Vich he vas a British Sailor,

For to judge him by his look:

Tarry jacket, canvas trowsies,

Ha-la Mr. T. P. Cooke.

Presently this Mann accostes

Of this hinnocent young gal--

Pray, saysee, Excuse my freedom,

You're so like my Sister Sal!

You're so like my Sister Sally,

Both in valk and face and size;

Miss, that--dang my old lee scuppers,

It brings tears into my hyes!

I'm a mate on board a wessel,

I'm a sailor bold and true;

Shiver up my poor old timbers,

Let me be a mate for you!

What's your name, my beauty, tell me?

And she faintly hansers, "Lore,

Sir, my name's Eliza Davis,

And I live at tventy-four."

Hofttimes came this British seaman,

This deluded gal to meet:

And at tventy-four was welcome,

Tventy-four in Guilford Street

And Eliza told her Master

(Kinder they than Missuses are),

How in marridge he had ast her,

Like a galliant Brittish Tar.

And he brought his landlady vith him

(Vich vas all his hartful plan),

And she told how Charley Thompson

Reely was a good young man.

And how she herself had lived in

Many years of union sweet,

Vith a gent she met promiskous,

Valkin in the public street.

And Eliza listened to them,

And she thought that soon their bands

Vould be published at the Fondlin.

Hand the clergyman jine their ands.

And he ast about the lodgers

(Vich her master let some rooms),

likevise vere they kep their things, and

Vere her master kep his spoons.

Hand this vicked Charley Thompson

Came on Sundy veek to see her,

And he sent Eliza Davis

Hout to vetch a pint of beer.

Hand while poor Eliza vent to

Fetch the beer, devoid of sin,

This etrocious Charley Thompson

Let his wile accomplish him.

To the lodgers, their apartments,

This abandingd female goes,

Prigs their shirts and umberellas:

Prigs their boots, and hats, and clothes

Vile the scoundrle Charley Thompson,

Lest his wictim should escape,

Hocust her vith rum and vater,

Like a fiend in huming shape.

But a hi was fixt upon 'em

Vich these raskles little sore;

Namely, Mr. Hide, the landlord

Of the house at tventy-four.

He vas valkin in his garden,

Just afore he vent to sup;

And on looking up he sor the

Lodger's vinders lighted hup.

Hup the stairs the landlord tumbled;

Something's going wrong, he said;

And he caught the vicked voman

Underneath the lodger's bed.

And he called a brother Pleaseman,

Vich vas passing on his beat,

Like a true and galliant feller,

Hup and down in Guildford Street.

And that Pleaseman, able-bodied,

Took this voman to the cell;

To the cell vere she was quodded,

In the Close of Clerkenwell.

And though vicked Charley Thompson

Boulted like a miscrant base,

Presently another Pleaseman

Took him to the self-same place.

And this precious pair of raskles

Tuesday last came up for doom;

By the beak they was committed,

Vich his name was Mr. Combe.

Has for poor Eliza Davia,

Simple gurl of tventy-four,

She, I ope, will never listen

In the streets to sailors moar.

But if she must ave a sweet-art

(Vich most every gurl expex),

Let her take a jolly Pleaseman,

Vich is name peraps is--X.

LINES ON A LATE HOSPICIOUS EWENT.

[Footnote: The Birth of Prince Arthur]

BY A GENTLEMAN OF THE FOOT-GUARDS (BLUE).

W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

I paced upon my beat

With steady step and slow,

All huppandownd of Ranelagh-street;

Ran'lagh, St. Pimlico.

While marching huppandownd

Upon that fair May morn,

Beold the booming cannings sound,

A royal child is born!

The Ministers of State

Then presnly I sor,

They gallops to the Pallis gate,

In carridges and for.

With anxious looks intent,

Before the gate they stop,

There comes the good Lord President,

And there the Archbishopp.

Lord John he next elights;

And who comes here in haste?

'Tis the ero of one underd fights,

The caudle for to taste.

Then Mrs. Lily, the nuss,

Toward them steps with joy;

Say the brave old Duke, "Come tell to us

Is it a gal or a boy?"

Says Mrs. L. to the Duke,

"Your Grace, it is a PRINCE."

And at that nuss's bold rebuke,

He did both laugh and wince.

He vews with pleasant look

This pooty flower of May,

Then says the wenerable Duke,

"Egad, its my buthday."

By memory backards borne,

Peraps his thoughts did stray

To that old place where he was born

Upon the first of May.

Peraps he did recal

The ancient towers of Trim;

And County Meath and Dangan Hall

They did rewisit him.

I phansy of him so

His good old thoughts employin;

Fourscore years and one ago

Beside the flowin' Boyne.

His father praps he sees,

Most musicle of Lords,

A playing maddrigles and glees

Upon the Arpsicords.

Jest phansy this old Ero

Upon his mother's knee!

Did ever lady in this land

Ave greater sons than she?

And I shouldn be surprise

While this was in his mind,

If a drop there twinkled in his eyes

Of unfamiliar brind.

* * * *

To Hapsly Ouse next day

Drives up a Broosh and for,

A gracious prince sits in that Shay

(I mention him with Hor!)

They ring upon the bell,

The Porter shows his ed,

(He fought at Vaterloo as vell,

And vears a veskit red.)

To see that carriage come

The people round it press:

"And is the galliant Duke at ome?"

"Your Royal Ighness, yes."

He stepps from out the Broosh

And in the gate is gone,

And X, although the people push,

Says wery kind "Move hon."

The Royal Prince unto

The galliant Duke did say,

"Dear Duke, my little son and you

Was born the self-same day.

"The lady of the land,

My wife and Sovring dear,

It is by her horgust command

I wait upon you here.

"That lady is as well

As can expected be;

And to your Grace she bid me tell

This gracious message free.

"That offspring of our race,

Whom yesterday you see,

To show our honor for your Grace,

Prince Arthur he shall be.

"That name it rhymes to fame;

All Europe knows the sound;

And I couldn't find a better name

If you'd give me twenty pound.

"King Arthur had his knights

That girt his table round,

But you have won a hundred fights,

Will match 'em, I'll be bound.

"You fought with Bonypart,

And likewise Tippoo Saib;

I name you then, with all my heart,

The Godsire of this babe."

That Prince his leave was took,

His hinterview was done.

So let us give the good old Duke

Good luck of his god-son,

And wish him years of joy

In this our time of Schism,

And hope he'll hear the royal boy

His little catechism.

And my pooty little Prince

That's come our arts to cheer,

Let me my loyal powers ewince

A welcomin of you ere.

And the Poit-Laureat's crownd,

I think, in some respex,

Egstremely shootable might be found

For honest Pleaseman X.

THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE FOUNDLING OF SHOREDITCH.

W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

Come, all ye Christian people, and listen to my tail,

It is all about a Doctor was traveling by the rail,

By the Heastern Counties Railway (vich the shares don't desire),

From Ixworth town in Suffolk, vich his name did not transpire.

A traveling from Bury this Doctor was employed

With a gentleman, a friend of his, vich his name was Captain Loyd;

And on reaching Marks Tey Station, that is next beyond Colchester,

a lady entered into them most elegantly dressed.

She entered into the carriage all with a tottering step,

And a pooty little Bayby upon her bussum slep;

The gentlemen received her with kindness and siwillaty,

Pitying this lady for her illness and debillaty.

She had a fust-class ticket, this lovely lady said,

Because it was so lonesome she took a secknd instead.

Better to travel by secknd class than sit alone in the fust,

And the pooty little Baby upon her breast she nust.

A seein of her cryin, and shiverin and pail,

To her spoke this surging, the Ero of my tail;

Saysee you look unwell, ma'am, I'll elp you if I can,

And you may tell your case to me, for I'm a meddicle man.

"Thank you, sir," the lady said, "I only look so pale,

Because I ain't accustom'd to traveling on the rale;

I shall be better presnly, when I've ad some rest:"

And that pooty little Baby she squeeged it to her breast.

So in conwersation the journey they beguiled,

Capting Loyd and the medical man, and the lady and the child,

Till the warious stations along the line was passed,

For even the Heastern Counties' trains must come in at last.

When at Shorediteh tumminus at lenth stopped the train,

This kind meddicle gentleman proposed his aid again.

"Thank you, sir," the lady said, "for your kyindness dear;

My carridge and my osses is probbibly come here.

"Will you old this baby, please, vilst I step and see?"

The Doctor was a famly man: "That I will," says he.

Then the little child she kist, kist it very gently,

Vich was sucking his little fist, sleeping innocently.

With a sigh from her art, as though she would have bust it,

Then she gave the Doctor the child--wery kind he nust it;

Hup then the lady jumped hoff the bench she sat from,

Tumbled down the carridge steps and ran along the platform.

Vile hall the other passengers vent upon their vays,

The Capting and the Doctor sat there in a maze;

Some vent in a Homminibus, some vent in a Cabby,

The Capting and the Doctor vaited with the babby.

There they sat looking queer, for an hour or more,

But their feller passinger neather on 'em sore:

Never, never back again did that lady come

To that pooty sleeping Hinfant a suckin of his Thum!

What could this pore Doctor do, bein treated thus,

When the darling baby woke, cryin for its nuss?

Off he drove to a female friend, vich she was both kind and mild,

And igsplained to her the circumstance of this year little child.

That kind lady took the child instantly in her lap,

And made it very comforable by giving it some pap;

And when she took its close off, what d'you think she found?

A couple of ten pun notes sown up, in its little gownd!

Also, in its little close, was a note which did conwey,

That this little baby's parents lived in a handsome way:

And for its Headucation they reglary would pay,

And sirtingly like gentle-folks would claim the child one day,

If the Christian people who'd charge of it would say,

Per adwertisement in the TIMES, where the baby lay.

Pity of this baby many people took,

It had such pooty ways and such a pooty look;

And there came a lady forrard (I wish that I could see

Any kind lady as would do as much for me,

And I wish with all my art, some night in MY night gownd,

I could find a note stitched for ten or twenty pound)--

There came a lady forrard, that most honorable did say,

She'd adopt this little baby, which her parents cast away.

While the Doctor pondered on this hoffer fair,

Comes a letter from Devonshire, from a party there,

Hordering the Doctor, at its Mar's desire,

To send the little infant back to Devonshire.

Lost in apoplexity, this pore meddicle man,

Like a sensable gentleman, to the Justice ran;

Which his name was Mr. Hammill, a honorable beak,

That takes his seat in Worship-street four times a week.

"O Justice!" says the Doctor, "Instrugt me what to do,

I've come up from the country, to throw myself on you;

My patients have no doctor to tend them in their ills,

(There they are in Suffolk without their draffts and pills!)

"I've come up from the country, to know how I'll dispose

Of this pore little baby, and the twenty-pun note, and the clothes,

And I want to go back to Suffolk, dear Justice, if you please,

And my patients wants their Doctor, and their Doctor wants his feez."

Up spoke Mr. Hammill, sittin at his desk,

"This year application does me much perplesk;

What I do adwise you, is to leave this babby

In the Parish where it was left, by its mother shabby."

The Doctor from his Worship sadly did depart--

He might have left the baby, but he hadn't got the heart

To go for to leave that Hinnocent, has the laws allows,

To the tender mussies of the Union House.

Mother who left this little one on a stranger's knee,

Think how cruel you have been, and how good was he!

Think, if you've been guilty, innocent was she;

And do not take unkindly this little word of me:

Heaven be merciful to us all, sinners as we be!

PLEACEMAN X.

THE CRYSTAL PALACE.

W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

With ganial foire

Thransfuse me loyre,

Ye sacred nymphths of Pindus,

The whoile I sing

That wondthrous thing

The Palace made o' windows!

Say, Paxton, truth,

Thou wondthrous youth,

What sthroke of art celistial

What power was lint

You to invint

This combineetion cristial

O would before

That Thomas Moore

Likewoise the late Lord Boyron,

Thim aigles sthrong

Of Godlike song,

Cast oi on that cast oiron!

And saw thim walls,

And glittering halls,

Thim rising slendther columns,

Which I, poor pote,

Could not denote,

No, not in twinty vollums.

My Muse's words

Is like the birds

That roosts beneath the panes there;

Her wings she spoils

'Gainst them bright toiles,

And cracks her silly brains there.

This Palace tall,

This Cristial Hall,

Which imperors might covet,

Stands in Hide Park

Like Noah's Ark

A rainbow bint above it.

The towers and faynes,

In other scaynes,

The fame of this will undo,

Saint Paul's big doom,

St. Payther's Room,

And Dublin's proud Rotundo.

'Tis here that roams,

As well becomes

Her dignitee and stations,

Victoria great,

And houlds in state

The Congress of the Nations.

Her subjects pours

From distant shores.

Her Injians and Canajians;

And also we,

Her kingdoms three,

Attind with our allagiance.

Here comes likewise

Her bould allies,

Both Asian and Europian;

From East and West

They sent their best

To fill her Coornocopean.

I seen (thank Grace!)

This wondthrous place

(His Noble Honor Misteer

H. Cole it was

That gave the pass,

And let me see what is there.)

With conscious proide

I stud insoide

And look'd the World's Great Fair in.

Until me sight

Was dazzled quite,

And couldn't see for staring.

There's holy saints

And window paints,

By Maydiayval Pugin;

Alhamborough Jones

Did paint the tones

Of yellow and gambouge in.

There's fountains there

And crosses fair;

There's water-gods with urrns;

There's organs three,

To play, d'ye see,

"God save the Queen," by turns.

There's statues bright

Of marble white,

Of silver and of copper,

And some in zink,

And some, I think,

That isn't over proper.

There's staym Ingynes,

That stand in lines,

Enormous and amazing,

That squeal and snort,

Like whales in sport,

Or elephants a-grazing.

There's carts and gigs,

And pins for pigs;

There's dibblers and there's harrows,

And plows like toys,

For little boys,

And illegant wheel-barrows.

For them genteels

Who ride on wheels,

There a plenty to indulge 'em,

There's Droskys snug

From Paytersbug

And vayhycles from Belgium.

There's Cabs on Stands,

And Shandthry danns;

There's wagons from New York here;

There's Lapland Sleighs,

Have cross'd the seas,

And Jaunting Cars from Cork here.

Amazed I pass

Prom glass to glass,

Deloighted I survey 'em;

Fresh wondthers grows

Beneath me nose

In this sublime Musayum,

Look, here's a fan

From far Japan,

A saber from Damasco;

There's shawls ye get

From far Thibet,

And cotton prints from Glasgow.

There's German flutes,

Marcoky boots,

And Naples Macaronies;

Bohaymia

Has sent Bohay,

Polonia her polonies.

There's granite flints

That's quite imminse,

There's sacks of coals and fuels,

There's swords and guns,

And soap in tuns,

And Ginger-bread and Jewels.

There's taypots there,

And cannons rare;

There's coffins filled with roses.

There 'a canvas tints,

Teeth instruments,

And shuits of clothes by Moses.

There's lashins more

Of things in store,

But thim I don't remimber;

Nor could disclose

Did I compose

From May time to Novimber.

Ah, JUDY thru!

With eyes so blue,

That you were here to view it!

And could I screw

But tu pound tu

'Tis I would thrait you to it.

So let us raise

Victoria's praise,

And Albert's proud condition,

That takes his ayse

As he surveys

This Crystal Exhibition.

[Illustration: THACKERAY]

THE SPECULATORS.

W. MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

The night was stormy and dark, The town was shut up in

sleep: Only those were abroad who were out on a lark, Or

those who'd no beds to keep.

I pass'd through the lonely street, The wind did sing and

blow; I could hear the policeman's feet Clapping to and fro.

There stood a potato-man In the midst of all the wet; He

stood with his 'tato-can In the lonely Haymarket.

Two gents of dismal mien. And dark and greasy rags, Came

out of a shop for gin Swaggering over the flags:

Swaggering over the stones,

These snabby bucks did walk

And I went and followed those seedy ones,

And listened to their talk.

Was I sober or awake?

Could I believe my ears?

Those dismal beggars spake

Of nothing but railroad shares.

I wondered more and more:

Says one--"Good friend of mine,

How many shares have you wrote for

In the Diddlesee Junction line?"

"I wrote for twenty," says Jim,

"But they wouldn't give me one;"

His comrade straight rebuked him

For the folly he had done:

"O Jim, you are unawares

Of the ways of this bad town;

_I_ always write for five hundred shares,

And THEN they put me down."

"And yet you got no shares,"

Says Jim, "for all your boast;"

"I WOULD have wrote," says Jack, "but where

Was the penny to pay the post?"

"I lost, for I couldn't pay

That first instalment up;

But here's taters smoking hot--I say

Let's stop, my boy, and sup."

And at this simple feast

The while they did regale,

I drew each ragged capitalist

Down on my left thumb-nail.

Their talk did me perplex,

All night I tumbled and toss'd

And thought of railroad specs,

And how money was won and lost.

"Bless railroads everywhere,"

I said, "and the world's advance;

Bless every railroad share

In Italy, Ireland, France,

For never a beggar need now despair,

And every rogue has a chance."

LETTER

FROM MR. HOSEA BIGLOW TO THE HON. J. T. BUCKINGHAM, EDITOR OF THE

BOSTON COURIER, COVERING A LETTER FROM MR. B. SAWIN, PRIVATE IN THE

MASSACHUSETTS REGIMENT IN MEXICO.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Mister Buckinum, the follerin Billet was writ hum by a Yung feller of

Our town that wuz cussed fool enuff to goe atrottin inter Miss Chiff

arter a Drum and fife. It ain't Nater for a feller to let on that he's

sick o' any bizness that He went intu off his own free will and a Cord,

but I rather callate he's middlin tired o' voluntearin By this Time. I

bleeve u may put dependunts on his statemence. For I never heered

nothin bad on him let Alone his havin what Parson Wilbur cals a

PONGSHONG for cocktales, and he ses it wuz a soshiashun of idees sot

him agoin arter the Crootin Sargient cos he wore a cocktale onto his

hat.

his Folks gin the letter to me and I shew it to parson Wilbur and he

ses it oughter Bee printed, send It to mister Buckinum, ses he, I don't

ollers agree with him, ses he, but by Time, says he, I DU like a feller

that ain't a Feared.

I have intusspussed a Few refleckshuns hear and thair. We're kind o'

Prest with Hayin.

Ewers respecfly

HOSEA BIGLOW.

This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin',

A chap could clear right out from there ef 't only looked like

rainin'.

An' th' Cunnles, tu, could kiver up their shappoes with bandanners,

An' send the insines skootin' to the bar-room with their banners,

(Fear o' gittin' on 'em spotted), an' a feller could cry quarter

Ef he fired away his ramrod arter tu much rum an' water.

Recollect wut fun we hed, you 'n I an' Ezry Hollis,

Up there to Waltham plain last fall, ahavin' the Cornwallis?

[Footnote: i halt the Site of a feller with a muskit as I do plze But

their is fun to a Cornwallis I ain't agoin to deny it.--H.B.]This sort

o' thing aint JEST like thet--I wish thet I wuz furder-

[Footnote: he means Not quite so fur i guess.--H.B.]Nimepunce a day fer

killin' folks comes kind o' low fer murder

(Wy I've worked out to slarterin' some for Deacon Cephas Billins,

An' in the hardest times there wuz I ollers tetched ten shillins),

There's sutthin' gits into my throat thet makes it hard to swaller,

It comes so nateral to think about a hempen collar;

It's glory--but, in spite o' all my tryin to git callous,

I feel a kind o' in a cart, aridin' to the gallus.

But when it comes to BEIN' killed--I tell ye I felt streaked

The fust time ever I found out wy baggonets wuz peaked,

Here's how it wuz: I started out to go to a fandango,

The sentinul he ups an' sez, "Thet's furder 'an you can go"

"None o' your sarse," sez I; sez he, "Stan' back!" "Aint you a buster.

Sez I, "I'm up to all thet air, I guess I've ben to muster;

I know wy sentinuls air sot; you aint agoin' to eat us;

Caleb haint to monopoly to court the seenoreetas;

My folks to hum air full ez good ez hisn be, by golly!"

An' so ez I wuz goin' by, not thinkin'; wut would folly,

The everlatin' cus he stuck his one-pronged pitchfork in me

An' made a hole right thru my close ez ef I wuz an in'my.

Wal, it beats all how big I felt hoorawin' in ole Funnel

Wen Mister Bolles he gin the sword to our Leftenant Cunnle

(It's Mister Secondary Bolles,* thet writ the prize peace essay,

*[Footnote: the ignerant creeter means Sekketary; but he ollers stuck

to his books like cobbler's wax to an ile-stone.--H. B.]

Thet's wy he didn't list himself along o' us, I dessay),

An' Rantoul, tu, talked pooty loud, but dont' put HIS foot in it,

Coz human life's so sacred thet he's principled agin'it--

Though I myself can't rightly see it's any wus achokin' on 'em

Than puttin' bullets thru their lights, or with a bagnet pokin' on

'em;

How dreffle slick he reeled it off (like Blitz at our lyceum

Ahaulin' ribbins from his chops so quick you skeercely see 'em),

About the Anglo-Saxon race (an' saxons would be handy

To do the buryin' down here upon the Rio Grandy),

About our patriotic pas an' our star-spangled banner,

Our country's bird alookin' on an' singin' out hosanner,

An' how he (Mister B himself) wuz happy fer Ameriky--

I felt, ez sister Patience sez, a leetle mite histericky.

I felt, I swon, ez though it wuz a dreffle kind o' privilege

Atrampin' round thru Boston streets among the gutter's drivelage;

I act'lly thought it wuz a treat to hear a little drummin,

An' it did bonyfidy seem millanyum wuz acomin'

Wen all on us got suits (darned like them wore in the state prison)

An' every feller felt ez though all Mexico wuz hisn.

[Footnote: It must be aloud that thare's a streak o' nater in lovin'

sho, but it sartinly is of the curusest things in nater to see a

rispecktable dri goods dealer (deekon off a chutch mayby) a riggin'

himself out in the Weigh they du and struttin' round in the Reign

aspilin' his trowsis and makin' wet goods of himself. E fany

thin's foolisher and moor dicklus than militerry gloary it is milishy

gloary.--H. B]

This 'ere's about the meanest place a skunk could wal diskiver

(Saltillo's Mexican, I b'lieve, fer wut we call Saltriver).

The sort o' trash a feller gits to eat doos beat all nater,

I'd give a year's pay fer a smell o' one good bluenose tater;

The country here thet Mister Bolles declared to be so charmin'

Throughout is swarmin' with the most alarmin' kind o' varmin'.

He talked about delishis froots, but then it wuz a wopper all,

The holl on't 's mud an' prickly pears, with here an' there a

chapparal;

You see a feller peekin' out, an', fust you know, a lariat

Is round your throat en' you a copse, 'fore you can say, "Wut

air ye at?"

[Footnote: these fellers are verry proppilly called Rank Heroes, and

the more tha kill the ranker and more Herowick tha bekum.--H. B.]

You never see sech darned gret bugs (it may not be irrelevant

To say I've seen a SCARABAEUS PILULARIUS big ez a year old elephant),

[Footnote: It wuz "tumblebug" as he Writ it, but the parson put the

Latten instid. I sed tother maid better meeter, but he said tha was

eddykated peepl to Boston and tha wouldn't stan' it no how. Idnow as

tha WOOOD and idnow as tha wood.--H. B.]

The rigiment come up one day in time to stop a red bug

From runnin' off with Cunnle Wright--'t wuz jest a common

CIMEX LECTULARIUS.

One night I started up on eend an' thought I wuz to hum agin,

I heern a horn, thinks I it's Sol the fisherman hez come agin,

HIS bellowses is sound enough--ez I'm a livin' creeter,

I felt a thing go thru my leg--'t wuz nothin' more 'n a skeeter!

Then there's the yaller fever, tu, they call it here el vomito--

(Come, thet wun't du, you landcrab there, I tell ye to le' GO my toe!

My gracious! it's a scorpion thet's took a shine to play with 't,

I darsn't skeer the tarnal thing fer fear he'd run away with 't).

Afore I come away from hum I hed a strong persuasion

Thet Mexicans worn't human beans*--an ourang outang nation,

*[Footnote: he means human beins, that's wut he means. I spose he

kinder thought tha wuz human beans ware the Xisle Poles comes

from.--H. B.]

A sort o' folks a chap could kill an' never dream on't arter,

No more'n a feller'd dream o' pigs thet he hed hed to slarter;

I'd an idee thet they were built arter the darkle fashion all,

An' kickin' colored folks about, you know, 's a kind o' national

But when I jined I worn't so wise ez thet air queen o' Sheby,

Fer, come to look at 'em, they aint much diff'rent from wut we be

An' here we air ascrougin' 'em out o' thir own dominions,

Ashelterin' 'em, ez Caleb sez, under our eagle's pinions,

"Wich means to take a feller up jest by the slack o' 's trowsis

An' walk him Spanish clean right out o' all his homes an' houses

Wal, it doos seem a curus way, but then hooraw fer Jackson!

It must be right, fer Caleb sez it's reg'lar Anglo-Saxon.

The Mex'cans don't fight fair, they say, they piz'n all the water,

An' du amazin' lots o' things thet isn't wut they ough' ter;

Bein' they haint no lead, they make their bullets out o' copper

An' shoot the darned things at us, tu, which Caleb sez aint proper;

He sez they'd ough' to stan' right up an' let us pop 'em fairly

(Guess wen he ketches 'em at thet he'll hev to git up airly),

Thet our nation's bigger 'n theirn an' so its rights air bigger,

An thet it's all to make 'em free that we air pullin' trigger,

Thet Anglo Saxondom's idee's abreakin' 'em to pieces,

An' thet idee's thet every man doos jest wut he damn pleases;

Ef I don't make his meanin' clear, perhaps in some respex I can,

I know that "every man" don't mean a nigger or a Mexican;

An' there's another thing I know, an' thet is, ef these creeturs,

Thet stick an Anglo-saxon mask onto State-prison feeturs,

Should come to Jaalam Center fer to argify an' spout on't,

The gals 'ould count the silver spoons the minnit they cleared

out on't

This goin' ware glory waits ye haint one agreeable feetur,

An' ef it worn't fer wakin' snakes, I'd home agin short meter;

O, wouldn't I be off, quick time, ef't worn't thet I wuz sartin

They'd let the daylight into me to pay me fer desartin!

I don't approve o' tellin' tales, but jest to you I may state

Our ossifers aint wut they wuz afore they left the Baystate

Then it wuz "Mister Sawin, sir, you're middlin' well now, be ye?

Step up an' take a nipper, sir; I'm dreffle glad to see ye;"

But now it's "Ware's my eppylet? here, Sawin, step an fetch it!

An' mind your eye, be thund'rin' spry, or, damn ye, you shall

ketch it!"

Wal, ez the Doctor sez, some pork will bile so, but by mighty,

Ef I bed some on 'em to hum, I'd give 'em linkum vity,

I'd play the rogue's march on their hides an' other [illeg] follerin'--

But I must close my letter here, for one on 'em's a-hollerin',

These Anglosaxon ossifers--wal, taint no use ajawin',

I'm safe enlisted fer the war,

Yourn,

BIRDOFREEDOM SAWIN

A LETTER

FROM A CANDIDATE FOR THE PRESIDENCY IN ANSWER TO SUTTIN QUESTIONS

PROPOSED BY MR. HOSEA BIGLOW, INCLOSED IN A NOTE FROM MR. BIGLOW TO S.

H. GAY, ESQ., EDITOR OF THE NATIONAL ANTI-SLAVERY STANDARD.

JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL

Deer Sir its gut to be the fashun now to rite letters to the candid 8s

and I wus chose at a public Meetin in Jalaam to du wut wus nessary fur

that town. I writ to 271 ginerals and gut ansers to 209. the air called

candid 8s but I don't see nothin candid about em. this here 1 which I

send wus thought satty's factory. I dunno as it's ushle to print

Poscrips, but as all the ansers I got hed the saim, I sposed it wus

best. times has gretly changed. Formaly to knock a man into a

cocked hat wus to use him up, but now it ony gives him a chance furthe

cheef madgutracy.--H. B.

Dear Sir--You wish to know my notions

On sartin pints thet rile the land;

There's nothin' thet my natur so shuns

Es bein' mum or underhand;

I'm a straight-spoken kind o' creetur

Thet blurts right out wut's in his head,

An' ef I've one pecooler feetur,

It is a nose thet wunt be led.

So, to begin at the beginnin';

An' come directly to the pint,

I think the country's underpinnin'

Is some consid'ble out o' jint;

I aint agoin' to try your patience

By tellin' who done this or thet,

I don't make no insinooations,

I jest let on I smell a rat.

Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so,

But, ef the public think I'm wrong

I wunt deny but wut I be so--

An', fact, it don't smell very strong;

My mind's tu fair to lose its balance

An' say wich party hez most sense;

There may be folks o'greater talence

Thet can't set stiddier on the fence.

I'm an eclectic: ez to choosin'

'Twixt this an'thet, I'm plaguy lawth;

I leave a side thet looks like losin',

But (wile there's doubt) I stick to both;

I stan' upon the Constitution,

Ez preudunt statesmun say, who've planned

A way to git the most profusion

O' chances ez to ware they'll stand.

Ez fer the war, I go agin it--

I mean to say I kind o' du--

Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it,

The best way wuz to fight it thru;

Not but wut abstract war is horrid,

I sign to thet with all my heart--

But civlyzation doos git forrid

Sometimes upon a powder-cart.

About thet darned Proviso matter

I never hed a grain o' doubt,

Nor I aint one my sense to scatter

So's no one couldn't pick it out;

My love fer North an' South is equil,

So I'll just answer plump an' frank,

No matter wut may be the sequil--

Yes, sir, I am agin a Bank.

Ez to the answerin' o' questions,

I 'am an off ox at bein' druv,

Though I aint one thet ary test shuns

I'll give our folks a helpin' shove;

Kind o' promiscoous I go it

Fer the holl country, an' the ground

I take, ez nigh ez I can show it,

Is pooty gen'ally all round.

I don't appruve o' givin' pledges;

You'd ough' to leave a feller free,

An' not go knockin' out the wedges

To ketch his fingers in the tree;

Pledges air awfle breachy cattle

Thet preudent farmers don't turn out--

Ez long'z the people git their rattle,

Wut is there fer'm to grout about?

Ez to the slaves, there's no confusion

In MY idees consarnin' them--

_I_ think they air an Institution,

A sort of--yes, jest so--ahem:

Do _I_ own any? Of my merit

On thet pint you yourself may jedge;

All is, I never drink no sperit,

Nor I haint never signed no pledge.

Ez to my principles, I glory

In hevin' nothin' o' the sort;

I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory,

I'm jest a candidate, in short;

Thet's fair an' square an' parpendicler,

But, ef the Public cares a fig

To hev me an' thin' in particler.

Wy, I'm a kind o' peri-wig.

P. S.

Ez we're a sort o' privateerin',

O' course, you know, it's sheer an' sheer

An' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin'

I'll mention in YOUR privit ear;

Ef you git ME inside the White House,

Your head with ile I'll kio' o' 'nint

By gitt'n' YOU inside the Light-house

Down to the eend o' Jaalam Pint

An' ez the North hez took to brustlin'

At bein' scrouged from off the roost,

I'll tell ye wut'll save all tusslin'

An' give our side a harnsome boost--

Tell 'em thet on the Slavery question

I'm RIGHT, although to speak I'm lawth;

This gives you a safe pint to rest on,

An' leaves me frontin' South by North.

THE CANDIDATE'S CREED.

(BIGLOW PAPERS.)

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

I du believe in Freedom's cause,

Ez fur away ez Paris is;

I love to see her stick her claws

In them infarnal Pharisees;

It's wal enough agin a king

To dror resolves and triggers,--

But libbaty's a kind o' thing

Thet don't agree with niggers.

I du believe the people want

A tax on teas and coffees,

Thet nothin' aint extravygunt,--

Purvidin' I'm in office;

For I hev loved my country sence

My eye-teeth filled their sockets,

An' Uncle Sam I reverence,

Partic'larly his pockets.

I du believe in ANY plan

O' levyin' the taxes,

Ez long ez, like a lumberman,

I git jest wut I axes:

I go free-trade thru thick an' thin,

Because it kind o' rouses

The folks to vote--and keep us in

Our quiet custom-houses.

I du believe it's wise an' good

To sen' out furrin missions,

Thet is, on sartin understood

An' orthydox conditions;--

I mean nine thousan' dolls. per ann.,

Nine thousan' more fer outfit,

An' me to recommend a man

The place 'ould jest about fit.

I du believe in special ways

O' prayin' an' convartin';

The bread comes back in many days,

An' buttered, tu, fer sartin;--

I mean in preyin' till one busts

On wut the party chooses,

An' in convartin' public trusts

To very privit uses.

I do believe hard coin the stuff

Fer 'lectioneers to spout on;

The people's ollers soft enough

To make hard money out on;

Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his,

An' gives a good-sized junk to all--

I don't care HOW hard money is,

Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal.

I du believe with all my soul

In the gret Press's freedom,

To pint the people to the goal

An' in the traces lead 'em:

Palsied the arm thet forges yokes

At my fat contracts squintin',

An' wilhered be the nose thet pokes

Inter the gov'ment printin'!

I du believe thet I should give

Wut's his'n unto Caesar,

Fer it's by him I move an' live,

From him my bread an' cheese air

I du believe thet all o' me

Doth bear his souperscription,--

Will, conscience, honor, honesty,

An' things o' thet description.

I du believe in prayer an' praise

To him thet hez the grantin'

O' jobs--in every thin' thet pays,

But most of all in CANTIN';

This doth my cup with marcies fill,

This lays all thought o' sin to rest--

I DON'T believe in princerple,

But, O, I DU in interest.

I du believe in bein' this

Or thet, ez it may happen

One way, or t' other hendiest is

To ketch the people nappin';

It aint by princerples nor men

My preudent course is steadied--

I scent wich pays the best, an' then

Go into it baldheaded.

I du believe thet holdin' slaves

Comes nat'ral tu a President,

Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves

To have a wal-broke precedunt;

Fer any office, small or gret,

I could'nt ax with no face,

Without I'd been, thru dry an' wet,

The unrizziest kind o' doughface.

I du believe wutever trash

'll keep the people in blindness,--

Thet we the Mexicans can thrash

Right inter brotherly kindness--

Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ball

Air good-will's strongest magnets--

Thet peace, to make it stick at all,

Must be druv in with bagnets.

In short, I firmly du believe

In Humbug generally,

Fer it's a thing thet I perceive

To hev a solid vally;

This heth my faithful shepherd ben,

In pasturs sweet heth led me,

An' this'll keep the people green

To feed ez they have fed me.

THE COURTIN'.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown,

An' peeked in thru the winder,

An there sot Huldy all alone,

'ith no one nigh to hender.

Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung,

An' in among 'em rusted

The ole queen's arm thet gran'ther Young

Fetched back from Concord busted.

The wannut logs shot sparkles out

Toward the pootiest, bless her!

An' leetle fires danced all about

The chiny on the dresser.

The very room, coz she wuz in,

Looked warm frum floor to ceilin'.

An' she looked full ez rosy agin

Ez th' apple she wuz peelin'.

She heerd a foot an' knowd it, tu,

Araspin' on the scraper--

All ways to once her feelins flew

Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,

Some doubtfle of the seekle:

His heart kep' goin' pitypat,

But hern went pity Zekle.

A SONG FOR A CATARRH.

PUNCH

By Bary ALLe is like the suL,

WheL at the dawL it fliLgs

Its goldeL sBiles of light upoL

Earth's greeL and loLely thiLgs.

IL vaiL I sue, I oLly wiL

FroB her a scorLful frowL,

But sooL as I By prayers begiL,

She cries O Lo! begoLe,

Yes! yes! the burtheL of her soLg

Is Lo! Lo! Lo! begoLe!

By Bary ALLe is like the mooL,

WheL first her silver sheeL

Awakes the LightiLgale's soft tuLe,

That else had sileLt beeL.

But Bary ALLe, like darkest Light,

OL be, alas! looks dowL;

Her sBiles oL others beaB their light,

Her frowLs are all By owL.

I've but oLe burtheL to By soLg--

Her frowLs are all By owL.

EPITAPH ON A CANDLE.

PUNCH.

A WICKED one lies buried here,

Who died in a DECLINE;

He never rose in rank, I fear,

Though he was born to SHINE.

He once was FAT, but now, indeed,

He's thin as any griever;

He died--the Doctors all agreed,

Of a most BURNING fever.

One thing of him is said with truth,

With which I'm much amused;

It is--that when he stood, forsooth,

A STICK he always used.

Now WINDING-SHEETS he sometimes made,

But this was not enough,

For finding it a poorish trade,

He also dealt in SNUFF.

If e'er you said "GO OUT, I pray,"

He much ill nature show'd;

On such occasions he would say,

"Vy, if I do, I'M BLOW'D"

In this his friends do all agree,

Although you'll think I'm joking,

When GOING OUT 'tis said that he

Was very fond of SMOKING.

Since all religion he despised,

Let these few words suffice,

Before he ever was baptized

They DIPP'D him once or twice.

POETRY ON AN IMPROVED PRINCIPLE.

A RENCONTER WITH A TEA-TOTALLER.

PUNCH.

On going forth last night, a friend to see,

I met a man by trade a s-n-o-B;

Reeling along the path he held his way.

"Ho! ho!" quoth I, "he's d-r-u-n-K"

Then thus to him--"Were it not better, far,

You were a little s-o-b-e-R?

'T were happier for your family, I guess,

Than playing of such rum r-i-g-S.

Besides, all drunkards, when policemen see 'em,

Are taken up at once by t-h-e-M."

'Me drunk!" the cobbler cried, "the devil trouble you

You want to kick up a blest r-o-W.

Now, may I never wish to work for Hoby,

If drain I've had!" (the lying s-n-O-B!)

I've just return'd from a tee-total party,

Twelve on us jamm'd in a spring c-a-R-P.

The man as lectured, now, WAS drunk; why, bless ye,

He's sent home in a c-h-a-i-S-E.

He'd taken so much lush into his belly,

I'm blest if he could t-o-dd-L-E.

A pair on 'em--hisself and his good lady;--

The gin had got into her h-e-A-D.

(My eye and Betty! what weak mortals WE are;

They said they took but ginger b-e-E-R!)

But as for me, I've stuck ('t was rather ropy)

All day to weak imperial p-O-P.

And now we've had this little bit o' sparrin',

Just stand a q-u-a-r-t-e-R-N!"

ON A REJECTED NOSEGAY,

OFFERED BY THE AUTHOR TO A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG LADY, WHO RETURNED IT.

PUNCH.

What! then you won't accept it, wont you? Oh!

No matter; pshaw! my heart is breaking, though.

My bouquet is rejected; let it be:

For what am I to you, or you to me?

'Tis true I once had hoped; but now, alas!

Well, well; 'tis over now, and let it pass.

I was a fool--perchance I am so still;

You won't accept it! Let me dream you will:

But that were idle. Shall we meet again?

Why should we? Water for my burning brain?

I could have loved thee--Could! I love thee yet

Can only Lethe teach me to forget?

Oblivion's balm, oh tell me where to find!

Is it a tenant of the anguish'd mind?

Or is it?--ha! at last I see it come;

Waiter! a bottle of your oldest rum.

A SERENADE.

PUNCH.

Smile, lady, smile! (BLESS ME! WHAT'S THAT?

CONFOUND THE CAT!)--

Smile, lady, smile! One glance bestow

On him who sadly waits below,

To catch--(A VILLAIN UP ABOVE

HAS THROWN SOME WATER ON ME, LOVE!)

To catch one token--

(OH, LORD! MY HEAD IS BROKEN;

THE WRETCH WHO THREW THE WATER DOWN,

HAS DROPPED THE JUG UPON MY CROWN)--

To catch one token, which shall be

As dear as life itself to me.

List, lady, then; while on my lute

I breathe soft--(NO! I'LL NOT BE QUIET;

HOW DARE YOU CALL MY SERENADE A RIOT?

I DO DEFY YOU)--while upon my lute

I breathe soft sighs--(YES, I DISPUTE

YOUR RIGHT TO STOP ME)--breathe soft sighs.

Grant but one look from those dear eyes--

(THERE, TAKE THAT STUPID NODDLE IN AGAIN;

CALL THE POLICE!--DO! I'LL PROLONG MY STRAIN),

We'll wander by the river's placid flow--

(UNTO THE STATION-HOUSE!--NO, SIR, I WON'T GO;

LEAVE ME ALONE!)--and talk of love's delight.

(OH, MURDER!--HELP! I'M LOCKED UP FOR THE NIGHT!)

RAILROAD NURSERY RHYME.

PUNCH.

Air--"Ride a Cock Horse."

Fly by steam force the country across,

Faster than jockey outside a race-horse:

With time bills mismanaged, fast trains after slow,

You shall have danger wherever you go.

AN INVITATION TO THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS

PUNCH.

I have found out a gig-gig-gift for my fuf-fuf-fair,

I have found where the rattle-snakes bub-bub-breed;

Will you co-co-come, and I'll show you the bub-bub-bear,

And the lions and tit-tit-tigers at fuf-fuf-feed.

I know where the co-co-cockatoo's song

Makes mum-mum-melody through the sweet vale;

Where the mum-monkeys gig-gig-grin all the day long

Or gracefully swing by the tit-tit-tit-tail.

You shall pip-pip-play, dear, some did-did-delicate joke

With the bub-bub-bear on the tit-tit-top of his pip-pip-pip-pole;

But observe, 'tis forbidden to pip-pip-poke At the bub-bub-bear with

your pip-pip-pink pip-pip-pip-pip-parasol!

You shall see the huge elephant pip-pip-play,

You shall gig-gig-gaze on the stit-stit-stately racoon;

And then did-did-dear, together we'll stray

To the cage of the bub-bub-blue-faced bab-bab-boon.

You wished (I r-r-remember it well,

And I lul-lul-loved you the m-m-more for the wish)

To witness the bub-bub-beautiful pip-pip-pel-

ican swallow the l-l-live little fuf-fuf-fish!

THE PEOPLE AND THEIR PALACE.

IMPROVISED BY A FINE GENTLEMAN.

PUNCH.

Oh dem that absawd Cwystal Palace! alas,

What a pity they took off the duty on glass!

It's having been evaw ewected, in fact,

Was en-ti-a-ly owing to that foolish act.

Wha-evew they put it a cwowd it will dwaw,

And that is the weason I think it a baw;

I have no gweat dislike to the building, as sutch;

The People is what I object to sa mutch.

The People!--I weally am sick of the wawd:

The People is ugly, unpleasant, absawd;

Wha-evaw they go, it is always the case,

They are shaw to destroy all the chawm of the place.

Their voices are loud, and their laughter is hawse;

Their fealyaws are fabsy, iwegulaw, cause;

How seldom it is that their faces disclose,

What one can call, pwopally speaking, a nose!

They have dull heavy looks, which appeaw to expwess

Disagweeable stwuggles with common distwess;

The People can't dwess, doesn't know how to walk.

And would uttaly wuin a spot like the Pawk.

That I hate the People is maw than I 'll say;

I only would have them kept out of my way,

Let them stay at the pot-house, wejoice in the pipe,

And wegale upon beeaw, baked patatas, and twipe.

We must have the People--of that tha's no doubt--

In shawt they could not be, pahaps, done without.

If'twa not faw the People we could not have Boots

Tha's no doubt that they exawcise useful pasuits.

They are all vewy well in their own pwopa spheeaw

A long distance off; but I don t like them neeaw;

The slams is the place faw a popula show;

Don't encouwage the people to spoil Wotten Wow.

It is odd that the DUKE OF AWGYLL could pasue,

So eccentwic a cawse, and LAD SHAFTESBUWY too,

As to twy and pwesawve the Glass House on its site,

Faw no weason on awth but the People's delight.

A "SWELL'S" HOMAGE TO MRS. STOWE

PUNCH.

A must wead Uncle Tom--a wawk

Which A'm afwaid's extwemely slow,

People one meets begin to talk

Of Mrs. HARWIETBEECHASTOWE.

'Tis not as if A saw ha name

To walls and windas still confined;

All that is meawly vulga fame:

A don't wespect the public mind.

But Staffa'd House has made haw quite

Anotha kind a pawson look,

A Countess would pasist, last night,

In asking me about haw book.

She wished to know if I admiawd

EVA, which quite confounded me;

And then haw Ladyship inqwaw'd

Whethaw A did'nt hate LEGWEE?

Bai JOVE! A was completely flaw'd;

A wish'd myself, or haw, at Fwance;

And that's the way a fella's baw'd

By ev'wy gal he asks to dance.

A felt myself a gweat a fool

Than A had evaw felt befaw;

A'll study at some Wagged School

The tale of that old Blackamaw!

THE EXCLUSIVE'S BROKEN IDOL.

PUNCH.

A don't object at all to War

With a set a fellas like the Fwench,

But this dem wupcha with the Czar,

It gives one's feeling quite a wench.

The man that peace in Yawwup kept

Gives all his pwevious life the lie;

A fina fella neva stepped,

Bai JOVE, he's maw than six feet high!

He cwushed those democwatic beasts;

He'd flog a Nun; maltweat a Jew,

Or pawsecute those Womish Pwiests,

Most likely vewy pwoppa too.

To think that afta such a cawce,

Which nobody could eva blame,

The EMP'WA should employ bwute fawce

Against this countwy just the same!

We all consida'd him our fwiend,

But in a most erwoneus light,

In shawt, it seems you can't depend

On one who fancies might is wight.

His carwacta is coming out;

His motives--which A neva saw--

Are now wevealed beyond a doubt,

And we must fight--but what a baw!

THE LAST KICK OF FOP'S ALLEY.

PUNCH.

Air--"Weber's Last Waltz."

My wawst feaws are wealized; the Op wa is na maw,

And the wain of DONIZETTI and TAPISCHOWE are aw!

No entapwising capitalist bidding faw the lot,

In detail at last the pwopaty is being sold by SCOTT.

Fahwell to Anna Bolena; to Nauma, oh, fahwell!

Adieu to La Sonnambula! the hamma wings haw knell;

I Puwitani, too, must cease a cwowded house to dwaw,

And they've knocked down lovely Lucia, the Bwide of Lammamaw.

Fahwell the many twinkling steps; fahwell the gwaceful fawm

That bounded o'er the wose-beds, and that twipped amid the stawm;

Fahwell the gauze and muslin--doomed to load the Hebwew's bags;

Faw the Times assauts the wawdwobe went--just fancy--as old wags!

That ev'wy thing that's bwight must fade, we know is vewy twue,

And now we see what sublunawy glowwy must come to;

How twue was MAIDSTONE'S pwophecy; the Deluge we behold

Now that HAW MAJESTY'S Theataw is in cawse of being sold.

THE MAD CABMAN'S SONG OF SIXPENCE

[Footnote: This inimitable burlesque was published soon after the cab

fare had reduced from eightpence to sixpence a mile.]

PUNCH.

Wot's this?--wot hever is this 'ere?

Eh?--arf a suvrin!--feels like vun--

Boohoo! they won't let me have no beer!

Suppose I chucks it up into the sun!--

No--that ain't right--

The yaller's turned wite!

Ha, ha, ho!--he's sold and done--

Come, I say!--I won't stand that--

'Tis all my eye and BETTY MARTIN!

Over the left and all round my hat,

As the pewter pot said to the kevarten.

Who am I? HEMPRER of the FRENCH

LEWIS NAPOLEON BONYPART,

Old Spooney, to be sure--

Between you and me and the old blind oss

And the doctor says there ain't no cure.

D' ye think I care for the blessed Bench?--

From Temple Bar to Charing Cross?

Two mile and better--arf a crown--

Talk of screwing a feller down!

As for poor BILL, it's broke his art.

Cab to the Moon, sir? Here you are!--

That's--how much?--

A farthin' touch!

Now as we can't demand back fare.

But, guv'ner, wot can this 'ere be?--

The fare of a himperial carridge?

You don't mean all this 'ere for me!

In course you ain't heerd about my marridge--

I feels so precious keveer!

How was it I got that kick o' the 'ed?

I've ad a slight hindisposition

But a Beak ain't no Physician.

Wot's this 'ere, sir? wot's this 'ere?

You call yerself a gentleman? yer Snob!

He wasn't bled:

And I was let in for forty bob,

Or a month, instead:

And I caught the lumbago in the brain--

I've been confined--

But never you mind--

Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! I ain't hinsane.

Vot his this 'ere? Can't no one tell?

It sets my ed a spinnin--

The QUEEN'S eye winks--it ain't no sell--

The QUEEN'S 'ed keeps a grinnin:

Ha, ha! 't was guv

By the cove I druv--

I vunders for wot e meant it!

For e sez to me,

E sez, sez e,

As I ort to be contented!

Wot did yer say, sir, wot did yer say?

My fare!--wot, that!

Yer knocks me flat.

Hit in the vind!--I'm chokin--give us air--

My fare? Ha, ha! My fare? Ho, ho! My fare?

Call that my fare for drivin yer a mile?

I ain't hinsane--not yet--not yet avile!

Wot makes yer smile?

My blood is bilin' in a wiolent manner!

Wot's this I've got?

Show us a light--

This 'ere is--wot?--

There's sunthin the matter with my sight--

It is--yes!--No!--

'Tis, raly, though--

Oh, blow! blow! blow!--

Ho, ho, ho, ho! it is, it is a Tanner!

ALARMING PROSPECT

PUNCH.

To the Editor of "PUNCH."

SIR--You are aware, of course, that in the progress of a few centuries

the language of a country undergoes a great alteration; that the Latin

of the Augustan age was very different from that of the time of

Tarquin; and no less so from that which prevailed at the fall of the

Roman empire. Also, that the Queen's English is not precisely what it

was in Elizabeth's days; to say nothing of its variation from what was

its condition under the Plantagenets.

I observe, with regret, that our literature is becoming conversational,

and our conversation corrupt. The use of cant phraseology is daily

gaining ground among us, and this evil will speedily infect, if it has

not already infected, the productions of our men of letters. I fear

most for our poetry, because what is vulgarly termed SLANG is

unfortunately very expressive, and therefore peculiarly adapted for the

purposes of those whose aim it is to clothe "thoughts that breathe" in

"words that burn;" and, besides, it is in many instances equivalent to

terms and forms of speech which have long been recognized among

poetical writers as a kind of current coin.

The peril which I anticipate I have endeavored to exemplify in the

following

AFFECTING COPY OF VERSES (WITH NOTES).

Gently o'er the meadows prigging, [1]

Joan and Colin took their way,

While each flower the dew was swigging, [2]

In the jocund month of May.

Joan was beauty's plummiest [3] daughter;

Colin youth's most nutty [4] son;

Many a nob [5] in vain had sought her--

Him full many a spicy [6] one.

She her faithful bosom's jewel

Did unto this young un' [7] plight;

But, alas! the gov'nor [8] cruel,

Said as how he'd never fight. [9]

Soon as e'er the lark had risen,

They had burst the bonds of snooze, [10]

And her daddle [11] link'd in his'n, [12]

Gone to roam as lovers use.

In a crack [13] the youth and maiden

To a flowery bank did come,

Whence the bees cut, [14] honey-laden,

Not without melodious hum.

Down they squatted [15] them together,

"Lovely Joan," said Colin bold,

"Tell me, on thy davy, [16] whether

Thou dost dear thy Colin hold?"

"Don't I, just?" [17] with look ecstatic,

Cried the young and ardent maid;

"Then let's bolt!" [18] in tone emphatic,

Bumptuous [19] Colin quickly said.

"Bolt?" she falter'd, "from the gov'nor?

Oh! my Colin, that won't pay; [20]

He will ne'er come down, [21] my love, nor

Help us, if we run away."

"Shall we then be disunited?"

Wildly shrieked the frantic cove; [22]

"Mull'd [23] our happiness! and blighted

In the kinchin-bud [24] our love!

"No, my tulip! [25] let us rather

Hand in hand the bucket kick; [26]

Thus we'll chouse [27] your cruel father--

Cutting from the world our stick!" [28]

Thus he spoke, and pull'd a knife out,

Sharp of point, of edge full fine;

Pierc'd her heart, and let the life out--

"Now," he cried, "here's into mine!" [29]

But a hand unseen behind him

Did the fatal blow arrest.

Oh, my eye! [30] they seize and bind him--

Gentle Mure, conceal the rest!

In the precints of the prison,

In his cold crib [31] Colin lies;

Mourn his fate all you who listen,

Draw it mild, and mind your eyes! [32]

1. "Prigging," stealing; as yet exclusively applied to petty larceny.

"Stealing" is as well known to be a poetical term as it is to be an

indictable offense; the Zephyr and the Vesper Hymn, cum multis aliis,

are very prone to this practice.

2. "Swigging," drinking copiously--of malt liquor in particular.

"Pearly drops of dew we drink."--OLD SONG.

3. "Plummiest," the superlative of "plummy," exquisitely delicious; an

epithet commonly used by young gentlemen in speaking of a bonne bouche

or "tit bit," as a mince pie, a preserved apricot, or an oyster patty.

The transference of terms expressive of delightful and poignant savor

to female beauty, is common with poets. "Death, that hath sucked the

honey of thy breath."--SHAKESPEARE. "Charley loves a pretty girl, AS

SWEET AS SUGAR CANDY."--ANON.

4. "Nutty," proper--in the old English sense of "comely," "handsome."

"Six PROPER youths, and tall."--OLD SONG.

5. "Nob," a person of consequence; a word very likely to be patronized,

from its combined brevity and significancy.

6. "Spicy," very smart and pretty; it has the same recommendation, and

will probably supplant the old favorite "bonny." "Busk ye, busk ye, my

bonny, bonny bride."--HAMILTON.

7. "Young'un," youth, young man. "A YOUTH to fortune and to fame

unknown."--GRAY.

8. "Gov'nor," or "guv'nor," a contraction of "governor," a father. It

will, no doubt, soon supersede sire, which is at present the poetical

equivalent for the name of the author of one's existence. See all the

poets, passim.

9. "Said as how he'd never fight," the thing was out of the question;

a metaphorical phrase, though certainly, at present, a vulgar one.

10. "Snooze," slumber personified, like "Morpheus," or "Somnus."

11. "Daddle."--Q. from daktulos, a finger--pars pro toto!--Hand, the

only synonym for it that we have, except "Paw," "Mawley," &c., which

are decidedly generis ejusdem.12. "His'n," his own; corresponding to

the Latin suus, his own and

nobody else's, so frequently met with in OVID and others.

13. "Crack," a twinkling, an extremely short interval of time, which

was formerly expressed, in general, by a periphrasis; as, "Ere the

leviathan can swim a league!"--SHAKESPEARE.

14. "Cut," sped. A synonym.

15. "Squatted," sat. Id.

16. "Davy," affidavit, solemn oath. Significant and euphonious,

therefore alluring to the versifier.

17. "Don't I, just?" A question for a strong affirmation, as, "Oh,

yes, indeed I do;" a piece of popular rhetoric, pithy and forcible and

consequently almost sure to be adopted--especially by the pathetic

writers.

18. "Bolt," ran away. Syn.

19. "Bumptious," fearless, bold, and spirited; a very energetic

expression such as those rejoice in who would fair "DENHAM'S strength

with Waller's sweetness join."

20. "That won't pay," that plan will never answer. Metaph.

21. "Come down," disburse; also rendered in the vernacular by "fork

out." etc. Id.

22. "Cove," swain. "Alexis shunn'd his fellow SWAINS."--PRIOR. See

also SHENSTONE PASSIM.

23. "Mull'd," equivalent to "wreck'd," a term of pathos.

24. "Kinchin-bud," infant-bud. Metaph.; moreover, very tender, sweet,

and touching, as regards the idea.

25. "My tulip," a term of endearment. "Fairest FLOWER, all flowers

excelling." ODE TO A CHILD: COTTON.

26. "The bucket kick," pleonasm for die; as, "to breathe life's latest

sigh."--"To yield the soul,"--"the breath,"--or, UT APUD ANTIQ. "Animam

expirare," seu "efflare," etc.

27. "Chouse," cheat. Syn.

28. "Cutting . . . our stick." Pleon. ut supra.

29. "Here's unto mine!" A form of speech analogous to "Have at

thee."--SHAKESPEARE, and the dramatists generally.

30. "Oh, my eye!" an interjectional phrase, tantamount to "Oh,

heavens!" "Merciful powers!" etc.

31. "Cold crib," cold bed. "Go to thy cold bed and warm thee."--SHAK.

32. "Draw it mild," etc. Metaph. for "Rule your passions, and beware!"

I doubt not that it will be admitted by your judicious readers that I

have substantiated my case. Our monarchical institutions may preserve

our native tongue for a time, but if it does not become, at no very

distant period, as strange a medley as that of the American is at

present--to use the expressive but peculiar idiom of that

people--"IT'S A PITY."

I am, sir, etc., P.

EPITAPH ON A LOCOMOTIVE.

BY THE SOLE SURVIVOR OF A DEPLORABLE ACCIDENT (NO BLAME TO BE ATTACHED

TO ANY SERVANTS OF THE COMPANY).

PUNCH.

Collisions four

Or five she bore,

The Signals wor in vain;

Grown old and rusted,

Her biler busted,

And smash'd the Excursion Train.

"HER END WAS PIECES."

THE TICKET OF LEAVE.

[AS SUNG BY THE HOLDER, AMID A CONVIVIAL CIRCLE IN THE SLUMS.]

PUNCH.

Ven a prig has come to grief,

He's no call for desperation;

Though I'm a conwicted thief,

Still I've opes of liberation.

The Reverend Chapling to deceive

A certain dodge and safe resource is,

Whereby you gets a Ticket of Leave,

And then resumes your wicious courses.

(SPOKEN.) I vos lagged, my beloved pals, on a suspicion of burglary,

'ad up afore the Recorder, and got seven years' penal serwitude and

'ard labor. Hand preshus 'ard labor and 'ard lines I found it at first,

mind you. Vell, I says to myself, blow me! I ain't a goin' to stand

this 'ere, you know: but 'taint no ass kickin' agin stone walls and

iron spikes: wot I shall try and do is to gammon the parson.

"Ven a prig," etc.

Them parsons is so jolly green,

They're sure to trust in your conwersion,

Which they, in course, believes 'as been

The consequence of their exertion.

You shakes your 'ead, turns up your eyes,

And they takes that to be repentance;

Wherein you moans, and groans, and sighs,

By reason only of your sentence.

(SPOKEN.) Wen in a state of wiolent prespiration smokin' 'ot from the

crank, the Chapling comes into my cell, and he says, says he, "My man,"

he says, "how do you feel?" "'Appy, sir," says I, with a gentle sithe:

"thank you, sir: quite 'appy." "But you seem distressed, my poor

fellow," says he. "In body, sir," says I; "yes. But that makes me more

'appy. I'm glad to be distressed in body. It serves me right. But in

mind I'm 'appy: leastways almost 'appy." "'Ave you hany wish to

express," says he: "is there any request as you would like to make."

"'AWKER'S HEVENING POTION, sir," says I, "and the DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER:

if 'AWKER'S HEVENING POTION was but mine--and the DAIRYMAN'S

DAUGHTER--I think, sir, I should be quite 'appy." "My friend," says the

parson, "your desire shall be attended to," and hout he valked: me a

takin' a sight at 'im be'ind 'is back; for as soon as I thought he

wos out of 'earin', sings I to myself--

"Ven a prig," etc

In the chapel hof the Jug,

Then I did the meek and lowly,

Pullin' sitch a spoony mug

That I looked unkimmon pure and 'oly.

As loud as ever I could shout,

All the responses too I hutter'd,

Well knowing what I was about:

So the reverend Gent I buttered.

(Spoken.) Won day he comes to me arter service, and axes me what I

thought: I could do for myself in the way of yarnin a honest

liveliwood, if so be as I was to be allowed my liberty and to go back

to the world. "Ah! sir," says I, "I don't think no longer about the

world. 'Tis a world of sorrow and wanity, I havn't given a thought to

what I should do in it" "Every one," says the Chapling "has his sphere

of usefulness in society; can you think of no employment which you have

the desire and ability to follow?" "Well, sir," says I "if there is a

wocation which I should feel delight and pleasure in follerin 'tis that

of a Scripter Reader. But I ain't worthy to be a Scripter Reader. A

coal-porter of tracts and religious books, sir, I thinks that's what I

should like to try and be, if the time of my just punishment was up.

But there's near seven year, sir, to think about that--and p'raps

'tis better for me to be here." That's the way I used to soap the

Chapling--Cos vy?

"Ven a prig," etc.

So he thought I kissed the rod,

All the while my 'art was 'ardened;

And I 'adn't been very long in quod

Afore he got me as good as pardoned;

And here am I with my Ticket of Leave,

Obtained by shamming pious feeling,

Which lets me loose again to thieve,

For I means to persewere in stealing.

(Spoken.) With which resolution, my beloved pals, if you please I'll

couple the 'elth of the clergy; and may they hever continue to be sitch

kind friends as they now shows theirselves to us when we gets into

trouble. For,

"Ven a prig," etc.

A POLKA LYRIC.

BARCLAY PHILLIPS

Qui nunc dancere vult modo,

Wants to dance in the fashion, oh!

Discere debet--ought to know,

Kickere floor cum heel and toe,

One, two, three,

Hop with me,

Whirligig, twirligig, rapide.

Polkam jungere, Virgo, vis,

Will you join the polka, miss?

Liberius--most willingly,

Sic agimus--then let us try:

Nunc vide,

Skip with me,

Whirlabout, roundabout, celere.

Turn laeva cito, tum dextra,

First to the left, and then t' other way;

Aspice retro in vultu,

You look at her, and she looks at you.

Das palmam

Change hands, ma'am;

Celere--run away, just in sham.

A SUNNIT TO THE BIG OX.

COMPOSED WHILE STANDING WITHIN 2 FEET OF HIM, AND A TUCHIN' OF HIM NOW

AND THEN.

ANONYMOUS

All hale! thou mighty annimil--all hale!

You are 4 thousand pounds, and am purty wel

Perporshund, thou tremenjos boveen nuggit!

I wonder how big you was wen you

Wos little, and if yure muther wud no you now

That you've grone so long, and thick, and phat;

Or if yure father would rekognize his ofspring

And his kaff, thou elefanteen quodrupid!

I wonder if it hurts you mutch to be so big,

And if you grode it in a month or so.

I spose wen you wos young tha didn't gin

You skim milk but all the kreme you kud stuff

Into your little stummick, jest to see

How big yude gro; and afterward tha no doubt

Fed you on otes and ha and sich like,

With perhaps an occasional punkin or squosh!

In all probability yu don't no yure enny

Bigger than a small kaff; for if you did,

Yude brake down fences and switch your tail,

And rush around, and hook, and beller,

And run over fowkes, thou orful beast

O, what a lot of mince pize yude maik,

And sassengers, and your tale,

Whitch kan't wa fur from phorty pounds,

Wud maik nigh unto a barrel of ox-tail soop,

And cudn't a heep of stakes be cut oph yu,

Whitch, with salt and pepper and termater

Ketchup, wouldn't be bad to taik.

Thou grate and glorious inseckt!

But I must klose, O most prodijus reptile!

And for mi admirashun of yu, when yu di,

I'le rite a node unto yore peddy and remanes,

Pernouncin' yu the largest of yure race;

And as I don't expect to have a half a dollar

Agin to spare for to pa to look at yu, and as

I ain't a ded head, I will sa, farewell.

ENIGMATIC

RIDDLES BY MATTHEW PRIOR.

TWO RIDDLES.

Sphinx was a monster that would eat

Whatever stranger she could get;

Unless his ready wit disclos'd

The subtle riddle she propos'd.

Oedipus was resolv'd to go,

And try what strength of parts would do.

Says Sphinx, on this depends your fate;

Tell me what animal is that

Which has four feet at morning bright,

Has two at noon and three at night?

'Tis man, said he, who, weak by nature,

At first creeps, like his fellow creature,

Upon all-four; as years accrue,

With sturdy steps he walks on two;

In age, at length, grows weak and sick,

For his third leg adopts a stick.

Now, in your turn, 'tis just methinks,

You should resolve me, Madam Sphinx.

What greater stranger yet is he

Who has four legs, then two, then three;

Then loses one, then gets two more,

And runs away at last on four?

ENIGMA.

By birth I'm a slave, yet can give you a crown,

I dispose of all honors, myself having none:

I'm obliged by just maxims to govern my life,

Yet I hang my own master, and lie with his wife.

When men are a-gaming I cunningly sneak,

And their cudgels and shovels away from them take.

Pair maidens and ladies I by the hand get,

And pick off their diamonds, tho' ne'er so well set.

For when I have comrades we rob in whole bands,

Then presently take off your lands from your hands.

But, this fury once over, I've such winning arts,

That you love me much more than you do your own hearts.

ANOTHER.

Form'd half beneath, and half above the earth,

We sisters owe to art our second birth:

The smith's and carpenter's adopted daughters,

Made on the land, to travel on the waters.

Swifter they move, as they are straiter bound,

Yet neither tread the air, or wave, or ground:

They serve the poor for use, the rich for whim,

Sink when it rains, and when it freezes swim.

RIDDLES BY DEAN SWIFT AND HIS FRIENDS.

[Footnote: The following notice is subjoined to some of those riddles,

in the Dublin edition: "About nine or ten years ago (i. e. about 1724),

some ingenious gentle-men, friends to the author, used to entertain

themselves with writing riddles, and send them to him and their other

acquaintance; copies of which ran about, and some of them were printed,

both here and in England. The author, at his leisure hours, fell into

the same amusement; although it be said that he thought them of no

great merit, entertainment, or use. However, by the advice of some

persons, for whom the author has a great esteem, and who were pleased

to send us the copies, we have ventured to print the few following, as

we have done two or three before, and which are allowed to be genuine;

because we are informed that several good judges have a taste for such

kind of compositions."]

A MAYPOLE.

Deprived of root, and branch, and rind,

Yet flowers I bear of every kind:

And such is my prolific power,

They bloom in less than half an hour;

Yet standers-by may plainly see

They get no nourishment from me.

My head with giddiness goes round,

And yet I firmly stand my ground;

All over naked I am seen,

And painted like an Indian queen.

No couple-beggar in the land

E'er join'd such numbers hand in hand.

I join'd them fairly with a ring;

Nor can our parson blame the thing.

And though no marriage words are spoke,

They part not till the ring is broke:

Yet hypocrite fanatics cry,

I'm but an idol raised on high;

And once a weaver in our town,

A damn'd Cromwellian, knock'd me down.

I lay a prisoner twenty years,

And then the jovial cavaliers

To their old post restored all three--

I mean the church, the king, and me.

ON THE MOON.

I with borrowed silver shine,

What you see is none of mine.

First I show you but a quarter,

Like the bow that guards the Tartar:

Then the half, and then the whole,

Ever dancing round the pole.

What will raise your admiration,

I am not one of God's creation,

But sprung (and I this truth maintain),

Like Pallas, from my father's brain.

And after all, I chiefly owe

My beauty to the shades below.

Most wondrous forms you see me wear,

A man, a woman, lion, bear,

A fish, a fowl, a cloud, a field,

All figures heaven or earth can yield;

Like Daphne sometimes in a tree;

Yet am not one of all you see.

ON INK.

I am jet black, as you may see,

The son of pitch and gloomy night;

Yet all that know me will agree,

I'm dead except I live in light.

Sometimes in panegyric high,

Like lofty Pindar, I can soar,

And raise a virgin to the sky,

Or sink her to a filthy ----.

My blood this day is very sweet,

To-morrow of a bitter juice;

Like milk, 'tis cried about the street,

And so applied to different use.

Most wondrous is my magic power:

For with one color I can paint;

I'll make the devil a saint this hour,

Next make a devil of a saint.

Through distant regions I can fly,

Provide me but with paper wings;

And fairly show a reason why

There should be quarrels among kings;

And, after all, you'll think it odd,

When learned doctors will dispute,

That I should point the word of God,

And show where they can best confute.

Let lawyers bawl and strain their throats

'Tis I that must the lands convey,

And strip their clients to their coats;

Nay, give their very souls away.

ON A CIRCLE.

I'm up and down, and round about,

Yet all the world can't find me out;

Though hundreds have employ'd their leisure,

They never yet could find my measure.

I'm found almost in every garden,

Nay, in the compass of a farthing.

There's neither chariot, coach, nor mill,

Can move an inch except I will.

ON A PEN.

In youth exalted high in air,

Or bathing in the waters fair,

Nature to form me took delight,

And clad my body all in white.

My person tall, and slender waist,

On either side with fringes graced;

Tell me that tyrant man espied,

And dragg'd me from my mother's side,

No wonder now I look so thin;

The tyrant stript me to the skin:

My skin he flay'd, my hair he cropt:

At head and foot my body lopt:

And then, with heart more hard than s one,

He pick'd my marrow from the bone.

To vex me more, he took a freak

To slit my tongue and make me speak

But, that which wonderful appears,

I speak to eyes, and not to ears.

He oft employs me in disguise,

And makes me tell a thousand lies:

To me he chiefly gives in trust

To please his malice or his lust,

From me no secret he can hide:

I see his vanity and pride:

And my delight is to expose

His follies to his greatest foes.

All languages I can command,

Yet not a word I understand.

Without my aid, the best divine

In learning would not know a line:

The lawyer must forget his pleading;

The scholar could not show his reading

Nay; man my master is my slave;

I give command to kill or save.

Can grant ten thousand pounds a-year,

And make a beggar's brat a peer.

But, while I thus my life relate,

I only hasten on my fate.

My tongue is black, my mouth is furr'd,

I hardly now can force a word.

I die unpitied and forgot,

And on some dunghill left to rot.

A FAN.

From India's burning clime I'm brought,

With cooling gales like zephyrs fraught.

Not Iris, when she paints the sky,

Can show more different hues than I:

Nor can she change her form so fast,

I'm now a sail, and now a mast.

I here am red, and there am green,

A beggar there, and here a queen.

I sometimes live in a house of hair,

And oft in hand of lady fair.

I please the young, I grace the old,

And am at once both hot and cold

Say what I am then, if you can,

And find the rhyme, and you're the man.

ON A CANNON.

Begotten, and born, and dying with noise,

The terror of women, and pleasure of boys,

Like the fiction of poets concerning the wind,

I'm chiefly unruly when strongest confined.

For silver and gold I don't trouble my head,

But all I delight in is pieces of lead;

Except when I trade with a ship or a town,

Why then I make pieces of iron go down.

One property more I would have you remark,

No lady was ever more fond of a spark;

The moment I get one my soul's all a-fire,

And I roar out my joy, and in transport expire.

ON THE FIVE SENSES.

All of us in one you'll find,

Brethren of a wondrous kind;

Yet among us all no brother

Knows one title of the other;

We in frequent counsels are,

And our marks of things declare,

Where, to us unknown, a clerk

Sits, and takes them in the dark.

He's the register of all

In our ken, both great and small;

By us forms his laws and rules,

He's our master, we his tools;

Yet we can with greatest ease

Turn and wind him where you please.

One of us alone can sleep,

Yet no watch the rest will keep,

But the moment that he closes,

Every brother else reposes.

If wine's bought or victuals drest,

One enjoys them for the rest.

Pierce us all with wounding steel,

One for all of us will feel.

Though ten thousand cannons roar,

Add to them ten thousand more,

Yet but one of us is found

Who regards the dreadful sound.

ON SNOW.

From Heaven I fall, though from earth I begin.

No lady alive can show such a skin.

I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather,

But heavy and dark, when you squeeze me together.

Though candor and truth in my aspect I bear,

Yet many poor creatures I help to insnare.

Though so much of Heaven appears in my make,

The foulest impressions I easily take.

My parent and I produce one another,

The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother.

ON A CANDLE.

Of all inhabitants on earth,

To man alone I owe my birth,

And yet the cow, the sheep, the bee,

Are all my parents more than he:

I, a virtue, strange and rare,

Make the fairest look more fair;

And myself, which yet is rarer,

Growing old, grow still the fairer.

Like sots, alone I'm dull enough,

When dosed with smoke, and smear'd with snuff;

But, in the midst of mirth and wine,

I with double luster shine.

Emblem of the Fair am I,

Polish'd neck, and radiant eye;

In my eye my greatest grace,

Emblem of the Cyclops' race;

Metals I like them subdue,

Slave like them to Vulcan too;

Emblem of a monarch old,

Wise, and glorious to behold;

Wasted he appears, and pale,

Watching for the public weal:

Emblem of the bashful dame,

That in secret feeds her flame,

Often aiding to impart

All the secrets of her heart;

Various is my bulk and hue,

Big like Bess, and small like Sue:

Now brown and burnish'd like a nut,

At other times a very slut;

Often fair, and soft and tender,

Taper, tall, and smooth, and slender:

Like Flora, deck'd with various flowers

Like Phoebus, guardian of the hours:

But whatever be my dress,

Greater be my size or less,

Swelling be my shape or small

Like thyself I shine in all.

Clouded if my face is seen,

My complexion wan and green,

Languid like a love-sick maid,

Steel affords me present aid.

Soon or late, my date is done,

As my thread of life is spun;

Yet to cut the fatal thread

Oft revives my drooping head;

Yet I perish in my prime,

Seldom by the death of time;

Die like lovers as they gaze,

Die for those I live to please;

Pine unpitied to my urn,

Nor warm the fair for whom I burn;

Unpitied, unlamented too,

Die like all that look on you.

ON A CORKSCREW.

Though I, alas! a prisoner be,

My trade is prisoners to set free.

No slave his lord's commands obeys

With such insinuating ways.

My genius piercing, sharp, and bright,

Wherein the men of wit delight.

The clergy keep me for their ease,

And turn and wind me as they please.

A new and wondrous art I show

Of raising spirits from below;

In scarlet some, and some in white;

They rise, walk round, yet never fright

In at each mouth the spirits pass,

Distinctly seen as through a glass.

O'er head and body make a rout,

And drive at last all secrets out;

And still, the more I show my art,

The more they open every heart.

A greater chemist none than I

Who, from materials hard and dry,

Have taught men to extract with skill

More precious juice than from a still.

Although I'm often out of case,

I'm not ashamed to show my face.

Though at the tables of the great

I near the sideboard take my seat;

Yet the plain 'squire, when dinner's done,

Is never pleased till I make one;

He kindly bids me near him stand,

And often takes me by the hand.

I twice a-day a-hunting go,

And never fail to seize my foe;

And when I have him by the poll,

I drag him upward from his hole;

Though some are of so stubborn kind,

I'm forced to leave a limb behind.

I hourly wait some fatal end;

For I can break, but scorn to bend.

AN ECHO.

Never sleeping, still awake,

Pleasing most when most I speak;

The delight of old and young,

Though I speak without a tongue.

Nought but one thing can confound me,

Many voices joining round me;

Then I fret, and rave, and gabble,

Like the laborers of Babel.

Now I am a dog, or cow,

I can bark, or I can low;

I can bleat, or I can sing,

Like the warblers of the spring.

Let the love-sick bard complain,

And I mourn the cruel pain;

Let the happy swain rejoice,

And I join my helping voice:

Both are welcome, grief or joy,

I with either sport and toy.

Though a lady, I am stout,

Drums and trumpets bring me out:

Then I clash, and roar, and rattle,

Join in all the din of battle.

Jove, with all his loudest thunder,

When I'm vexed can't keep me under,

Yet so tender is my ear,

That the lowest voice I fear;

Much I dread the courtier's fate,

When his merit's out of date,

For I hate a silent breath,

And a whisper is my death.

ON THE VOWELS.

We are little airy creatures,

All of different voice and features;

One of us in glass is set,

One of us you'll find in jet.

T'other you may see in tin,

And the fourth a box within.

If the fifth you should pursue,

It can never fly from you.

ON A PAIR OF DICE.

We are little brethren twain,

Arbiters of loss and gain,

Many to our counters run,

Some are made, and some undone:

But men find it to their cost,

Few are made, but numbers lost.

Though we play them tricks forever,

Yet they always hope our favor.

ON A SHADOW IN A GLASS.

By something form'd, I nothing am,

Yet every thing that you can name;

In no place have I ever been,

Yet everywhere I may be seen;

In all things false, yet always true,

I'm still the same--but ever now.

Lifeless, life's perfect form I wear,

Can show a nose, eye, tongue, or ear,

Yet neither smell, see, taste, nor hear.

All shapes and features I can boast,

No flesh, no bones, no blood-no ghost:

All colors, without paint, put on,

And change, like the chameleon.

Swiftly I come, and enter there,

Where not a chink lets in the air;

Like thought, I'm in a moment gone,

Nor can I ever be alone:

All things on earth I imitate

Faster than nature can create;

Sometimes imperial robes I wear,

Anon in beggar's rags appear;

A giant now, and straight an elf,

I'm every one, but ne'er myself;

Ne'er sad I mourn, ne'er glad rejoice,

I move my lips, but want a voice,

I ne'er was born, nor ne'er can die,

Then, pr'ythee, tell me what am I?

ON TIME.

Ever eating, ever cloying,

All-devouring, all-destroying

Never finding full repast,

Till I eat the world at last.

CATALOGUE OF SOURCES

ADDISON, JOSEPH--The Essayist of the "Spectator;" born 1632 died 1708.

Addison, though one of the most celebrated of English humorists, wrote

scarcely a line of humorous verse.

ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM--An American writer; contributor to "Putnam's

Magazine;" author of a volume of poems recently published in Hartford.

ANONYMOUS--To Punch's Almanac, for 1856, we are indebted for an account

of this prolific writer:

"Of Anon," says Punch, "but little is known, though his works are

excessively numerous. He has dabbled in every thing. Prose and Poetry

are alike familiar to his pen. One moment he will be up the highest

flights of philosophy, and the next he will be down in some kitchen

garden of literature, culling an Enormous Gooseberry, to present it to

the columns of some provincial newspaper. His contributions are

scattered wherever the English language is read. Open any volume of

Miscellanies at any place you will, and you are sure to fall upon some

choice little bit signed by 'Anon.' What a mind his must have been! It

took in every thing like a pawnbroker's shop. Nothing was too trifling

for its grasp. Now he was hanging on to the trunk of an elephant and

explaining to you how it was more elastic than a pair of India-rubber

braces; and next he would be constructing a suspension bridge with a

series of monkey's tails, tying them together as they do pocket-

handkerchief's in the gallery of a theater when they want to fish up a

bonnet that has fallen into the pit.

"Anon is one of our greatest authors. If all the things which are

signed with Anon's name were collected on rows of shelves, he would

require a British Museum all to himself. And yet of this great man so

little is known that we are not even acquainted with his Christian

name. There is no certificate of baptism, no moldy tombstone, no musty

washing-bill in the world on which we can hook the smallest line of

speculation whether it was John, or James, or Joshua, or Tom, or Dick,

or Billy Anon. Shame that a man should write so much, and yet be known

so little. Oblivion uses its snuffers, sometimes, very unjustly. On

second thoughts, perhaps, it is as well that the works of Anon were not

collected together. His reputation for consistency would not probably

be increased by the collection. It would be found that frequently he

had contradicted himself---that in many instances when he had been

warmly upholding the Christian white of a question he had afterward

turned round, and maintained with equal warmth the Pagan black of it.

He might often be discovered on both sides of a truth, jumping boldly

from the right side over to the wrong, and flinging big stones at any

one who dared to assail him in either position. Such double-sidedness

would not be pretty, and yet we should be lenient to such

inconsistencies. With one who had written so many thousand volumes, who

had twirled his thoughts as with a mop on every possible subject, how

was it possible to expect any thing like consistency? How was it likely

that he could recollect every little atom out of the innumerable atoms

his pen had heaped up?

"Anon ought to have been rich, but he lived in an age when piracy was

the fashion, and when booksellers walked about, as it were, like Indian

chiefs with the skulls of the authors they had slain, hung round their

necks. No wonder, therefore, that we know nothing of the wealth of

Anon. Doubtless he died in a garret, like many other kindred spirits,

Death being the only score out of the many knocking at his door that he

could pay. But to his immortal credit let it be said he has filled more

libraries than the most generous patrons of literature. The volumes

that formed the fuel of the barbarians' bonfire at Alexandria would be

but a small book-stall by the side of the octavos, quartos, and

duodecimos he has pyramidized on our book-shelves. Look through any

catalogue you will, and you will find that a large proportion of the

works in it have been contributed by Anon. The only author who can in

the least compete with him in fecundity is Ibid."

ANTI-JACOBIN, THE---Perhaps the most famous collection of Political

Satires extant. Originated by Canning in 1797, it appeared in the form

of a weekly newspaper, interspersed with poetry, the avowed object of

which was to expose the vicious doctrines of the French Revolution, and

to hold up to ridicule and contempt the advocates of that event, and

the sticklers for peace and parliamentary reform. The editor was

William Gifford, the vigorous and unscrupulous critic and poetaster the

writers, Mr. John Hookham Frere, Mr. Jenkinson (afterward Earl of

Liverpool); Mr. George Ellis, Lord Clare, Lord Mornington (afterward

Marquis Wellesley), Lord Morpeth (afterward Earl of Carlisle), Baron

Macdonald, and others. These gentlemen spared no means, fair or foul,

in their attempts to blacken their adversaries. Their most

distinguished countrymen, if opposed to the Tory government of the time

being, were treated with no more respect than foreign adversaries, and

were held up to public execration as traitors, blasphemers, and

debauchees. The period was one of great political excitement, a fierce

war with republican France being in progress, the necessity for which

divided the public into two great parties; national credit being

affected, the Bank of England suspending cash payments, mutinies

breaking out in the fleets at Spithead and the Nore, and Ireland at the

verge of rebellion. Spain, also, had declared war against Britain,

which was thus left to contend singly against the power of France.

Party feeling running very high, the anti-Jacobins were by no means

discriminating in their attacks, associating men together who really

had nothing in common. Hence the reader is surprised to find Charles

Lamb and other non-intruders into politics, figuring as congenial

conspirators with Tom Paine. Fox, Sheridan, Erskine, and other eloquent

liberals of the day, with Tierney, Home Tooke, and Coleridge were at

the same tune writing and talking in the opposite extreme, and little

quarter was given--certainly none on the part of the Tory wits. The

poetry of the "Anti-Jacobin," however, was not exclusively political,

comprising also parodies and burlesques on the current literature of

the day, some being of the highest degree of merit, and distinguished

by sharp wit and broad humor of the happiest kind. In these, Canning

and his coadjutors did a real service to letters, and assisted in a

purification which Gifford, by his demolition of the Delia Cruscan

school of poetry had so well begun. Perhaps no lines in the English

language have been more effective or oftener quoted than Canning's

"Friend of Humanity and the Knife Grinder." Many of the celebrated

caricatures of Gilray were originally designed to illustrate the Poetry

of the Anti-Jacobin. It had, however, but a brief, though brilliant

existence. Wilberforce and others of the more moderate supporters of

the ministry became alarmed at the boldness of the language employed.

Pitt (himself a contributor to the journal), was induced to interfere,

and after a career of eight months, the "Anti-Jacobin" (in its original

form), ceased to be.

AYTOUN, WILLIAM--Professor of Polite Literature in the Edinburg

University: editor of "Blackwood's Magazine:" son-in-law of the late

Professor Wilson. Professor Aytoun was bred to the bar but, we believe,

never came into practice. He is tha author of several humorous pieces,

and of many in which the intention to be humorous was not realized. He

is what the English call a very CLEVER man. Like many others who excel

in ridicule and sarcasm, he is devoid of that kind of moral principle

which makes a writer prefer the Just to the Dashing. Aytoun is a fierce

Tory in politics--a snob on principle. The specimens of his humorous

poetry contained in this collection were taken from the "Ballads of Bon

Gaultier," and the "Idees Napoleoniennes," editions of both of which

have been published in this country.

BARHAM, REV. RICHARD HARRIS--Author of the celebrated "Ingoldsby

Legends," published originally in "Bentley's Miscellany," afterward

collected and published in three volumes, with a memoir by a son of the

author.

Mr. Barham was born at Canterbury, England, December 6th, 1788. His

family is of great antiquity, having given its name to the well-known

"Barham Downs," between Dover and Canterbury. He was educated at St.

Paul's School in Canterbury, where he made the acquaintance of Richard

Bentley, who afterward became his publisher. From this school, he wont

to Oxford, entering Brazennose College, as a gentleman commoner, where

he met Theodore Hook, and formed a friendship with that prince of wits

which terminated only with Hook's life. At the University, Barham led

a wild, dissipated life--as the bad custom then was--and was noted as a

wit and good fellow. Being called to account, on one occasion, by his

tutor for his continued absence from morning prayer, Barham replied,

"The fact is, sir, you are too LATE for me."

"Too late?" exclaimed the astonished tutor.

"Yes, sir," rejoined the student, "I can not sit up till seven o'clock

in the morning. I am a man of regular habits, and unless I get to bed

by four or five, I am fit for nothing the next day."

The tutor took this jovial reply seriously, and Barham perceiving that

he was really wounded, offered a sincere apology, and afterward

attended prayers more regularly.

Entering the church, he devoted himself to his clerical duties with

exemplary assiduity, and obtained valuable preferment, rising at length

to be one of the Canons of St. Paul's Cathedral. This office brought

him into relations with Sydney Smith, with whom, though Barham was a

Tory, he had much convivial intercourse.

Very early in life Mr. Barham became an occasional contributor to

Blackwood's Magazine, then in the prime of its vigorous youth. The

series of contributions called "Family Poetry," which appear in the

volumes for 1823, and subsequent years, were by him. Most of those

humorous effusions have been transferred to this volume. In 1837 Mr.

Bentley established his "Miscellany," and secured the services of his

friend Barham, who, up to this time was unknown to the general public,

though he had been for nearly twenty years a successful writer. The

"Ingoldsby Legends" now appeared in rapid succession, and proved so

popular that their author soon became one of the recognized wits of the

day. A large number of these unique and excellent productions enrich

the present collection, "As respects these poems," says Mr. Barham's

biographer, "remarkable as they have been pronounced for the wit and

humor which they display, their distinguishing attractions lies in the

almost unparalleled flow and felicity of the versification. Popular

phrases, sentences the most prosaic, even the cramped technicalities of

legal diction, and snatches from well-nigh every language, are wrought

in with an apparent absence of all art and effort that surprises,

pleases, and convulses the reader at every turn. The author triumphs

with a master hand over every variety of stanza, however complicated or

exacting; not a word seems out of place, not an expression forced;

syllables the most intractable, and the only partners fitted for them

throughout the range of language are coupled together as naturally as

those kindred spirits which poets tell us were created pairs, and

dispersed in space to seek out their particular mates. A harmony

pervades the whole, a perfect modulation of numbers, never, perhaps,

surpassed, and rarely equaled in compositions of their class. This was

the forte of Thomas Ingoldsby; a harsh line or untrue rhyme grated on

his ear like the Shandean hinge." These observations are just. As a

rhymer, Mr. Barham has but one equal in English literature--Byron.

Mr. Barham died at London on the 17th of June, 1845, in the

fifty-seventh year of his age. He was an extremely amiable,

benevolent character. It does not appear that his love of the

humorous was ever allowed to interfere with the performance of his

duties as a clergyman. Without being a great preacher, he was a

faithful and kindly pastor, never so much in his element as when

ministering to the distresses, or healing the differences of his

parishioners. Unlike his friend, Sydney Smith, he was singularly fond

of the drama, and for many years was a member of the Garrick Club. He

was one of the few English writers of humorous verse, ALL of whose

writings may be read aloud by a father to his family, and in whose

wit there was no admixture of gall.

"BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY"--A London Monthly Magazine, founded about twenty

years ago by Mr. Bentley, the publisher. Charles Dickens, and the

author of the Ingoldsby Legends were among the first contributors.

BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE--First appeared in April, 1817 Founded by William

Blackwood, a shrewd Edinburgh bookseller. Its literary ability and

fierce political partisanship, soon placed it fore-most in the ranks of

Tory periodicals. Perhaps no magazine has ever achieved such celebrity,

or numbered such a host of illustrious contributors. John Wilson, the

world-famous "Christopher North," was the virtual, though not nominal

editor, Blackwood himself retaining that title. It would be a long task

to enumerate all, who, from the days of Sir Walter Scott and the

Ettrick Shepherd, to those of Bulwer and Charles Mackay, have appeared

in its columns. Maginn, Lockhart, Gillies, Moir, Landor, Wordsworth,

Coleridge, Lamb, Bowles, Barry Cornwall, Gleig, Hamilton, Aird, Sym, De

Quincey, Allan Cunningham, Mrs. Hemans, Jerrold, Croly, Warren,

Ingoldsby (Barham), Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Milnes, and many

others, of scarcely less note, found in Blackwood scope for their

productions, whether of prose or verse. In its early days much of

personality and sarcasm marked its pages, savage onslaughts on Leigh

Hunt, and "the Cockney School of Literature," alternating with attacks

on the Edinburgh Review, the Quarterly, and all Whigs and Whig

productions whatever. The celebrated Noctes Ambrosianae, a series of

papers containing probably more learning, wit, eloquence, eccentricity,

humor, and personality than have ever appeared elsewhere, formed part

of the individuality of Blackwood. They were written by Wilson, Maginn,

Lockhart, and Hogg, the two first named (and especially Wilson), having

the pre-eminence. To the New York edition of this work, by Dr. Shelton

Mackenzie (whose notes contain a perfect mine of information), we refer

the reader for further particulars relative to Blackwood.

BROUGHAM, LORD--The well-known member of the English House of Peers. It

seems, from some jocularities attributed to his lordship, that he adds

to his many other claims to distinction that of being a man of wit.

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN--The most celebrated of American poets. Editor

of the "New York Evening Post." Born 1794.

BURNS, ROBERT--Born 1750, died 1796. The best loved, most national,

most independent, truest, and greatest of Scottish poets, of whom to

say more here were an impertinence.

BUTLER, SAMUEL--Born in 1612; the son of a substantial farmer in

Worcestershire, England. Very little is known of the earlier portion of

his life, as he had reached the age of fifty before he was so much as

heard of by his contemporaries. He appears to have received a good

education at the cathedral school of his native county, and to have

filled various situations, as clerk in the service of Thomas Jeffries

of Earl's Croombe, secretary to the Countess of Kent, and general man

of business to Sir Samuel Luke, of Cople Hoo, Bedfordshire, who, it is

said, served as the model for his hero, Hudibras. The first part of

this singular poem was published at the close of 1662, and met with

extraordinary success. Its wit, its quaint sense and learning, its

passages of sarcastic reflection on all manner of topics, and above

all, its unsparing ridicule of men and things on the Puritan side,

combined to render it a general favorite. The reception of Part II.,

which appeared a year subsequent, was equally flattering. Yet its

author seems to have fallen into the greatest poverty and obscurity,

from which be never was enabled to emerge. It appears to have been his

strange fate to flash all at once into notoriety, which lasted

precisely two years, to fill the court and town during that time with

continuous laughter, intermingled with inquiries who and what he was,

and then for seventeen long years to plod on unknown and unregarded,

still hearing his Hudibras quoted, and still preparing more of it, or

matter similar, with no result. He died, in almost absolute

destitution, in 1680, and was buried at a friend's expense, in the

church-yard of St. Paul's, Covent Garden.

BYROM--A noted English Jacobite. Born 1691.

BYRON, GEORGE GORDON NOEL--Born 1788, died in Greece, 1824. Respecting

his celebrated Satire on the poet Rogers, which appears in this

collection, we read the following in a London periodical:--"The satire

on Rogers, by Lord Byron, is not surpassed for cool malignity,

dexterous portraiture, and happy imagery, in the whole compass of the

English language. It is said, and by those well informed, that Rogers

used to bore Byron while in Italy, by his incessant minute

dilettantism, and by visits at hours when Byron did not care to see

him. One of many wild freaks to repel his unreasonable visits was to

set his big dog at him. To a mind like Byron's, here was sufficient

provocation for a satire. The subject, too, was irresistible. Other

inducements were not wanting. No man indulged himself more in

sarcastic remarks on his cotemporaries than Mr. Rogers. He indulged

his wit at any sacrifice. He spared no one, and Byron, consequently

did not escape. Sarcastic sayings travel on electric wings--and one of

Rogers's personal and amusing allusions to Byron reached the ears of

the poetic pilgrim at Ravenna. Few characters can bear the microscopic

scrutiny of wit. Byron suffered. Fewer characters can bear its

microscopic scrutiny when quickened by anger, and Rogers suffered still

more severely.

"This, the greatest of modern satirical portraits in verse, was written

before their final meeting at Bologna. Rogers was not aware that any

saying of his had ever reached the ear of Byron, and Byron never

published the verses on Rogers. They met like the handsome women

described by Cibber, who, though they wished one another at the devil,

are 'My dear,' and 'My dear,' whenever they meet. One doubtless

considered his saying as something to be forgotten, and the other his

verses as something not to be remembered. These verses are not included

in Byron's works, and are very little known."

CHAUCER lived in the thirteenth century, dying in 1400. He is

designated the father of English poetry. The obsolete phraseology

of his writings, though presenting a barrier to general appreciation

and popularity, will never deter those who truly love the "dainties

that are bred in a book" from holding him in affection and reverence.

His chief work, the "Canterbury Pilgrimage," "well of English

undefiled" as it is, was written in the decline of life, when its

author had passed his sixtieth year. For catholicity of spirit, love

of nature, purity of thought, pathos, humor, subtle and minute

discrimination of character and power of expressing it, Chaucer has

one superior--Shakspeare.

CHESTERFIELD, LORD--Born in 1694; died 1773. Courtier, statesman, and

man of the world; famous for many things, but known to literature

chiefly by his "Letters to his Son," which have formed three

generations of "gentlemen," and still exert great influence.

Chesterfield was a noted wit in his day, but most of his good things

have been lost.

CLEVELAND, JOHN--A political writer of Charles the First's time;

author of several satirical pieces, now known only to the curious.

He died in 1659.

COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR--Poet, plagiarist, and opium-eater. Born at

Bristol, in 1770. Died near London in 1834. He was a weak man of

genius, whose reputation, formerly immense, has declined since he has

been better known. But "Christabel" and the "Ancient Mariner," will

charm many generations of readers yet unborn. Most of the epigrams

which appear in his works are ADAPTED from Leasing.

COWPER, WILLIAM--The gentle poet of religious England: born 1731; died

1800. Cowper was an elegant humorist, despite the gloominess of his

religious belief. It is said, however, that his most comic effusions

were written during periods of despondency.

"CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS"--A monthly Magazine, published at the period of

the artist's greatest celebrity, principally as a vehicle for his

pencil. Its editor was Laman Blanchard, a lively essayist, and amiable

man, whom anticipations of pecuniary distress subsequently goaded to

suicide.

DEVREAUX, S. H.--An American scholar. Translator of "Yriarte's Fables,"

recently published in Boston.

ERSKINE, THOMAS--One of the most eminent of English lawyers. Born 1750;

died 1823.

FIELDING, HENRY--The great English Humorist; author of "Tom Jones;"

born, 1707; died, 1754.

GAY, JOHN--A poet and satirist of the days of Queen Anne. Born 1688;

died, 1732. His wit, gentleness, humor, and animal spirits appear to

have rendered him a general favorite. In worldly matters he was not

fortunate, losing 20,000 pounds by the South Sea bubble; nor did his

interest, which was by no means inconsiderable, succeed in procuring

him a place at court. He wrote fables, pastorals, the burlesque poem of

"Trivia," and plays, the most successful and celebrated of which is

the "Beggar's Opera." Of this work there exists a sequel or second

part, as full of wit and satire as the original, but much less known.

Its performance was suppressed by Walpole, upon whom it was supposed to

reflect.

GRAY, THOMAS--Author of the "Elegy written in a Country Church-yard;"

Professor of Modern History in the University of Cambridge. Born in

London, 1716; died, 1771. Gray was learned in History, Architecture,

and Natural History. As a poet, he was remarkable for the labor

bestowed on his poems, for his reluctance to publish, and for the small

number of his compositions. Carlyle thinks he is the only English poet

who wrote less than he ought.

HALPIX.----- --A writer for the press, a resident of New York, author

of "Lyrics by the Letter H," published a year or two since by Derby.

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL--A physician of Boston, Professor of Anatomy in

Harvard University; born at Cambridge, Mass., in 1809. Dr. Holmes's

humorous verses are too well known to require comment in this place.

His burlesque, entitled "Evening, by a Tailor," is very excellent of

its kind.

HOOD, THOMAS--Author of the "Song of the Shirt," which Punch had the

honor of first publishing. Born in 1798; died in 1845. Hood was the son

of a London bookseller, and began life as a clerk. He became afterward

an engraver, but was drawn gradually into the literary profession,

which he exercised far more to the advantage of his readers than his

own. His later years were saddened by ill-health and poverty. Some of

his comic verses seem forced and contrived, as though done for needed

wages. Hood was one of the literary men who should have made of

literature a staff, not a crutch. It was in him to produce, like Lamb,

a few very admirable things, the execution of which should have been

the pleasant occupation of his leisure, not the toil by which he gained

his bread.

HUNT, JAMES HENRY LEIGH--English Journalist and Poet. Born in 1784. His

father was a clergyman of the Established church, and a man of wit and

feeling.

JOHNSON, DR. SAMUEL--Born 1709; died 1784. Critic, moralist,

lexicographer, and, above all, the hero of Boswell's Life of Johnson.

The ponderous philosopher did not disdain, occasionally, to give play

to his elephantine wit.

JONSON, BEN--Born 1574; died 1637. Poet, playwright, and friend of

Shakspeare, in whose honor he has left a noble eulogium. A manly,

sturdy, laborious, English genius, of whose dramatic productions,

however, but one ("Every Man in his Humor") has retained possession of

the stage. He is also the author of some exquisite lyrics.

LAMB, CHARLES--Born in London, 1775; died, 1832. As a humorous

essayist, unrivaled and peculiar, he is known and loved by all who are

likely to possess this volume.

LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE--A living English writer of considerable

celebrity, author of "Imaginary Conversations," contributor to several

leading periodicals. Mr. Landor is now advanced in years. His humorous

verses are few, and not of striking excellence.

"LANTERN," THE--A comic weekly, in imitation of "Punch," published in

this city a few years ago. The leading spirit of the "Lantern" was Mr.

John Brougham, the well-known dramatist and actor.

"LEADER," THE--A London weekly newspaper, of liberal opinions; ably

written and badly edited, and, therefore, of limited circulation.

LESSING, GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM--The well-known German author; born 1729;

died 1781. The epigrams of Lessing have been so frequently stolen by

English writers, that, perhaps, they may now be considered as belonging

to English literature, and hence entitled to a place in this

collection. At least we found the temptation to add them to our stock

irresistible.

LINDSAY--A friend of Dean Swift. A polite and elegant scholar; an

eminent pleader at the bar in Dublin, and afterward advanced to be one

of the justices of the Common Pleas.

LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL--The American Poet. Born at Boston, in the year

1819. To Mr. Lowell must be assigned a high, if not the highest place,

among American writers of humorous poetry. The Biglow Papers, from

which we have derived several excellent pieces for this volume, is one

of the most ingenious and well-sustained jeux d'esprit in existence.

MAPES, WALTER DE--A noted clerical wit of Henry the Second's time.

MOORE, THOMAS--The Irish poet; born at Dublin in the year 1780. Moore

has been styled the best writer of political squibs that ever lived. He

was employed to write comic verses on passing events, by the conductors

of the "London Times," in which journal many of his satirical poems

appeared. The political effusions that gave so much delight thirty

years ago are, however, scarcely intelligible to the present

generation, or if intelligible, not interesting. But Moore wrote many a

sprightly stanza, the humor of which does not depend for its effect

upon local or cotemporary allusions. This collection contains most of

them.

MORRIS, GEORGE P--The father of polite journalism in this city, and the

most celebrated of American Song-writers. Born in Pennsylvania about

the beginning of the present century.

"PERCY RELIQUES"--A celebrated collection of ancient ballads, edited

by Bishop Percy, a man of great antiquarian knowledge and poetic

taste. The publication of the "Percy Reliques" in the last century,

introduced the taste for the antique, which was gratified to the

utmost by Sir Walter Scott, and which has scarcely yet ceased to rage

in some quarters.

PHILIPS, BARCLAY--A living English writer, of whom nothing is known in

this country.

PINDAR, PETER--See Wolcott.

POPE, ALEXANDER--The poet of the time of Queen Anne; author of the

"Dunciad," which has been styled the most perfect of satires. Born in

London, 1688; died, 1744.

PRAED, WINTHROP MACKWORTH--An English poet, author of "Lillian," born

in London about the year 1800. Little is known of Mr. Praed in this

country, though it was here that his poems were first collected and

published in a volume. His family is of the aristocracy of the city,

where some of his surviving relations are still engaged in the

business of banking. At Eton, Praed was highly distinguished for his

literary talents. He was for some time the editor of "The Etonian," a

piquant periodical published by the students. From Eton he went to

Cambridge, where he won an unprecedented number of prizes for poems

and epigrams in Greek, Latin, and English. On returning to London, he

was associated with Thomas Babbington Macaulay in the editorship of

"Knight's Quarterly Magazine," after the discontinuance of which he

occasionally contributed to the "New Monthly." A few years before

his death, Mr. Praed became a member of Parliament, but owing to his

love of ease and society, obtained little distinction in that body.

Mr. N. P. Willis thus writes of the poet as he appeared in society:

"We chance to have it in our power to say a word as to Mr. Praed's

personal appearance, manners, etc. It was our good fortune when first

in England (in 1834 or '35), to be a guest at the same hospitable

country-house for several weeks. The party there assembled was

somewhat a femous one-Miss Jane Porter, Miss Julia Pardoe, Krazinski

(the Polish historian), Sir Gardiner Wilkinson (the Oriental traveler),

venerable Lady Cork ('Lady Bellair' of D'lsraeli's novel), and several

persons more distinguished in society than in literature. Praed, we

believe, had not been long married, but he was there with his wife. He

was apparently about thirty-five, tall, and of dark complexion, with a

studious bend in his shoulders, and of irregular features strongly

impressed with melancholy. His manners were particularly reserved,

though as unassuming as they could well be. His exquisitely beautiful

poem of 'Lillian' was among the pet treasures of the lady of the house,

and we had all been indulged with a sight of it, in a choicely bound

manuscript copy--but it was hard to make him confess to any literary

habits or standing. As a gentleman of ample means and retired life, the

land of notice drawn upon him by the admiration of this poem, seemed

distasteful. His habits were very secluded. We only saw him at table

and in the evening; and, for the rest of the day, he was away in the

remote walks and woods of the extensive park around the mansion,

apparently more fond of solitude than of anything else. Mr. Praed's

mind was one of wonderful readiness--rhythm and rhyme coming to him

with the flow of an improvisatore. The ladies of the party made the

events of every day the subjects of charades, epigrams, sonnets, etc.,

with the design of suggesting inspiration to his ready pen; and he was

most brilliantly complying, with treasures for each in her turn."

Mr. Praed died on the 15th of July, 1839, without having accomplished

any thing worthy the promise of his earlier years--another instance of

Life's reversing the judgment of College. As a writer of agreeable

trifles for the amusement of the drawing-room, he has had few

superiors, and it is said that a large number of his impromptu

effusions are still in the possession of his friends unpublished. Two

editions of his poems have appeared in New York, one by Langley in

1844, and another by Redfield a few years later.

PRIOR, MATTHEW--Born 1664; died 1721. A wit and poet of no small genius

and good nature--one of the minor celebrities of the days of Queen

Anne. His "Town and Country Mouse," written to ridicule of Dryden's

famous "Hind and Panther," procured him the appointment of Secretary of

Embassy at the Hague, and he subsequently rose to be ambassador at

Paris. Suffering disgrace with his patrons he was afterward recalled,

and received a pension from the University of Oxford, up to the time of

his death.

"PUNCH"--Commenced in July, 1841, making its appearance just at the

close of the Whig ministry, under Lord Melbourne, and the accession of

the Tories, headed by Sir Robert Peel. Originated by a circle of wits

and literary men who frequented the "Shakspeare's Head," a tavern in

Wych-street, London. Mark Lemon, the landlord was, and still is, its

editor. He is of Jewish descent, and had some reputation for ability

with his pen, having been connected with other journals, and also

written farces and dramatic pieces. Punch's earliest contributors were

Douglas Jerrold, Albert Smith, Gilbert Abbot a'Beckett Hood and Maginn-

Thackeray's debut occurring in the third volume. It is said that one

evening each week was especially devoted to a festive meeting of these

writers, where, Lernon presiding, they deliberated as to the conduct

and course of the periodical. "Punch," however, was at first not

successful, and indeed on the point of being abandoned as a bad

speculation, when Messrs. Bradbury and Evans, two aspiring printers,

now extensive publishers, purchased it at the very moderate price of

one hundred pounds, since which time it has continued their property,

and a valuable one. In those days it presented a somewhat different

appearance from the present, being more closely printed, finer type

used, and the illustrations (with the exception of small, black,

silhouette cuts, after the style of those in similar French

publications), were comparatively scanty. Soon, however, "Punch" throve

apace, amply meriting its success. To Henning's drawings (mostly those

of a political nature), were added those of Leech, Kenny Meadows, Phiz

(H. K. Browne), Gilbert, Alfred Crowquill (Forrester), and

others--Doyle's pencil not appearing till some years later. Chief of

these gentlemen in possession of the peculiar artistic ability which

has identified itself with "Punch" is unquestionably Mr. John Leech,

of whom we shall subsequently speak, at greater length. He has remained

constant to the journal from its first volume.

Jerrold's writings date from the commencement. Many essays and satiric

sketches over fancy signatures, are from his pen. His later and longer

productions, extending through many volumes, are "Punch's Letters to

his Son," "Punch's Complete Letter Writer," "Twelve Labors of

Hercules," "Autobiography of Tom Thumb," "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain

Lectures," "Capsicum House for Young Ladies," "Our Little Bird," "Mrs.

Benimble's Tea and Toast," "Miss Robinson Crusoe," and "Mrs. Bib's

Baby," the last two of which were never completed. During the

publication of the "Caudle Lectures," "Punch" reached the highest

circulation it has attained. We have the authority of a personal friend

of the author for the assertion that their heroine was no fictitious

one. The lectures were immensely popular, Englishmen not being slow to

recognize in Jerold's caustic portraiture the features of a very

formidable household reality. But with the ladies Mrs. Caudle proved no

favorite, nor, in their judgment, did the "Breakfast-Table-Talk," of

the Henpecked Husband (subsequently published in the Almanac of the

current year), make amends for the writer's former productions.

Albert Smith's contributions to the pages of "Punch," were the

"Physiologies of the London Medical Student," "London Idler," and

"Evening Parties," with other miscellaneous matter. Much of the

author's own personal experience is probably comprised in the former,

and his fellow-students and intimates at Middlesex Hospital were at no

loss to identify the majority of the characters introduced. Mr. Smith's

connection with "Punch" was not of long continuance. A severe criticism

appearing subsequently in its columns, on his novel of the "Marchioness

of Brinvilliers" (published in "Bentley's Miscellany," of which journal

he was then editor), he, in retaliation, made an onslaught on "Punch"

in another story, the "Pottleton Legacy," where it figures under the

title of the Cracker.

Mr. Gilbert a'Beckett, who had before been engaged in many unsuccessful

periodicals, found in "Punch" ample scope for his wit and extraordinary

faculty of punning. In "The Comic Blackstone," "Political Dictionary,"

"Punch's Noy's Maxims," and the "Autobiography, and other papers

relating to Mr. Briefless," he put his legal knowledge to a comic use.

Many fugitive minor pieces have also proceeded from his pen, and he has

but few equals in that grotesque form of hybrid poetry known as

Macaronic. He is now a London magistrate, and PAR EXCELLENCE, the

punster of "Punch."

The Greek versions of sundry popular ballads, such as "The King of the

Cannibal Islands," were the work of Maginn. Hood's world-famous "Song

of the Shirt," first appeared in "Punch's" pages.

Thackeray has also been an industrious contributor, Commencing with

"Miss Tickletoby's Lectures" (an idea afterward carried out in a

somewhat different fashion by a'Beckett in his "Comic History of

England"), he, besides miscellaneous writings, produced the "Snob

Papers," "Jeames's Diary," "Punch in the East," "Punch's Prose

Novelists," "The Traveler in London," "Mr. Brown's Letters to a Young

Man about Town," and "The Proser." Of the merits of these works it is

unnecessary to speak. The "Book of Snobs" may rank with its author's

most finished productions. "Jeames's Diary," suggested by the

circumstance of a May-fair footman achieving sudden affluence by

railroad speculations during the ruinously exciting period of 1846,

may, however, be considered only a further carrying out of the original

idea of "Charles Yellowplush." A ballad in it, "The Lines to my

Sister's Portrait," is said, to use a vulgar, though expressive phrase,

to have SHUT UP Lord John Manners, who had achieved some small

reputation as "one of the Young England poits." Thackeray parodied his

style, and henceforth the voice of the minstrel was dumb in the land.

Like Jerrold's "Caudle Lectures," of which many versions appeared at

the London theaters, Jeames's adventures were dramatized. The "Prose

Novelists" contain burlesque imitations of Bulwer, D'Israeli, Lever,

James, Fennimore Cooper, and Mrs. Gore. The illustrations accompanying

Thackeray's publications in "Punch," are by his own hand, as are also

many other sketches scattered throughout the volumes. They may be

generally distinguished by the insertion of a pair of spectacles in

the corner. His articles, too, frequently bear the signature "SPEC."

Not until the commencement of 1855 did Thackeray relinquish his

connection with "Punch." An allusion to this, from his pen, contained

in an essay on the genius of Leech, and published in the "Westminster

Review," was commented upon very bitterly by Jerrold, in a notice of

the article which appeared in "Lloyd's Weekly Newspaper," of which he

is editor.

During the last five years, other writers, among which may be

enumerated the Mayhew brothers, Mr. Tom Taylor, Angus Reach, and

Shirley Brooks, have found a field for their talents in "Punch.'Only

Jerrold, a'Beckett, and the editor, Mark Lemon, remain of the

original contributors. Its course has been a varied, but perfectly

independent one, generally, however, following the lead of the

almighty "Times," that glory and shame of English journalism, on

political questions. In earlier days it was every way more democratic,

and the continuous ridicule both of pen and pencil directed against

Prince Albert, was said to have provoked so much resentment on the part

of the Queen, that she proposed interference to prevent the artist

Doyle supplying two frescos to the pavilion at Buckingham Palace.

"Punch's" impartiality has been shown by attacks on the extremes and

absurdities of all parties, and there can be little question that it

has had considerable influence in producing political reform, and a

large and liberal advocacy of all popular questions. In behalf of that

great change of national policy, the repeal of the Corn Laws, "Punch"

fought most vigorously, not, however, forgetting to bestow a few raps

of his baton on the shoulders of the Premier whose wisdom or sense of

expediency induced such sudden tergiversation as to bring it about.

O'Connell's blatant and venal patriotism was held up to merited

derision, which his less wary, but more honest followers in agitation,

O'Brien, Meagher, and Mitchell, equally shared. Abolition (or at least

modification) of the Game Laws, and of the penalty of death, found

championship in "Punch," though the latter was summarily dropped upon a

change in public opinion, perhaps mainly induced by one of Carlyle's

"Latter Day" pamphlets. "Punch" has repeatedly experienced (and

merited) the significant honor of being denied admission to the

dominions of continental monarchs. Louis Philippe interdicted its

presence in France, even (if we recollect aright) before the Spanish

marriage had provoked its fiercest attacks--subsequently, however,

withdrawing his royal veto. In Spain, Naples, the Papal Dominions,

those of Austria, Russia, and Prussia, the hunch-backed jester has been

often under ban as an unholy thing, or only tolerated in a mutilated

form. Up to the commencement of the late war, strict measures of this

kind were in operation upon the Russian frontier, but "Punch" now is

freely accorded ingress in the Czar's dominions--probably as a means of

keeping up the feeling of antagonism toward England.

Its success has provoked innumerable rivals and imitators, from the

days of "Judy," "Toby," "The Squib," "Joe Miller," "Great Gun," and

"Puppet-Show," to those of "Diogenes" and" "Falstaff." None

haveachieved permanent popularity, and future attempts would most

likely be

attended with similar failure, as "Punch" has a firm hold on the

likings of the English people, and especially Londoners. It fairly

amounts to one of their institutions. Like all journals of merit and

independence, it has had its law troubles, more than one action for

libel having been commenced against it. James Silk Buckingham, the

traveler and author, took this course, in consequence of the

publication of articles disparaging a club of his originating, known as

the "British and Foreign Institute." A Jew clothes-man, named Hart,

obtained a small sum as damages from "Punch." But Alfred Bunn, lessee

of Drury Lane Theater, libretto-scribbler, and author of certain trashy

theatrical books, though most vehemently "pitched into," resorted to

other modes than legal redress. He produced a pamphlet of a shape and

appearance closely resembling his tormentor, filled not only with

quizzical, satirical, and rhyming articles directed against Lemon,

a'Beckett, and Jerrold (characterizing them as Thick-head, Sleek-head,

and Wrong-head), but with caricature cuts of each. Whether in direct

consequence or not, it is certain that "the poet Bunn" was unmolested

in future.

Our notice would scarcely be complete without a few lines devoted to

the "Punch" artists, and more especially John Leech. Doyle (the son of

H. B., the well-known political caricaturist), whose exquisite

burlesque medieval drawings illustrative of the "Manners and Customs of

ye Englishe," will be remembered by all familiar with "Punch's" pages,

relinquished his connection with the journal and the yearly salary of

eight hundred pounds, in consequence of the Anti-papal onslaughts which

followed the nomination of Cardinal Wiseman to the (Catholic)

Archbishop of Westminster. The artist held the older faith, and was

also a personal friend of "His Eminence." His place was then filled by

John Tenniel, a historical painter, who had supplied a cartoon to the

Palace of Westminster, and is still employed on "Punch," he, in

conjunction with John Leech, and an occasional outsider, furnishing the

entire illustrations. John Leech, himself, to whom the periodical

unquestionably owes half its success, has been constant to "Punch" from

an early day. He has brought caricature into the region of the fine

arts, and become the very Dickens of the pencil in his portrayal of the

humorous side of life. Before his advent, comic drawing was confined to

very limited topics, OUTRE drawings and ugliness of features forming

the fun--such as it was. Seymour's "Cockney Sportsmen," and

Cruikshank's wider (yet not extensive) range of subjects, were then the

best things extant. How stands the case now? Let "Punch's"

twenty-nine volumes, with their ample store of pictorial mirth of

Leech's creating, so kindly, so honest, so pleasant and graceful,

answer. Contrast their blameless wit and humor with the equivoque

and foul double entendre of French drawings, and think of the

difference involuntarily suggested between the social atmospheres of

Paris and London.

Leech is a good-looking fellow, approaching the age of forty, and not

unlike one of his own handsome "swells" in personal appearance. The

Royal Academy Exhibition of 1855 contained his portrait, painted by

Millais, the chief of the pre-Raphaelite artists, who is said to be his

friend. As may be gathered from his many sporting sketches, Leech is

fond of horses, and piques himself on "knowing the points" of a good

animal. (We may mention, by-the-by, that Mr. "Briggs" of equestrian

celebrity had his original on the Stock Exchange.) He in summer travels

considerably, forwarding his sketches to the "Punch" office, generally

penciling the accompanying words on the wood-block. In one of the past

volumes, dating some eight or ten years back, he has introduced himself

in a cut designated "our artist during the hot weather," wherein he

appears with his coat off, reclining upon a sofa, and informing a

pretty servant-girl who enters the room, that "he is busy." Quizzical

Portraits of the writers of "Punch" have been introduced in its pages.

In Jerrold's "Capsicum House" (vol. XII.), the author's portrait,

burlesqued into the figure of "Punch," occurs more than once. And a

double-page cut, entitled "Mr. Punch's Fancy Ball," in the early part

of the same volume, comprises sketches of the then entire corps of

contributors, artistic and literary. They are drawn as forming the

orchestra, Lemon conducting, Jerrold belaboring a big drum, Thackeray

playing on the flute, Leech the violin, and others extracting harmony

from divers musical instruments. Again they appear at a later date, as

a number of boys at play, in an illustration at the commencement of

Vol. XXVII.

"Punch's" office is at 85 Fleet-street. The engraving, printing, and

stereotyping is performed at Lombard-street, Whitefriars, where its

proprietors have extensive premises.

REJECTED ADDRESSES, by James and Horace Smith, published in London,

October, 1812. The most successful jeu d'esprit of modern times, having

survived the occasion that suggested it for nearly half a century, and

still being highly popular. It has run through twenty editions in

England, and three in America. The opening of Drury-lane theater in

1802, after having been burned and rebuilt, and the offering of a prize

of fifty pounds by the manager for the best opening address, were the

circumstances which suggested the production of the "Rejected

Addresses." The idea of the work was suddenly conceived, and it was

executed in six weeks. In the preface to the eighteenth London edition

the authors give an interesting statement of the difficulties they

encountered in getting the volume published:

"Urged forward by our hurry, and trusting to chance, two very bad

coadjutors in any enterprise, we at length congratulated ourselves on

having completed our task in time to have it printed and published by

the opening of the theater. But, alas! our difficulties, so far from

being surmounted, seemed only to be beginning. Strangers to the arcana

of the bookseller's trade, and unacquainted with their almost

invincible objection to single volumes of low price, especially when

tendered by writers who have acquired no previous name, we little

anticipated that they would refuse to publish our 'Rejected Addresses,'

even although we asked nothing for the copyright. Such, however, proved

to be the case. Our manuscript was perused and returned to us by

several of the most eminent publishers. Well do we remember betaking

ourselves to one of the craft in Bond-street, whom we found in a back

parlor, with his gouty leg propped upon a cushion, in spite of which

warning he diluted his luncheon with frequent glasses of Madeira. 'What

have you already written?' was his first question, and interrogatory to

which we had been subjected in almost every instance. 'Nothing by which

we can be known.' 'Then I am afraid to undertake the publication.' We

presumed timidly to suggest that every writer must have a beginning,

and that to refuse to publish for him until he had acquired a name, was

to imitate the sapient mother who cautioned her son against going into

the water until he could swim. 'An old joke--a regular Joe!' exclaimed

our companion, tossing off another bumper. 'Still older than Joe

Miller,' was our reply; 'for, if we mistake not, it is the very first

anecdote in the facetiae of Hierocles.' 'Ha, sirs!' resumed the

bibliopolist, 'you are learned, are you? do, hoh!--Well, leave your

manuscript with me; I will look it over to-night, and give you an

answer to-morrow.' Punctual as the clock we presented ourselves at his

door on the following morning when our papers were returned to us with

the observation--'These trifles are really not deficient in smartness;

they are well, vastly well for beginners; but they will never

do--never. They would not pay for advertising, and without it I should

not sell fifty copies.'

"This was discouraging enough. If the most experienced publishers

feared to be out of pocket by the work, it was manifest D FORTIORI,

that its writers ran a risk of being still more heavy losers, should

they undertake the publication on their own account. We had no

objection to raise a laugh at the expense of others; but to do it at

our own cost, uncertain as we were to what extent we might be involved,

had never entered into our contemplation. In this dilemma, our

'Addresses,' now in every sense rejected, might probably have never

seen the light, had not some good angel whispered us to betake

ourselves to Mr. John Miller, a dramatic publisher, then residing in

Bow-street, Covent Garden. No sooner had this gentleman looked over our

manuscript, than he immediately offered to take upon himself all the

risk of publication, and to give us half the profits, SHOULD THERE BE

ANY; a liberal proposition, with which we gladly closed. So rapid and

decided was its success, at which none were more unfeignedly astonished

than its authors, that Mr. Miller advised us to collect some

'Imitations of Horace,' which had appeared anonymously in the 'Monthly

Mirror,' offering to publish them upon the same terms. We did so

accordingly; and as new editions of the 'Rejected Addresses' were

called for in quick succession, we were shortly enabled to sell our

half copyright in the two works to Mr. Miller, for one thousand pounds!

We have entered into this unimportant detail, not to gratify any

vanity of our own, but to encourage such literary beginners as may

be placed in similar circumstances; as well as to impress upon

publishers the propriety of giving more consideration to the possible

merit of the works submitted to them, than to the mere magic of a

name."

The authors add, that not one of the poets whom they "audaciously

burlesqued," took offense at the ludicrous imitation of their style.

From "Sir Walter Scott," they observe, "we received favors and notice,

both public and private, which it will be difficult to forget, because

we had not the smallest claim upon his kindness. 'I certainly must have

written this myself!' said that fine tempered man to one of the

authors, pointing to the description of the Fire, 'although I forgot

upon what occasion.' Lydia White, a literary lady, who was prone to

feed the lions of the day, invited one of us to dinner; but,

recollecting afterward that William Spencer formed one of the party,

wrote to the latter to put him off; telling him that a man was to be at

her table whom he 'would not like to meet.' 'Pray who is this whom I

should not like to meet?' inquired the poet 'O!' answered the lady,

'one of those men who have made that shameful attack upon you!' 'The

very man upon earth. I should like to know!' rejoined the lively and

careless bard. The two individuals accordingly met, and have continued

fast friends over since. Lord Byron, too, wrote thus to Mr. Murray

from Italy: 'Tell him we forgive him, were he twenty times our

satirist.'

"It may not be amiss to notice, in this place, one criticism of a

Leicester clergyman, which may be pronounced unique: 'I do not see why

they should have been rejected,' observed the matter-of-fact annotator;

'I think some of them very good!' Upon the whole, few have been the

instances, in the acrimonious history of literature, where a malicious

pleasantry like the 'Rejected Addresses'--which the parties ridiculed

might well consider more annoying than a direct satire--instead of

being met by querulous bitterness or petulant retaliation, has procured

for its authors the acquaintance, or conciliated the good-will, of

those whom they had the most audaciously burlesqued."

James Smith died in London on the 29th of December, 1836, in the

sixty-fourth year of his age. His brother survived him many years. Both

were admired and ever-welcome members of the best society of London.

ROGERS, SAMUEL--The English poet and banker, recently deceased. Author

of a "pretty poem," entitled, "The Pleasures of Memory." In his old

age, he was noted for the bitter wit of his conversation.

SAXE, JOHN G--Editor of the "Burlington Gazette," and "Wandering

Minstrel." The witty poems of Mr. Saxe are somewhat in the manner of

Hood. To be fully appreciated they must be heard, as they roll in

sonorous volumes, from his own lips. His collected poems were published

a few years ago by Ticknor & Fields, and have already reached a ninth

edition.

SCOTT, SIR WALTER--Born 1771; died, 1832. Sir Walter Scott, though he

excelled all his cotemporaries in the humorous delineation of

character, wrote little humorous verse. The two pieces published in

this volume are so excellent that one is surprised to find no more of

the same description in his writings.

SHERIDAN, DR. THOMAS--Noted for being an intimate friend of Dean Swift,

and the grandfather of Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Born in 1684; died in

1738. He was an eccentric, witty, somewhat learned, Dublin

schoolmaster. He published some sermons and a translation of Persius;

acquired great celebrity as a teacher; but through the imprudence that

distinguished the family, closed his life in poverty. We may infer from

the few specimens of his facetious writings that have been preserved

that he was one of the wittiest of a nation of wits. One or two of his

epigrams are exquisitely fine.

SHERIDAN, RICHARD BRINSLEY--Author of the "Rivals," and the "School for

Scandal." Born at Dublin in 1751; died, 1816. Sheridan must have

written more humorous poetry than we have been able to discover. It is

probable that most of his epigrams and verified repartees have either

not been preserved, or have escaped our search. Moore, in his "Life of

Sheridan," gives specimens of his satirical verses, but only a few, and

but one of striking excellence.

SMITH, HORACE--See "Rejected Addresses."

SMITH, JAMES--See "Rejected Addresses."

SMITH, REV. SYDNEY--The jovial prebendary of St. Paul's, the wittiest

Englishman that ever lived; died in 1845. Except the "Recipe for

Salad," and an epigram, we have found no comic verses by him. He

"leaked another way."

SOUTHEY, ROBERT--The English poet and man of letters; born in 1774.

Southey wrote a great deal of humorous verse, much of which is

ingenious and fluent. He was amazingly dexterous in the use of words,

and excelled all his cotemporaries, except Byron and Barham, in the

art of rhyming.

SWIFT, JONATHAN--Dean of St. Patrick's. Dublin. Born 1667; died, 1739.

It were superfluous to speak of the career or abilities of this great

but most unhappy man, who unquestionably ranks highest amid the

brilliant names of that brilliant epoch. His works speak for him, and

will to all time. Of his poetical writings it may be said that though

only surpassed in wit and humor by his more universally known prose,

they are infinitely NASTIER than any thing else in the English

language. They have, however, the negative virtue of being nowise

licentious or demoralizing--or at least no more so than is inseparable

from the choice of obscene and repulsive subjects. Nearly all his

unobjectionable comic verses may be found in this volume.

THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE--The greatest of living satirists. Born at

Calcutta of English parents, in 1811. Most of Mr. Thackeray's comic

verses appeared originally in "Punch" They have recently been collected

and published in a volume with other and more serious pieces. This

collection contains nothing more mirth-provoking than the "Ballads of

Pleaceman X," by Mr. Thackeray.

WAKE, WILLIAM BASIL--An English writer, contributor to "Hone's Every

Day Book."

WALLER, EDMUND--Born in Warwickshire, England, in 1608. Poet, man of

fortune, member of the Long Parliament, and traitor to the People's

Cause. He was fined ten thousand pounds and banished, but Cromwell

permitted his return, and the poet rewarded his clemency by a

panegyric.

WESLEY, REV. SAMUEL--A clergyman of the Church of England; father of

the celebrated John Wesley; author of a volume of poems, entitled

"Maggots;" born in 1662; died in 1785.

WILLIAMS, SIR CHARLES HANBURY--A noted wit of George the Second's time;

born in 1709; died, 1759. He was a friend of Walpole, sat in parliament

for Monmouth, and rose to some distinction in the diplomatic service.

An edition of his writings in three volumes was published in London in

1822. Time has robbed his satires of their point, by burying in

oblivion the circumstances that gave rise to them. A single specimen of

his writings is all that was deemed worthy of place in this volume.

WILLIS, N. P.--The well-known American poet and journalist, Mr. Willis

has written many humorous poems, but only a few have escaped the usual

fate of newspaper verses. Born at Portland, Maine, 1807.

WOLCOTT, JOHN (Peter Pindar), the most voluminous, and one of the best

of the humorous poets who have written in the English language. He was

born in Devonshire, England, and flourished in the reign of George III,

whose peculiarities it was his delight to ridicule. No king was ever so

mercilessly and so successfully lampooned by a poet as George III by

Peter Pindar. Wolcott was by profession a Doctor of Medicine. In 1766,

we find him accompanying his relative, Sir William Trelawney, to

Jamaica, of which island Sir William had been appointed governor. While

there, the rector of a valuable living died, and Dr. Wolcott conceived

the idea of entering the church and applying for the vacant rectorship.

To this end he began actually to perform the duties of the parish,

reading prayers and preaching, and soon after returned to England to

take orders, provideed with powerful recommendations. To his great

disappointment, the Bishop of London refused him ordination, and the

reader of Peter Pindar will not be at a loss to guess the reason of the

refusal. Wolcott now established himself in Truro, and continued in the

successful practice of medicine there for several years.

At Truro, he met the youthful Opie. "It is much to his honor," says one

who wrote in Wolcott's own lifetime, "that during his residence in

Cornwall, he discovered, and encouraged, the fine talents of the late

Opie, the artist; a man of such modesty, simplicity of manners, and

ignorance of the world, that it is probable his genius would have lain

obscure and useless, had he not met, in Dr. Wolcott, with a judicious

friend, who knew how to appreciate his worth, and to recommend it tothe

admiration of the world. The Doctor's taste in painting has already

been noticed; and it may now be added, that perhaps few men have

attained more correct notions on the subject, and the fluency with

which he expatiates on the beauties or defects of the productions of

the ancient or modern school, has been amply acknowledged by all who

have shared in his company. The same taste appears to have directed him

to some of the first subjects of his poetical satire, when he began to

treat the public with the pieces which compose these volumes. The

effect of these poems on the public mind will not be soon forgot.

Here appeared a new poet and a new critic, a man of unquestionable

taste and luxuriant fancy, combined with such powers of satire, as

became tremendously formidable to all who had the misfortune to fall

under his displeasure. It was acknowledged at the same time, that amid

some personal acrimony, and some affectionate preferences, not far

removed, perhaps, from downright prejudice, he in general grounded his

praise and censure upon solid principles, and carried the public mind

along with him, although sometimes at the heavy expense of

individuals."

Later in life Dr. Wolcott removed to London, where he died at an

advanced age. His writings were, as may be supposed, eagerly read at

the time of their publication, but since the poet's death, they have

scarcely received the attention which their merits deserve. The present

collection contains all of his best poems which are not of a character

too local and cotemporary, or too coarse in expression, to be enjoyed

by the modern reader.

YRIARTE, DON TOMAS DE--An eminent Spanish poet, born at Teneriffe about

1760. He is known to English readers chiefly through his "Literary

Fables," of which, specimens, translated by Mr. Devereaux, are given in

this volume, Yriarte also wrote comedies and essays.