge old-fashioned candle-shade, through the numerous round holes of which a rushlight gloomily flickered.--"I hate that abominable invention; it's the only thing that _could_ keep me awake for two minutes. That'll do--shut the door--good night."

"Got away sober after all!" I whispered approvingly to myself when thus left alone. "And what's better, I've got this wild, racketty young scapegrace safe home too;--early moreover, though he thinks it's so late;--I should never have dragged him away if I hadn't vowed by the beard of old Time that the church-clock had struck twelve three hours ago--but it's hardly twelve yet, I think--pledged my honour it was past two! Ah, well! Yaw-au!--ah!" And here my thoughts were silently settling upon another subject, previously to the last seal of sleep being fixed upon my lids, when my drowsy senses were disturbed by a dull, dead sound in the air--at no great distance from the house--it was the church-clock striking twelve. I counted the strokes. Midnight sure enough! And somehow at that moment it occurred to my mind that I had taken Time's name in vain rather too roundly, and had vowed by his sacred beard rather irreverently to say the least, when I protested three times over, that no soul living would hear the clock strike twelve again _that_ night!

No matter--it was a fib told to serve a good purpose--a little bit of evil done quite innocently--the end sanctifies the means! And in the space of three seconds I was again more than half asleep, when another clock struck--another, nearer and clearer than the last. It was a large full-toned house-clock, fixed probably on the staircase or the hall, though I had not observed it on entering. Its sounds were prolonged and solemn. Again I counted the strokes--twelve; which I had no sooner done, than a third clock struck--nearer to me still, for it was evidently in the room, at the further end; and so sharp and quick in succession were the strokes, that to count them would have been difficult, even had I been less startled by them than I was.

What a very curious clock! thought I; and during the second that was occupied by its striking, I raised my head and looked in the direction of the sound; the apartment might be miles or feet long, for aught that I could _see_. The curtains and shutters were closed--no scrap of the window was to be seen--no glimpse even of the dull damp night without was to be had. All was Darkness----

But not Silence; for before I could again shut my eyes, a clock began to strike, slowly, softly, in tones "most musical, most melancholy," right over my head, as though it were fixed to the wall only a few feet above me. Every sound was like the moan of a dying bird. I counted them--twelve as before. Yes, it was a clock that struck; it _must_ be a clock; and it was right almost to a minute, by the church. What was there wonderful in that? Nothing--only--

Hark! the chimes too at midnight! On a table almost within my reach, some merry Sprite seemed, to the ear of my imagination, performing a serenade to the lingering hour of Twelve. He struck up the chimes with such a lively grace, and echoed them with such a ringing laugh, that the twelve sounds which announced the hour when he ceased, lost all the usual monotony of tone, and said, not merely in melody, but almost as distinctly as words could have said it, "Twelve o'clock"--four times over. I jumped up--and sat for an instant, my drowsiness all gone and my eyes unusually wide open, looking into the darkness around me. I knew that there was a table close by, but neither table nor clock was visible in that utter gloom; not a trace of any form or figure could my straining sight discover.

To grope my way six feet forward, and feel upon the surface of the table whether, among the ornaments which there, as in other parts of the room, I had carelessly noted when first shown in, a _clock_ was to be numbered, seemed easy enough; but scarcely had I stretched out, in fear and gentleness, one trembling hand upon that venturous errand, when I dropped back again upon the sofa, startled half out of my wits by the sudden striking of two more clocks, two at once--one loud, one low--apparently at opposite sides of the room; and before they had finished twelve strokes each, another, as though from a station in the centre of the chimney-piece, struck up "Meet me by moonlight," in notes the sweetest and silveriest imaginable, and the dozen strokes that followed were like the long plaintive tones of an Eolian harp. Before they were quite over, a peal of tiny bells began tinkling. Fairies tripping with bells at their feet could hardly have made lighter or quicker music. I began to think that a troop of that fabulous fraternity were actually in the apartment--that a host of little elves were capering about, not only with bells to their feet, but clocks to their stockings!

"Can these be clocks?" I asked myself! "Whatever the others may be, this surely is no clock!"--But the unpleasant suspicion had no sooner crossed my brain, than the bell-ringing ceased, and one, two, three--yes, twelve fine-toned strokes of a clock were distinctly audible. "It _is_ a clock," I whispered--but this conviction scarcely lessened the mystery, which, though amusing, was ill-timed. I would have preferred any glimmer of a rushlight to darkness, and sleep to any musical entertainment. The wish had hardly time to form itself before another clock struck close by me, and between every stroke of the twelve came a sort of chirrup, which at a more suitable hour I should have thought the prettiest note in the world, but which was now considerably more provoking than agreeable. I looked, but still saw nothing. I put my hand out and felt about--it touched something smooth--glass, evidently glass--and the fear of doing damage would have been sufficient to deter me from prosecuting my researches in that direction, even if my attention had not been at that instant summoned away, by a sudden volley of sounds that made my very heart leap, and transfixed me to the couch breathless with wonder and alarm.

This was the simultaneous striking of at least half-a-dozen more clocks in various parts of the room. Some might be large, and some tiny enough, some open and some inclosed in cases; for the tones were manifold, and of different degrees of strength; but no two clocks--if clocks they were, which I doubted, were constructed on the same principle, for each seemed to strike upon a plan of its own--and yet all went on striking together as though doomsday had arrived, and each was afraid of being behind time, and too late to proclaim the fact!

One of these, a very slow coach, kept striking long after the others had ceased; and before this had finished, off went a clock in the corner that was furthest from me, sending such a short sharp, rapid sound into the apartment, that I strained my eyes yet a little wider than ever, half in expectation of being able to see it. On it went striking--"six"--"nine, ten"--"twelve, thirteen!" What! "nineteen, twenty!" There was no mistake in the reckoning--"twenty-four!" What, twice twelve! Yes, three times and four times twelve! Still it went on striking;--strike, strike, strike! How I wished, in that darkness, that it would strike a light!

Still the same sound; one monotonous metallic twang reverberating through the room, and repeating itself as though it were impossible to have too much of a good thing. That clock seemed to be set going for ever--to be wound up for eternity instead of time. It appeared to be labouring under the idea that doomsday had indeed arrived--that it was no longer necessary to note and number the hours accurately--that the family of the Clocks were free--that the old laws which governed them were abolished--and that every member of the body was at liberty to strike as long as it liked, and have a jolly lark in its own way!

Strike, strike--still it persevered in its monotony, till, just as I had made up my mind that it would never stop, it stopped at about a hundred and forty-four, having struck the hour twelve times over. But two or three more competitors, whether from the walls of the room, from the chimney-piece, or the tables, had set out practising with wonderful versatility before the lengthened performance just alluded to had quite concluded; nor was it until nearly half-an-hour had elapsed since the church clock, the leader of the strike, had struck twelve--the hour which I had declared by the beard of old Father Time to be passed and gone--that an interval of silence occurred, and peace again prevailed through the intense darkness of the apartment.

Yet, can I call it peace? It was only peace comparatively; for my ear now sensitively awake to catch even the faintest whisper of a sound, and all my senses nervously alive in expectation of another convulsion amongst the clock-work, I became conscious of noises going on around me, to which, on first lying down, free from suspicion of the near neighbourhood of mystery, my ear was utterly insensible. I detected the presence of a vast multitude of small sounds distributed through the room, and repeating themselves regularly with singular distinctness as I listened. My pulse beat quicker, my eyes rolled anxiously and then closed; but those minute noises, clear and regular, went on in endless repetition, neither faster nor slower. Were they indeed the tickings of a hundred clocks--the fine low inward breathings of Time's children!

The speculation, little favourable to sleep, was suddenly cut short by another crash of sound, breaking in upon the repose; it was half-past twelve, and of the scores of clocks that had announced the midnight hour, one half now announced the march of thirty minutes more--some by a simple ding-dong, some by a single loud tick, others by chimes, and one or two by a popular air, or a sort of jug-jug like a nightingale. Again I started up and listened--again I essayed to grope my way about the room, to find out by the test of touch, whether the place was indeed filled with time-pieces and chronometers, Dutch repeaters and eight-day clocks. But so completely had the noises bewildered me, that I knew not which way to turn, and had I dared to wander, at the hazard of overturning some fancy table or curious cabinet, I should never have found my way back to my couch again. Down upon it, therefore, I once more threw myself, and conscious still of the multitudinous tickings that seemed to people the apartment with sprites, not a span long, dancing in fetters, invoked kind nature's restorer, balmy sleep, and at length, nearly exhausted, dropped into a doze.

This was but short-lived; for my ears remained apprehensively opened, although my eyes were sealed, and the pealing sound of the church-clock striking one awoke me again to a disagreeable anticipation of another general strike. Once more I sought to penetrate with anxious gaze the profound darkness before me. "Was it all a delusion?" I exclaimed. "Have I been dreaming? Is the room actually filled with clocks, or am I the victim of enchantment?" The answer came from the outside of the room--from the huge family dispenser of useful knowledge--the clock on the staircase, whose lengthened uhr-r-r-r-rh, preparatory to the stroke of one, was a warning worthy of the sonorous announcement. I felt it strike upon my heart--it convinced me that I had not dreamt--it foretold all--and I knew that the Spirits of the Clock would immediately be at work again. And to work they went fast enough--chimes and chirrups, merry-bells and moanings of birds--sometimes the cuckoo's note, sometimes the owl's hoot--the trickling of water-drops imitated now, and now the rattling of silver fetters--here a scrap of a melody, and there a shrill whistling cry;--all followed, in a tone thin or full, loud or weak, according to the construction of the unseen instrument--by the single stroke, proclaiming the hour of one!

I sank back, with my eyes close shut, and my hands covering up my ears. What a long night had I passed in a single hour!--how many hours were yet to be counted before light, piercing the gloom, would reveal the mystery of the clocks, and point the way to deliverance--that is, to the door. At last there was quiet again, the tickings only excepted, which continued low and regular as before. Sleep crept over me, interrupted only by the chimes, and other musical intimations at the quarters and the half-hour. And then came two o'clock, awaking me once more to a conviction that the hundred clocks--_if_ clocks--were wound up for the night; or that the spirits who were playing off their pranks--possibly in revenge for my "innocent imposition" touching the flight of Time, and my irreverence towards the beard of that antiquarian--were resolved to show me no mercy.

Off they went, clock after clock--silver, copper, and brass all spoke out, separately and in concert--wheels within wheels went round, chain after chain performed its appointed functions--hammers smote, and bells rang--and then, at last, fidgetted out of my senses, and "fooled to the top of my bent," sleep as before came to my aid; broken at intervals; and at intervals bringing visions of Time chained to the wall, and unable to stir a foot--of Time flying along upon a railroad fifty miles an hour, leaving Happiness behind mounted on a tortoise--of Time's forelock, by which I would have fondly taken him, coming off in my hand because he wore a wig--of Time shaving off his reverend beard, and starting away at the beginning of a new year, a gay, smart, glowing juvenile!

* * * I found out in the morning that my young friend's father was that oddest of oddities, a collector of clocks--that he had a passion for them, seeking out a choice clock as a connoisseur seeks out a choice picture--that he was continually multiplying his superfluities--that he boasted clocks of every form and principle, down to the latest inventions--clocks that played the genteelest of tunes, and clocks that struck the hour a dozen times over as many different ways--and that there were eighty-five, more or less calculated to strike, in the apartment wherein I had--_slept_; in the Clockery!

A PEEP POETIC AT THE AGE.

BY A. BIRD.

Oh when I was a little boy, how well I can remember, The jolly day we had upon the fifth of each November! But now the march of intellect has changed the matter quite, And Boyhood's day of merriment is turned to sober night: His hoops are made of iron, like our ships upon the seas; From infancy to manhood now--from elephants to fleas[18], All life is hurry-scurry--toil--trouble, and contentions: Oh, what an age we live in! with its wonderful inventions!

But yesterday--and granite paved our good old London town, Now patent wood is all the go--and nothing else goes down, Excepting horses by the score, yet that's a trifle too-- We only wait perfection in a "horse's patent shoe." We talk by electricity--we've got an infant "Steam" Who smokes, and with an iron rod he drives a pretty team, And a pretty pace he goes! the boy! and a pretty power is his! Beware, my gentle reader, or he'll flatten out your phiz. Oh, what an age is this! how very wonderful and new! Our bridges once were always square, now half are built askew.

Our horses once were taught to draw a something at their tails, A coach, or cart, or gig--but now, another mode prevails; The horse is _trained_ to stand within a carriage of his own, And while he eats a bit of hay some forty miles are done. There are wonders upon wonders whichever way one peeps; They say _our_ poor are starving, yet, _Lascars_ are turned to sweeps. Our cattle-shows are wonders too--the fat out-weighs the meat, Which is, no doubt, for tallow good--detestable to eat!-- Oh, what an age is this--for beasts!--how wonderful and new With wire just fit for binding corks, we've built a bridge at Kew[19]!

[20]Breakwaters now are taught to float, and (per comparison, id est) They'll cost the nation but a song, yet be much better than the best, (To say thus much--this wonder tell--I know those lines exceed, But when the _Piper's_ paid by _Bull_, for extra feet I plead;) To[21]_Maccheroni_ 'taties change! your Niger men declare (For want of something better, _q_?) "they are the best of fare." Young _steam_ has swamped the wherries, which is "wery" sad for those Who tell unto "the Funny Club" their miserable woes "How steamers run the river down--and boats by hundreds too"-- "In this inwentive, vicked hage"--so wonderful and new!

Exchequer bills were sometime held much safer than the Bank, Now holders find they've only held a monstrous ugly blank. The very piles[22] which once were driven one inch within the hour, Now go the pace, the railroad pace! by some mechanic power. Within a little--ay--alas! and ere its pipes are old, Bright Bude will come and Gas will pass, "e'en as a tale that's told." Then we shall see!--I wonder what! 'tis dazzling quite to think, "I'm downright dizzy with the thought"--I'm standing on a brink, It turns my brain! this age so economical and new, When tories, like our steamers, try--to go the pace, and--_screw_!

"And said I that my eyes were dim" with glories dazzling bright! When I confess my rising thoughts, you'll say that well they might. This age, methought, this wondrous age must understand the thing, Since England's Queen--our blessed Queen--outshines each former King! May Heaven unite this wondrous age in one harmonic whole! I pray and hope--and think it will--I do upon my soul. E'en hand-bills match the mighty _Times_; tho' strip them from the walls, Miss Kemble and her Norma would soon paper up St. Paul's. God bless, say I, the Queen I love--her loving subjects too-- And with this universal prayer I bid the age--adieu!

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 18: Vide "the industrious fleas"--play-acting elephants, &c., &c., &c.]

[Footnote 19: This, I fear, is a poetic fiction, but nearer the truth than usual--the wire suspension bridge is at Hammersmith.]

[Footnote 20: Vide Capt. Tayler's Prospectus for floating breakwaters--an invention which really promises to save our ships and purses too.]

[Footnote 21: Taste and try the "granulated potato," which in its way, promises much! I have seen a letter from the Niger Expedition wherein it is praised up to the African skies.]

[Footnote 22: This may be seen in action on the Surry side of the river opposite Hungerford Market--that is, when you can get there without being drowned in the floods.]

A STILL-LIFE SKETCH.

"Still, still I love thee,--love thee, love thee, still."--_La Sonnambula_

He stood among the mossy rocks Beside a Highland waterfall, And wrung his hands and tore his locks, And cursed the gaugers one and all.

Behind him was a ruined hut, Its walls were levell'd with the ground, And broken rafters black with soot, And staves of tubs, were scatter'd round.

With streaming eyes adown the glen He fix'd his gaze--I look'd, and lo! Along the road a band of men, With horse and cart, were moving slow.

Upon my life, it made me shiver To hear him shriek with frantic yell, "Fare-thee-well,--and if for ever. _Still_, for ever fare-thee-well!"

SHOLTO.

A TALE OF AN INN.

"Uncommon high the wind be tonight, sure-ly," remarked the occupier of the seat of honour on the left side of the fire-place in the Jolly Drummer, on the night of a boisterous 31st of March--"uncommon;" and as he spoke he uncrossed his legs, and resting his left hand which held his long pipe upon his knee, stretched out his right to a little triangular table that stood before the fire, stirred a more than half-finished tumbler of warm rum-and-water which was standing on one of the corners, shook the drops off the spoon, and having placed it on the table, raised the tumbler to his mouth, and in another minute set it down again empty, save the thin slice of lemon which had been floating about in the liquor. Having done this, he threw himself back in his seat, tucked his feet under it, and there crossed them, wriggled his right hand into his breeches' pocket, and resting his left elbow on the arm of the high-backed form or "settle" on which he was seated, puffed away in quiet enjoyment of his pipe.

Per--per--per. "It do blow above a bit, and that's all about it," returned a little man who was seated in an old Windsor chair opposite, as, having filled his pipe, he commenced lighting it with a piece of half-burnt paper that he had taken from the hob, and spoke between the strong puffs of smoke which curled upwards from his mouth during the operation. "I never--per--per--remember--per--sich a night--per--per--as this here--per--leastways for the time o'year--per--per--per--but once, per--and that was," said he, having now got his pipe well lighted, and letting himself gradually sink back in his chair, "and that was in the year--'37, when, as you remember, Master Tyler," looking at his friend opposite, "the mails was all snow'd up; but that was a trifle earlier in the year too, that was--let me see--oh ay, werry little tho'; why it was on the--yes, it was, on the 24th of this very month, and so it was."

"Ay, ay," replied Tyler, "I remember it, be sure I do; and, bless you, I thought ve vas all a-going to be fruz up in our beds, as sure as I'm a-sitting here. But now, vhat I vas a-thinking of, vas, that this here night never comes round but what I thinks of what happened to me vun blowing 31st o' March. It makes me shake a'most, too, a-thinking on it," continued he, looking up at a large tadpole-looking clock, which, with its octangular face, assured all the company that it wanted but a quarter of an hour of midnight.

"What was that?" exclaimed all the circle; "give us that tale, Master Tyler, a-fore we parts."

"Vell, then," said Tyler, touching his empty glass, "let's prepare for it." Upon this hint, one of the party, the host of the Jolly Drummer himself, rapped the table with his broad fist and shouted "Hollo there," which process brought upon the scene "Mary, the Maid of the Inn," whom Master Tyler requested to fill his glass, and "do the same for that gem'man opposite." She accordingly retired with the empty glasses, and as she is now out of the room, which we know to be the case from the whir-r-r-r bang! of the weighted door, we will take the opportunity before she comes back of describing the house and company.

The Jolly Drummer was a small public-house at the extreme end of a little scattered village; its situation on the verge of an extensive heath, and detached from the other cottages, would have given it a lonely appearance but for its background of a few trees, and two or three old stunted oaks before the door, between two of which was the horse-trough, and from the branches of the third swang the old and weather-beaten sign, creaking to and fro in the wind; the hay scattered about the trough, or whirled in air by the wind, and the wicker crate which stood at the door by the side of the mounting steps, together with a pail and mop, gave indications of a pretty-well frequented house. If anything more was wanting to establish the fact, on this night, besides two or three light carts, a heavy stage-waggon might be seen rearing its giant bulk against the dark sky with its shafts erect, and the unlit stable-lantern still skewered in the front.

The interior presented a more lively and comfortable appearance, at least in the room with which we are principally concerned. Here a fire of a few coals, overlaid with large logs, crackled and spluttered in the grate round which the party was assembled, two of whom we have already introduced. Upon the same high-backed form or settle, on which Master Tyler sat, were seated three other men, two of whom belonged to the waggon without, and the third was a small short man, who said little, but seemed to imbibe all Master Tyler uttered with great reverence. On the opposite side of the fire, besides the little man in the Windsor chair, were two others, the one the blacksmith, and the other the cobbler of the village. Sitting opposite to the fire, and so as to complete the circle round it, sat the stout landlord himself, looking round at his guests and attending to their wants (as we have seen) with the consciousness of being "well-to-do" in the world. On the little triangular table stood a quart mug "imperial measure;" a brass candlestick, bent through age, holding a thin tallow candle: a large pair of snuffers, lying by their side bottom upwards, was scored with the marks of a bit of chalk, half-crushed among the tobacco ashes, and a dirty pack of cards, gave the observer every proof that the two waggoners had but lately been engaged in the favourite game of "all-fours."

The room in which this company had met was low and square, boasting as furniture a few Windsor chairs, a square deal table edged with iron, and supported by trussel-like legs, in addition to the before-mentioned little triangular one, another of which latter description was seen in a distant corner, a dresser standing against the wall opposite the fire, and a tall cupboard by its side; the window on the left side of the room was shaded by a checked curtain, which waved mournfully under the influence of the gusts of wind that managed to find their way through the closed lattice. A few such pictures as "the lovely florist," and the "happy fruiterer," with rounded limbs and flowing drapery, painted with bright colours on glass, decorated the walls, and the mantel-shelf was decked with the usual ornaments of peacocks' feathers, brass candlesticks, tin stands for pipe-lighters, flour and pepper-boxes, a coffee-pot, and two lines painted on the wall recording, with the day and date, how "Thomas Swipes, Jacob Swillby, and James Piper, drank at one sitting in this room twelve quarts of ale."

Such was the room and its contents on the 31st March, 18--, and a blowing night it was. The whir-r-r-bang again of the door announces Mary to have returned with the replenished glasses, and as she is retiring she is arrested by the voice of Master Tyler, who calls out to her--"Vait a bit, Mary, I knows you're fond of a tale; you may as vell sit down and listen, for I dare say you never heerd a better, tho' I says it, and that's a fact--that's to say, if the company has no objections," added Tyler. They all seemed to agree with Master Tyler in admitting Mary into the circle, and accordingly made room for her next to her master, the host. All these preliminaries being arranged, Master Tyler having just tasted his new glass of grog, thus began:--

"Let me see, it vas about the year 1817 ven I fust vent to be ostler at the Vite Swan, Stevenage, for I _vas_ a ostler vonce, gem'men, that I vas; you remember the time, Juggles?" continued he, addressing the little man opposite (who answered with an "ay," and a nod of the head). "Old Dick Styles used to vork the Old Highflier thro' Stevenage at that time, and _he_ vos as good a coachman as here and there vun; but howsumever, that ain't got nothink to do vith my story. I vas a-saying it was my fust night in the yard, and in course I had to pay my footin'. Vell, old Tom Martin was the boots; he as come arterwards to our place, you know, Juggles?" ("Ay," answered the little man again, as he looked meditatingly at the fire;) "and me and him," continued Tyler, "sat up in the tap a-drinking and smoking and that, and a precious jolly night of it ve had, I can tell you! There vas Peter Scraggs, and as good a chap he vos as ever stepped, and vun or two more good jolly coves as you'd vish to see; vell, ve got a chaffin, and that like, ven Tom says to me, says he, 'Tyler,' ses he, 'you arn't been here long,' ses he, 'but maybe you've a heerd o' that old chap up yonder.' 'Vot old chap?' ses I. 'Vhy him on his beam-ends,' ses he a-laughing, and all the t'others laughed too, for I heerd arterwards that that vas his joke. 'Veil,' ses I, 'as I vas never here afore, t'aint _werry_ likely as I have heerd of 'un; but who is he?' 'Vhy,' ses he, 'he vas an old grocer as lived in this here town o' Stevenage,' ses he, 'years and years ago,' ses he; 'and left in his vill[23] vhen he died,' ses he, 'that he vouldn't be buried, not he, but be box'd up in his coffin and highsted up a-top o' the beams of his "hovel," as _he_ called it; but a barn it is, that's sartain,' ses he. 'Nonsense,' ses I; 'you ain't a-going to come over me in that there style vith your gammon,' ses I. 'Gammon or no,' ses Tom, 'if you've a mind you may see him yourself,' ses he; leastvays you may see his oak coffin,' ses he. 'Seein's believin',' ses I, 'all over the world,' ses I, 'so here goes;' and up I gets, and Tom, he gets up too, and vun or two others, and ve goes out; and Tom, he catches holdt of a stable lantern, and picks up vun o' them poles with a fork at the end--them things vot the vashervomen hangs their lines upon ven they dries the clothes--and ve valks into a stable-like place as had been a barn, and Tom he hooks the lantern on to the pole, and holds it up, and there sure enough _vos_ the coffin, a stuck up in the roof a top o' two beams.

"It's as true as I'm a-sitting here," continued Tyler, as he observed symptoms of incredulity in some of his auditors; "it's as true as I'm a-sitting here; and vot's more, you may see it there yourselves in that werry place to this werry day if you like to go as far. Vel, as I vos a saying, I looks up, and ses I, 'I'm blessed if it ain't a coffin,' ses I. 'Ay,' says Tom and the others, 'now you'll believe it, von't you?' 'Sartainly I vill,' ses I, 'now I sees it; but I'm blow'd if I didn't think you had been a-going on with some game or another,' ses I.

"Vell, ve come back agen to the tap, and ve sat there a-talking over that there old man and his rum fancy of being cocked up there, and vot not, till ve'd had enough, and thought it time to be off; it was then about half-past eleven. So Tom says, ses he, 'I'll show you vhere you are to hang out, Tyler,' ses he; so he takes me out in the yard and shows me my nest over the stable, and I'm blessed if it warn't the wery next to the vun with the old man. 'Pretty close company,' ses I to myself, 'anyhow;' but howsumdever I never _said_ nothink, not I, in case he should think that I was afeerd arter vot he'd a' been saying and that; so up I goes vith the lantern, up the ladder, but I couldn't for the life of me help a-thinking of old Harry Trigg, (that vos the old feller's name, him in the coffin.) Vel, however, I turns in at last, and I hadn't been in bed more nor ten minutes at most, ven I heerd a kind of a----"

"Mercy! what's that!" exclaimed Mary, as the sign-board outside seemed to take part in the tale, and groan uneasily in the wind. "Don't be foolish, Mary," said my host, scarcely less frightened; "what should it be but the old sign? Don't interrupt Master Tyler again, there's a good lass."

"Vell, I heerd a kind of a creak," resumed the speaker, with a scarcely perceptible smile, "and I listened, and presently I thought I heerd a groan. Vell, I didn't much like it, I can tell you; however, I thought as it vos all imaginairy like, and vos jist a turning round in my bed to get a more comfortabler position--"

"Snuff the candle," suggested Juggles to the blacksmith in a low tone, who did it mechanically, scarcely taking his eyes off the speaker the while.

"Vhen I heerd a woice," (here there was a breathless silence among the auditors,) "I heerd a woice, a low woice it vere, say, wery slowly, 'I don't like it.' Vell, ven I heerd the woice, I gets a bit more plucky like; 'for,' thinks I, 'arter all it may be some vun in difficulties.' So I ses, ses I, 'Vot's the row, sir?' 'Tyler,' ses the woice, a'-calling me by name, 'Tyler,' ses he, 'I vish I hadn't done it.' 'Done vot?' ses I; for since he culled me by my name I vos a little quieter. 'Vy,' ses the woice, 'a' got myself cocked up here,' ses he. Ses I, 'Vhy don't you get down then?' ses I. ''Cause I can't,' ses he. 'Vhy not?' ses I. ''Cause I'm screwed down in my coffin,' ses he." Here a scream, half-suppressed, broke from Mary. "'My eye!' ses I to myself, and I shook all over--'it's the old man hisself,' and I pops my head under the bed-clothes precious quick, I can tell you; for I vos in a bit of a stew, as you may guess. Vell, presently I heerd the old man a calling out again; but I never answered a vord, not I. Vell, arter that I hears a kind of a rustling and scratching on the t'other side o' the planks close to vhere I vos a-laying. 'That's him,' thinks I; 'but he can't come here, that's clear.' 'Can't I tho'!' says the werry same woice close to my feet, this time. Oh crickey, how I did shake sure-ly at that there. 'Tyler!' ses he, calling out loud. 'Tyler,' ses he, 'look up;' but bless you, I never spoke nor moved. 'Tyler,' ses he agen, a-hollering for all the vorld as loud as thunder, 'John Tyler look up! or it'll be the vurse for you.' So at that I puts the werry top o' my eyes over the bed-clothes, and there I saw----"

"What?" exclaimed the blacksmith and cobbler, under their breath at the same instant.

The narrator looked around; Juggles was leaning forward in his chair, his open hand scarce holding his pipe, which, in the eagerness of his curiosity he had let out; the blacksmith and cobbler were, with eyes and mouth wide open, intently watching the speaker's face; mine host, with both fists on the table, was not a whit less anxious; Mary was leaning on the shoulder of one of the waggoners, with outstretched neck towards Tyler, drinking in every word he uttered; and the two waggoners, perfectly wrapped up in the tale, stared vacantly at the opposite wall.

"What?" repeated the anxious hearers.

Master Tyler took his pipe from his mouth, and puffing out a long wreath of smoke, at the same time pointing with his pipe to the clock, which was just on the quarter past twelve, said--"NOTHINK! AND YOU'RE ALL APRIL FOOLS!"

ALI.

FOOTNOTE:

[Footnote 23: This will was proved in the archdeaconry of Huntingdon, Sept. 18, 1724.]

"SUCH A DUCK!"

Once Venus, deeming Love too fat, Stopp'd all his rich ambrosial dishes, Dooming the boy to live on chat, To sup on songs, and dine on wishes. Love, lean and lank, flew off to prowl-- The starveling now no beauty boasted-- He could have munch'd Minerva's owl, Or Juno's peacock, boil'd or roasted.

At last, half famish'd, almost dead, He shot his Mother's Doves for dinner; Young Lillie, passing, shook her head-- Cried Love, "A shot at you, young sinner!" "Oh not at me!"--she urged her flight-- "I'm neither dove, nor lark, nor starling!" "No"--fainting Cupid cried--"not quite; But then--you're such a--duck--my darling!"

L. B.

FRANK HEARTWELL; OR, FIFTY YEARS AGO.

BY BOWMAN TILLER.