Chapter II: Preface (2)

"When late our sire beloved
Was taken deadly ill,
Sir Lawyer, you attended him
(I mean to tax your bill);
And, as you signed and wrote it,
I prithee read the will"

The lawyer wiped his spectacles,
And drew the parchment out;
And all the Brentford family
Sat eager round about:
Poor Ned was somewhat anxious,
But Tom had ne'er a doubt.

"My son, as I make ready
To seek my last long home,
Some cares I have for Neddy,
But none for thee, my Tom:
Sobriety and order
You ne'er departed from.

"Ned hath a brilliant genius,
And thou a plodding brain;
On thee I think with pleasure,
On him with doubt and pain."
("You see, good Ned," says Thomas,
"What he thought about us twain.")

"Though small was your allowance,
You saved a little store;
And those who save a little
Shall get a plenty more."
As the lawyer read this compliment,
Tom's eyes were running o'er.

"The tortoise and the hare, Tom,
Set out at each his pace;
The hare it was the fleeter,
The tortoise won the race;
And since the world's beginning
This ever was the case.

"Ned's genius, blithe and singing,
Steps gaily o'er the ground;
As steadily you trudge it,
He clears it with a bound;
But dulness has stout legs, Tom,
And wind that's wondrous sound.

"O'er fruit and flowers alike, Tom,
You pass with plodding feet;
You heed not one nor t'other,
But onwards go your beat;
While genius stops to loiter
With all that he may meet;

"And ever as he wanders,
Will have a pretext fine
For sleeping in the morning,
Or loitering to dine,
Or dozing in the shade,
Or basking in the shine.

"Your little steady eyes, Tom,
Though not so bright as those
That restless round about him
His flashing genius throws,
Are excellently suited
To look before your nose.

"Thank Heaven, then, for the blinkers
It placed before your eyes;
The stupidest are strongest,
The witty are not wise;
Oh, bless your good stupidity!
It is your dearest prize.

"And though my lands are wide,
And plenty is my gold,
Still better gifts from Nature,
My Thomas, do you hold--
A brain that's thick and heavy,
A heart that's dull and cold.

"Too dull to feel depression,
Too hard to heed distress,
Too cold to yield to passion
Or silly tenderness.
March on--your road is open
To wealth, Tom, and success.

"Ned sinneth in extravagance,
And you in greedy lust."
("I' faith," says Ned, "our father
Is less polite than just.")
"In you, son Tom, I've confidence,
But Ned I cannot trust.

"Wherefore my lease and copyholds,
My lands and tenements,
My parks, my farms, and orchards,
My houses and my rents,
My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock,
My five and three per cents,

"I leave to you, my Thomas"--
("What, all?" poor Edward said,
"Well, well, I should have spent them,
And Tom's a prudent head ")--
"I leave to you, my Thomas,--
To you IN TRUST for Ned."

The wrath and consternation
What poet e'er could trace
That at this fatal passage
Came o'er Prince Tom his face;
The wonder of the company,
And honest Ned's amaze?

"'Tis surely some mistake,"
Good-naturedly cries Ned;
The lawyer answered gravely,
"'Tis even as I said;
'Twas thus his gracious Majesty
Ordain'd on his death-bed.

"See, here the will is witness'd
And here's his autograph."
"In truth, our father's writing,"
Says Edward with a laugh;
"But thou shalt not be a loser, Tom;
We'll share it half and half."

"Alas! my kind young gentleman,
This sharing cannot be;
'Tis written in the testament
That Brentford spoke to me,
'I do forbid Prince Ned to give
Prince Tom a halfpenny.

"'He hath a store of money,
But ne'er was known to lend it;
He never helped his brother;
The poor he ne'er befriended;
He hath no need of property
Who knows not how to spend it.

"'Poor Edward knows but how to spend,
And thrifty Tom to hoard;
Let Thomas be the steward then,
And Edward be the lord;
And as the honest labourer
Is worthy his reward,

"'I pray Prince Ned, my second son,
And my successor dear,
To pay to his intendant
Five hundred pounds a year;
And to think of his old father,
And live and make good cheer.'"

Such was old Brentford's honest testament.
He did devise his moneys for the best,
And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest.
Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent;
But his good sire was wrong, it is confess'd,
To say his son, young Thomas, never lent.
He did. Young Thomas lent at interest,
And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.

Long time the famous reign of Ned endured O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew, But of extravagance he ne'er was cured. And when both died, as mortal men will do, 'Twas commonly reported that the steward Was very much the richer of the two.

UNIVERSALLY RESPECTED.

BY J. BRUNTON STEPHENS.

I.

Biggs was missing: Biggs had vanished; all the town was in a ferment; For if ever man was looked to for an edifying end, With due mortuary outfit, and a popular interment, It was Biggs, the universal guide, philosopher, and friend.

But the man had simply vanished; speculation wove no tissue
That would hold a drop of water; each new theory fell flat.
It was most unsatisfactory, and hanging on the issue
Were a thousand wagers ranging from a pony to a hat.

Not a trace could search discover in the township or without it,
And the river had been dragged from morn till night with no avail.
His continuity had ceased, and that was all about it,
And there wasn't ev'n a grease-spot left behind to tell the tale.

That so staid a man as Biggs was should be swallowed up in mystery
Lent an increment to wonder--he who trod no doubtful paths,
But stood square to his surroundings, with no cloud upon his history,
As the much-respected lessee of the Corporation Baths.

His affairs were all in order; since the year the alligator
With a startled river bather made attempt to coalesce,
The resulting wave of decency had greater grown and greater,
And the Corporation Baths had been a marvellous success.

Nor could trouble in the household solve the riddle of his clearance,
For his bride was now in heaven, and the issue of the match
Was a patient drudge whose virtues were as plain as her appearance--
Just the sort whereto no scandal could conceivably attach.

So the Whither and the Why alike mysterious were counted;
And as Faith steps in to aid where baffled Reason must retire,
There were those averred so good a man as Biggs might well have
mounted
Up to glory like Elijah in a chariot of fire!

For indeed he was a good man; when he sat beside the portal
Of the Bath-house at his pigeon-hole, a saint within a frame,
We used to think his face was as the face of an immortal,
As he handed us our tickets, and took payment for the same.

And, Oh, the sweet advice with which he made of such occasion
A duplicate detergent for our morals and our limbs--
For he taught us that decorum was the essence of salvation,
And that cleanliness and godliness were merely synonyms;

But that open-air ablution in the river was a treason
To the purer instincts, fit for dogs and aborigines,
And that wrath at such misconduct was the providential reason
For the jaws of alligators and the tails of stingarees.

But, alas, our friend was gone, our guide, philosopher, and tutor,
And we doubled our potations, just to clear the inner view;
But we only saw the darklier through the bottom of the pewter,
And the mystery seemed likewise to be multiplied by two.

And the worst was that our failure to unriddle the enigma
In the "rags" of rival towns was made a byword and a scoff,
Till each soul in the community felt branded with the stigma
Of the unexplained suspicion of poor Biggs's taking off.

So a dozen of us rose and swore this thing should be no longer: Though the means that Nature furnished had been tried without result, There were forces supersensual that higher were and stronger, And with consentaneous clamour we pronounced for the occult.

Then Joe Thomson slung a tenner, and Jack Robinson a tanner,
And each according to his means respectively disbursed;
And a letter in your humble servant's most seductive manner
Was despatched to Sludge the Medium, recently of Darlinghurst.

II.

"I am Biggs," the spirit said ('twas through the medium's lips he
said it;
But the voice that spoke, the accent, too, were Biggs's very own,
Be it, therefore, not set down to our unmerited discredit,
That collectively we sickened as we recognised the tone).

"From a saurian interior, Christian friends, I now address you"--
(And "Oh heaven!" or its correlative, groaned shuddering we)--
"While there yet remains a scrap of my identity, for, bless you,
This ungodly alligator's fast assimilating me.

"For although through nine abysmal days I've fought with his
digestion,
Being hostile to his processes and loth to pulpify,
It is rapidly becoming a most complicated question
How much of me is crocodile, how much of him is I.

"And, Oh, my friends, 'tis sorrow's crown of sorrow to remember
That this sacrilegious reptile owed me nought but gratitude,
For I bought him from a showman twenty years since come November,
And I dropped him in the river for his own and others' good.

"It had grieved me that the spouses of our townsmen, and their
daughters,
Should be shocked by river bathers and their indecorous ways,
So I cast my bread, that is, my alligator, on the waters,
And I found it, in a credit balance, after many days.

"Years I waited, but at last there came the rumour long-expected,
And the out-of-door ablutionists forsook their wicked paths,
And the issues of my handiwork divinely were directed
In a constant flow of custom to the Corporation Baths.

"'Twas a weakling when I bought it; 'twas so young that you could
pet it;
But with all its disadvantages I reckoned it would do;
And it did: Oh, lay the moral well to heart and don't forget it--
Put decorum first, and all things shall be added unto you.

"Lies! all lies! I've done with virtue. Why should _I_ be interested
In the cause of moral progress that I served so long in vain,
When the fifteen hundred odd I've so judiciously invested
Will but go to pay the debts of some young rip who marries Jane?

"But the reptile overcomes me; my identity is sinking;
Let me hasten to the finish; let my words be few and fit.
I was walking by the river in the starry silence, thinking
Of what Providence had done for me, and I had done for it;

"I had reached the saurian's rumoured haunt, where oft in fatal folly
I had dropped garotted dogs to keep his carnal craving up"
(Said Joe Thomson, in a whisper, "That explains my Highland colley!"
Said Bob Williams, _sotto voce_, "That explains my Dandy pup!").

"I had passed to moral questions, and found comfort in the notion
That fools are none the worse for things not being what they seem,
When, behold, a seeming log became instinct with life and motion,
And with sudden curvature of tail upset me in the stream.

"Then my leg, as in a vice"--but here the revelation faltered,
And the medium rose and shook himself, remarking with a smile
That the requisite conditions were irrevocably altered,
For the personality of Biggs was lost in crocodile.

Now, whether Sludge's story would succeed in holding water
Is more, perhaps, than one has any business to suspect;
But I know that on the strength of it I married Biggs's daughter,
And I found a certain portion of the narrative correct.

THE AMENITIES OF SHOPPING.

BY LEOPOLD WAGNER.

If there is one thing I do dislike, it is to go into a draper's shop. To my mind, it is not a man's business at all; it is one essentially feminine. I have never been able to reconcile, myself to the troublesome formalities one has to go through in these marts of female finery; there seems to be no such thing as to pop inside for a trifling article, lay down your money for it, and get away again. No; the system of trade pursued at such establishments is undoubtedly to get you to sit down, with leisure to look about you, and coax you into buying things you don't want.

Years ago, when I was living in lonely lodgings, I had occasion one Saturday night to slip into the nearest draper's shop for some pins. "I only want a farthing's worth of pins," I observed, apologetically, to the bald-headed shopwalker who pounced down upon me. "Please to step this way." To my astonishment he marched me to the extreme end of the shop, thence through an opening in the side wall, past another long double row of dames and damsels of all sorts and sizes making purchases, and finally referred me to a young lady whose special function in life seemed to consist in selling pins to adventurous young gentlemen like myself. She was an extremely good looking young lady too, and I felt considerably embarrassed at the insignificance of my purchase. "And the next thing, please?" she asked, during the wrapping-up process. I informed her, as politely as I could, that I did not require anything more.

"Gloves, handkerchiefs, collars, shirts, neckties--?"

"No thank you," I returned, "I only came in for the pins." But I was not to be let off so easily.

Utterly ignoring the humble penny that I had laid down on the counter, she showed me samples of almost everything in the shop suitable for male wear. Blushing to the roots of my hair, I implored her to spare herself further trouble, as my wardrobe was already extensive. Then she showed me a sample silk umbrella. I was unwilling to rush away abruptly from the presence of such a charming young lady, but she provoked me to it; indeed, I was only prevented from carrying out my design by my failure to discern the hole in the wall through which I had been inveigled into that department. "If you would be so good as to give me my change," I stammered out, feeling heartily ashamed at the thought of wanting the change at all. "Certainly sir." Then she proceeded to make out the bill. "Oh, never mind about the bill," I said, "I'm rather in a hurry." Of this appeal she took no notice. "Sign, please," she said to the young lady at her elbow. "Pins, one farthing," she added to my utter confusion. The second young lady made a wild flourish over the bill with her pencil and turned away. My fair tormentor slowly wrapped my penny in the bill, screwed up the whole inside a large wooden ball, jerked a dangling cord at her elbow, then stood looking me straight in the face as the ball went rolling along a set of tramway lines over our heads to the other end of the shop. That was the most melancholy game at skittles I ever took part in. It seemed an age before the ball came back to us, whereupon the young lady took out the bill and my change--a halfpenny. "We haven't a farthing in the place," she said innocently, "What else will you take for it?" "Oh, it doesn't matter at all," I returned, anxious only to rush away from the spot--which I did. It was a good quarter-of-an-hour before I gained the street. During that interval, I strayed into the carpet department, upset an old lady, fell sprawling over a chair, rushed into the arms of the shopwalker, knocked down a huge stack of flannels, trod on some unfortunate young fellow's corn, making him howl with pain, and last, not least, ran foul of a perambulator laden with a baby and the usual Saturday night's marketing in the doorway.

I entered that shop full of hope and promise; I left it a melancholy man.

Though not quite so exciting as the foregoing, there is an intimate connection between that incident and the one I shall now dwell upon. Let me tell the tale as I told it to my wife. The other day I brought home a neat little Japanese basket--a mere knick-knack, costing only twopence. "Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed my wife. "Wherever did you get this?" "I bought it at a large shop in Regent Street," I answered, "but it cost me a great deal of trouble to get it." Pressed for particulars, I continued:

"I was amusing myself by looking at the shops, when I saw a lot of these little Japanese baskets in the corner of a large window, plainly marked twopence each. So I stepped inside to buy one. The door was promptly opened for me by a black boy, resplendent in gold-faced livery. He made me a profound salaam, as a gentleman of aristocratic bearing came forward to meet me. 'And what may I have the pleasure of showing you?' he inquired. 'Oh!' I returned, not without some misgivings, 'I only want one of those little Japanese baskets which you have in one corner of the window, marked, I believe, twopence each.' 'Certainly, sir. Will you be so kind as to step into this department?' he said.

"Meekly I followed him through long avenues of silks, damasks, brocades, and other costly examples of Oriental luxury in all the tints of the rainbow. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable at the thought of causing him so much trouble, when he paused at the entrance to another department, and called out, 'Japanese baskets, please.' Then turning to me, he said, 'If you will be good enough to step forward, they will be most happy to serve you.' I did so, and found myself on the threshold of an Eastern bazaar. Another nobleman now took me in hand. 'And what may I have the pleasure----' he began, making a courteous bow. 'I only want one of those little Japanese baskets which you have in a corner of your window, marked, I believe, twopence each--or, possibly, they may be two shillings?' I said in a shaky voice. 'No, sir, quite right--they are twopence each,' he replied, to my great relief; for I had begun to suspect they might be two guineas. 'Will you do me the favour to step this way?' While following at his side, I asked myself whether, at the end of my travels, I should ever be able to find my way back again; so bewildering were the ramifications through which we passed. Presently he handed me over to another nobleman, who, having learned my pleasure (which by this time had developed rather painful tendencies), graciously escorted me to the further end of a long counter, and begged me to take a chair. A stylishly-dressed young lady sailed towards us behind the counter. 'I shall feel extremely obliged,' said the nobleman to her, 'If you will be so good as to request Miss Doubleyou to step down, and serve this gentleman. 'Yes, sir,' answered the young lady, as she vanished somewhere behind me; for my eyes were now following the retreating figure of the nobleman. After a little while I heard a pattering of feet, and, looking round, beheld some tokens of a young lady descending a spiral staircase. She was behind the counter the next moment and then I made a discovery. It was the same young lady who had served me with the farthing's worth of pins years before! I recognised her at once, and I suspect the recognition was mutual. But, of course, she never betrayed the least emotion.'And what article may I have the pleasure to serve you with?' she asked, m the still small voice of a duchess. There was a gulping sensation in my throat as I answered, 'You have, I believe, in one corner of one of your windows a number of little Japanese baskets, marked, if my eyes did not deceive me, twopence each. (The graceful nod of her head was reassuring.) I should be very glad to become the possessor of one of those articles.' 'Certainly, sir, I'll bring it to you,' she answered. 'Oh, thank you!' I returned, delighted at the prospect; and so she departed on her errand of mercy.

"Whether, by the rules of the establishment, it was necessary for her to obtain a written permission from each of those three noblemen to pass over their territory and invade the shop window, or whether she lost herself in the numerous windings and turnings through which I had been conducted in perfect safety, I cannot say; I only know that she was gone a very long time. But when at last she made her reappearance with one of those little Japanese baskets in her hand, and beaming with smiles, I felt I owed her an everlasting debt of gratitude. She did not ask me if there was any other article she could have the pleasure of showing me; she had asked me that before and she remembered that I was proof against her persuasiveness! The fair creature simply made a movement towards the spiral staircase, as I thought, to fetch down a witness to the important transaction, until my eyes rested on some tissue paper. 'Pray don't stay to wrap it up,' I exclaimed, 'my pockets are ample,' and my thanks were profuse. Seizing the coveted treasure, I laid my twopence down on the counter and walked straight forward in a contrary direction to that by which I had entered, gladdened by the prospect that I was making direct for the street. If anyone had arrested my progress for the sake of further formalities, I should unquestionably have knocked them down. But everyone must have seen the glare of defiant desperation flashing from my restless eyes and no one dared to bar my egress. As I emerged from that shop into Regent Street, I felt as exhausted as if I had just bought a grand piano or a suite of furniture. 'Really,' I said to my wife in conclusion, 'if I could have foreseen all the trouble in store for me over buying this little Japanese basket, price twopence, it would have been still reposing with its companions in the corner of that magnificent shop window in Regent Street.'"

She promised to prize it all the more on that account. And now, when I look at that little Japanese basket, my mind wanders back to the farthing's worth of pins I purchased in my old bachelor days.

SHAMUS O'BRIEN: A TALE OF '98.

BY J. SHERIDAN LE FANU.

Jist afther the war, in the year '98,
As soon as the boys wor all scattered and bate,
'Twas the custom, whenever a pisant was got,
To hang him by thrial--barrin' sich as was shot.--
There was trial by jury goin' on in the light,
And martial-law hangin' the lavins by night
It's them was hard times for an honest gossoon:
If he got past the judges--he'd meet a dragoon;
An' whether the sodgers or judges gev sintance,
The divil an hour they gev for repintance.
An' it's many's the boy that was then on his keepin',
Wid small share iv restin', or atin', or sleepin';
An' because they loved Erin, an' scorned for to sell it,
A prey for the bloodhound, a mark for the bullet--
Unsheltered by night, and unrested by day,
With the _heath_ for their _barrack, revenge_ for their _pay_.

The bravest an' hardiest boy iv them all,
Was Shamus O'Brien, o' the town iv Glingall.
His limbs were well-set, an' his body was light,
An' the keen-fanged hound had not teeth half so white.
But his face was as pale as the face of the dead,
And his cheeks never warmed with the blush of the red;
But for all that he wasn't an ugly young bye,
For the divil himself couldn't blaze with his eye,
So droll an' so wicked, so dark and so bright,
Like a fire-flash crossing the depth of the night;
He was the best mower that ever was seen,
The handsomest hurler that ever has been.
An' his dancin' was sich that the men used to stare,
An' the women turn crazy, he done it so quare;
Be gorra, the whole world gev in to him there.

An' it's he was the boy that was hard to be caught,
An' it's often he run, an' it's often he fought,
An' it's many the one can remember right well
The quare things he done: an' it's often heerd tell
How he lathered the yeomen, himself agin' four,
An' stretched the two strongest on old Galtimore.--

But the fox _must_ sleep sometimes, the wild deer _must_ rest,
An' treachery play on the blood iv the best.--
Afther many brave actions of power and pride,
An' many a hard night on the bleak mountain's side,
An' a thousand great dangers and toils overpast,
In the darkness of night he was taken at last.

Now, Shamus, look back on the beautiful moon,
For the door of the prison must close on you soon,
An' take your last look on her dim lovely light,
That falls on the mountain and valley this night;--
One look at the village, one look at the flood,
An' one at the sheltering, far-distant wood.
Farewell to the forest, farewell to the hill,
An' farewell to the friends that will think of you still;
Farewell to the pathern, the hurlin' an' wake,
And farewell to the girl that would die for your sake.--

An' twelve sodgers brought him to Maryborough jail,
An' the turnkey resaved him, refusin' all bail;
The fleet limbs wor chained, an' the sthrong hands wor bound,
An' he laid down his length on the cowld prison ground.
An' the dreams of his childhood kem over him there,
As gentle an' soft as the sweet summer air;
An' happy rememberances crowding on ever,
As fast as the foam-flakes dhrift down on the river,
Bringing fresh to his heart merry days long gone by,
Till the tears gathered heavy and thick in his eye.
But the tears didn't fall, for the pride of his heart
Would not suffer _one_ drop down his pale cheek to start;
Then he sprang to his feet in the dark prison cave,
An' he swore with the fierceness that misery gave,
By the hopes of the good, an' the cause of the brave,
That when he was mouldering low in the grave
His enemies never should have it to boast
His scorn of their vengeance one moment was lost;
His bosom might bleed, but his cheek should be dhry,
For, undaunted he _lived_, and undaunted he'd _die_.

Well, as soon as a few weeks was over and gone,
The terrible day iv the thrial kem on;
There _was sich_ a crowd there was scarce room to stand,
The sodgers on guard, the dhragoons sword-in-hand.
An' the court-house so full that the people were bothered.
Attorneys an' criers were just upon smothered;
An' counsellers almost gev over for dead.
The jury sat up in their box overhead;
An' the judge on the bench so detarmined an' big,
With his gown on his back, and an illigent wig;
Then silence was called, and the minute 'twas said
The court was as still as the heart of the dead,
An' they heard but the turn of a key in a lock,--
An' Shamus O'Brien kem into the dock.--

For a minute he turned his eye round on the throng,
An' he looked at the irons, so firm and so strong,
An' he saw that he had not a hope nor a friend,
A chance of escape, nor a word to defend;
Then he folded his arms as he stood there alone,
As calm and as cold as a statue of stone;
And they read a big writin', a yard long at laste,
An' Jim didn't hear it, nor mind it a taste,
An' the judge took a big pinch iv snuff, and he says,
"Are you guilty or not, Jim O'Brien, av you plase?"
An' all held their breath in the silence of dhread
As Shamus O'Brien made answer and said:

"My lord, if you ask me, if ever a time
I have thought any treason, or done any crime
That should call to my cheek, as I stand alone here,
The hot blush of shame, or the coldness of fear,
Though I stood by the grave to receive my death-blow,
Before God and the world I would answer you, _No!_'
But--if you would ask me, as I think it like,
If in the rebellion I carried a pike,
An' fought for me counthry from op'ning to close,
An' shed the heart's blood of her bitterest foes,
I answer you, _Yes_; and I tell you again,
Though I stand here to perish, I glory that _then_
In her cause I was willing my veins should run dhry,
An' that _now_ for _her_ sake I am ready to die."

Then the silence was great, and the jury smiled bright,
An' the judge wasn't sorry the job was made light;
By my sowl, it's himself was a crabbed ould chap!
In a twinklin' he pulled on his ugly black cap.
Then Shamus' mother in the crowd standin' by,
Called out to the judge with a pitiful cry:
"O, judge! darlin', don't, O, O, don't say the word!
The crathur is young, O, have mercy, my lord;
He was foolish, he didn't know what he was doin';--
You don't know him, my lord--don't give him to ruin!--
He's the kindliest crathur, the tendherest-hearted;--
Don't part us for ever, that's been so long parted.
Judge, mavourneen, forgive him, forgive him, my lord,
An' God will forgive you--O, don't say the word!"

That was the first minute O'Brien was shaken,
When he saw he was not quite forgot or forsaken;
An' down his pale cheeks, at the word of his mother,
The big tears kem runnin' one afther th' other;
An' two or three times he endeavoured to spake,
But the sthrong manly voice seem'd to falther and break;
But at last, by the strength of his high-mounting pride,
He conquered and masthered his griefs swelling tide,
"An'," says he, "mother, darlin', don't break your poor heart
For, sooner or later, the dearest _must_ part;
And God knows it's betther than wandering in fear
On the bleak, trackless mountain, among the wild deer,
To lie in the grave, where the head, heart, and breast
From labour, and sorrow, for ever shall rest.
Then, mother, my darlin', don't cry any more,
Don't make me seem broken, in this, my last hour;
For I wish, when my head's lyin' undher the raven,
No thrue man can say that I died like a craven!"
Then facin' the judge Shamus bent down his head,
An' that minute the solemn death-sintance was said.

The mornin' was bright, an' the mists rose on high,
An' the lark whistled merrily in the clear sky;--
But why are the men standin' idle so late?
An' why do the crowds gather fast in the street?
What come they to talk of? what come they to see?
An' why does the long rope hang from the cross-tree?--
O, Shamus O'Brien! pray fervent and fast,
May the saints take your soul, for _this_ day is your _last_;
Pray fast, an' pray sthrong, for the moment is nigh,
When, sthrong, proud, an' great as you are, you must die.--
An' fasther an' fasther, the crowd gathered there,
Boys, horses, and gingerbread, just like a fair;
An' whisky was sellin', an' cussamuck too,
An' the men and the women enjoying the view.
An' ould Tim Mulvany, he med the remark,
There was no sich a sight since the time of Noah's ark;
An' be gorra, 'twas thrue too, for never sich scruge,
Sich divarshin and crowds, was known since the deluge.
For thousands were gathered there, if there was one,
All waitin' such time as the hangin' kem on.

At last they threw open the big prison-gate,
An' out came the sheriffs an' sodgers in state,
An' a cart in the middle, an' Shamus was in it,
Not _paler_, but _prouder_ than ever, that minute,
An' as soon as the people saw Shamus O'Brien,
Wid prayin' an' blessin', and all the girls cryin',
The wild wailin' sound it kem on by degrees,
Like the sound of the lonesome wind blowin' through trees.
On, on to the gallows the sheriffs are gone,
An' the cart an' the sodgers go steadily on;
At every side swellin' around of the cart,
A sorrowful sound, that id open your heart.

Now under the gallows the cart takes its stand,
An' the hangman gets up with the rope in his hand;
An' the priest, havin' blest him, goes down on the ground,
An' Shamus O'Brien throws one look around.
Then the hangman dhrew near, an' the people grew still,
Young faces turned sickly, and warm hearts turn chill,
An' the rope bein' ready, his neck was made bare,
For the gripe iv the life-strangling cord to prepare;
An' the good priest has left him, havin' said his last prayer.

But the priest has done _more_, for his hands he unbound,
And with one daring spring Jim has leaped to the ground;
Bang! bang! go the carbines, and clash goes the sabres;
He's not down! he's alive still! now stand to him, neighbours.
Through the smoke and the horses he's into the crowd,--
By heaven he's free!--than thunder more loud,
By one _shout_ from the people the heavens were shaken--
_One_ shout that the dead of the world might awaken.
Your swords they may glitter, your carbines go bang,
But if you want hangin', it's yourself you must hang;
To-night he'll be sleeping in Atherloe Glin,
An' the divil's in the dice if you catch him ag'in.--
The sodgers ran this way, the sheriffs ran that,
An' Father Malone lost his new Sunday hat;
An' the sheriffs were both of them punished severely,
An' fined like the divil for bein' done fairly.

HOME, SWEET HOME.

BY WILLIAM THOMSON.

Sawtan i' the law court
Wis once, sae I've heard tell--
"Oh! but hame is hamely!"
Quo' Sawtan to himsel.'

THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR.

BY W.M. THACKERAY.

In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,
Away from the world and its toils and its cares,
I've a snug little kingdom up four pairs of stairs.

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,
But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure;
And the view I behold on a sunshiny day
Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.

This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks
With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books,
And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,
Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd),
Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;
A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;
What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

No better divan need the Sultan require,
Than the creaking old sofa, that basks by the fire;
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,
Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,
There's one that I love and I cherish the best:
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair
I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair.

Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet;
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there,
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair.

If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms,
A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old arms!
I look'd and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair;
I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair.

It was but a moment she sat in this place,
She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face!
A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,
And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair.

And so I have valued my chair ever since,
Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince;
Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare,
The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair.

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,
In the silence of night as I sit here alone--
I sit here, alone, but we yet are a pair--
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottom'd chair.

She comes from the past and revisits my room;
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair.

THE ALMA.

September 20th,

1854. BY WILLIAM C. BENNET.

Yes--clash, ye pealing steeples!
Ye grim-mouthed cannon, roar!
Tell what each heart is feeling,
From shore to throbbing shore!
What every shouting city,
What every home would say,
The triumph and the rapture
That swell our hearts to-day.

And did they say, O England,
That now thy blood was cold,
That from thee had departed
The might thou hadst of old!
Tell them no deed more stirring
Than this thy sons have done,
Than this, no nobler triumph,
Their conquering arms have won.

The mighty fleet bore seaward;
We hushed our hearts in fear,
In awe of what each moment
Might utter to our ear;
For the air grew thick with murmurs
That stilled the hearer's breath,
With sounds that told of battle,
Of victory and of death.

We knew they could but conquer;
O fearless hearts, we knew
The name and fame of England
Could but be safe with you.
We knew no ranks more dauntless
The rush of bayonets bore,
Through all Spain's fields of carnage,
Or thine, Ferozepore.

O red day of the Alma!
O when thy tale was heard,
How was the heart of England
With pride and gladness stirred!
How did our peopled cities
All else forget, to tell
Ye living, how ye conquered,
And how, O dead, ye fell.

Glory to those who led you!
Glory to those they led!
Fame to the dauntless living!
Fame to the peaceful dead!
Honour, for ever, honour
To those whose bloody swords
Struck back the baffled despot,
And smote to flight his hordes!

On, with your fierce burst onward!
On, sweep the foe before,
Till the great sea-hold's volleys
Roll through the ghastly roar!
Till your resistless onset
The mighty fortress know,
And storm-won fort and rampart
Your conquering standards show.

Yes--clash, ye bells, in triumph!
Yes--roar, ye cannon, roar!
Not for the living only,
But for those who come no more.
For the brave hearts coldly lying
In their far-off gory graves,
By the Alma's reddened waters,
And the Euxine's dashing waves.

For thee, thou weeping mother,
We grieve; our pity hears
Thy wail, O wife; the fallen,
For them we have no tears;
No--but with pride we name them,
For grief their memory wrongs;
Our proudest thoughts shall claim them,
And our exalting songs.

Heights of the rocky Alma,
The flags that scaled you bore
"Plassey," "Quebec," and "Blenheim,"
And many a triumph more;
And they shall show your glory
Till men shall silent be,
Of Waterloo and Maida
Moultan and Meanee.

I look; another glory
Methinks they give to fame;
By Badajoz and Bhurtpoor
Streams out another name;
From captured fleet and city,
And fort, the thick clouds roll,
And on the flags above them
Is writ "Sebastopol."

THE MAMELUKE CHARGE.

BY SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.

Let the Arab courser go
Headlong on the silent foe;
Their plumes may shine like mountain snow,
Like fire their iron tubes may glow,
Their cannon death on death may throw,
Their pomp, their pride, their strength, we know,
But--let the Arab courser go.

The Arab horse is free and bold,
His blood is noble from of old,
Through dams, and sires, many a one,
Up to the steed of Solomon.
He needs no spur to rouse his ire,
His limbs of beauty never tire,
Then, give the Arab horse the rein,
And their dark squares will close in vain.
Though loud the death-shot peal, and louder,
He will only neigh the prouder;
Though nigh the death-flash glare, and nigher,
He will face the storm of fire;
He will leap the mound of slain,
Only let him have the rein.

The Arab horse will not shrink back,
Though death confront him in his track,
The Arab horse will not shrink back,
And shall his rider's arm be slack?
No!--By the God who gave us life,
Our souls are ready for the strife.
We need no serried lines, to show
A gallant bearing to the foe.
We need no trumpet to awake The thirst,
which blood alone can slake.
What is it that can stop our course,
Free riders of the Arab horse?

Go--brave the desert wind of fire;
Go--beard the lightning's look of ire;
Drive back the ravening flames, which leap
In thunder from the mountain steep;
But dream not, men of fifes and drums,
To stop the Arab when he comes:
Not tides of fire, not walls of rock,
Could shield you from that earthquake shock.
Come, brethren, come, too long we stay,
The shades of night have rolled away,
Too fast the golden moments fleet,
Charge, ere another pulse has beat;
Charge--like the tiger on the fawn--
Before another breath is drawn.

MY LADY'S LEAP.

BY CAMPBELL RAE-BROWN.

My lady's leap! that's it, sir,--
That's what we call it 'ere;--
It's a nasty jump for a man, sir,
Let alone for a woman to clear.
D'ye see the fencing around it?
And the cross as folk can tell,
That this is the very spot, sir,
Where her sweet young ladyship fell?

I've lived in his lordship's family
For goin' on forty year.
And the tears will come a wellin'
Whenever I think of her;
For my mem'ry takes me backwards
To the days when by my side
She would sit in her tiny saddle
As I taught her the way to ride.

But she didn't want much teachin';--
Lor' bless ye, afore she was eight
There wasn't a fence in the county
Nor ever a five-barred gate
But what she'd leap, aye, and laugh at.
I think now I hear the ring
Of her voice, shouting, "Now then, lassie!"
As over a ditch she'd spring.

How proud I was of my mistress,
When round the country-side
I'd hear folks talking of her, sir,
And how she used to ride!
Every one knew my young mistress,
"My lady of Hislop Chase;"
And, what's more, every one loved her,
And her sunny, angel face.

Lord Hislop lost his wife, sir,
When Lady Vi' was born.
And never man aged so quickly:
He grew haggard and white and worn
In less than a week. Then after,
At times, he'd grow queer and wild;
And only one thing saved him--
His love for his only child.
He worshipped her like an idol;
He loved her, folks said too well;
And God sent the end as a judgment,--
But how that may be who can tell?

I don't know how it all happened--
I heard the story you see,
In bits and scraps,--just here and there;
But, sir, 'atween you and me,
In putting them all together,
I think I've a good idea
As how the Master got swindled,
And things at the "Chase" went queer.
He'd a notion to leave Miss Vi'let
Rich, I fancy, you know;
For now and ag'in I noticed
He'd take in his head to go
Away for a time--to London,--
And I, who knew him so well,
Could see as he came home worried.
Aye, sir! I could read--could tell
As things had gone wrong with Master.
I was right: 'twas that tale so old!
He'd lost in that great big gamble,
In that cursed greed for gold.

And then the worst came to the worst, sir.
"The old Chase must go from us, Vi'!"
Her father told her one morning,
"My child! oh, my child! I would die
Ten thousand deaths rather than tell you
What price our freedom would cost."
And then, in a voice hoarse and broken,
He told her how all had been lost.
They say, sir, the girl answered proudly,
"I know, father, what you would say:
The man who has swindled you, duped you,
Will return you your own if you pay
His price--my hand. Don't speak, father!
You know what I'm saying is true;
And, father, I know Paul Delaunay,
Yes, better, far better, than you.
Go, tell him I'll wed him to-morrow,
On this one condition--list here,--
That he beats me across the country
From Hislop to Motecombe Mere.
But say that should I chance to beat him
He must give back everything--all
Of what he has robbed you, father:
That's the message I send Sir Paul."

Two men watched that ride across country
At the break of an autumn day:
Young Hilton, the son of the Squire,
And I, sir. They started away
And came through the first field together,
Then leaped the first fence neck and neck;
On, on again, riding like mad, sir,
Jumping all without hinder or check.
In this, the last field 'fore the finish,
You could save half a minute or more
By leaping the stone wall and brooklet;
But never, sir, never before,
Had anyone ever attempted
That leap; it was madness, but, sir,
My young mistress knew that Delaunay
Was too great a coward and cur
To follow; and, what's more, she knew, sir,
That she _must_ be first in the race--
For the sake of the Hislop honour,
To win back the dear old Chase.

I looked at young Hilton beside me--
A finer lad never walked:
I don't think he thought as I knew, sir,
Their secret, for I'd never talked;
But I'd known for a long time, you see, sir,
As he and my lady Vi'
Had loved and would love for ever.
At last from his lips came a cry,
"Good God! she never will clear it!"
Then he turned his face to the ground;
While I--I looked on in terror,
Watched her, sir, taking that bound.
With a cold sweat bathing my forehead,
I saw her sweep onward, and gasped--
"For Heaven's sake, stop, Lady Vi'let!"
A laugh was her answer. She passed
On, on, like a shimmer of lightning,
And then came her last great leap--
The next, sir, I saw of my lady
Was a crushed and mangled heap.
Delaunay? No, he didn't follow,
Nor even drew rein when she fell;
But rode on, the longest way round, sir.
When he came back to claim her--well,
She was dead in the arms of her lover--
Claspt tight in his mad embrace;--
With her life-blood staining her tresses,
And a sad, sweet smile on her face.

I heard the last words that she uttered--
"My love! tell my father I tried
To do what was best for his honour;
For you and for him I have died."

A SONG FOR THE END OF THE SEASON.

BY J.R. PLANCHE.

(_FROM THE "DRAMATIC COLLEGE ANNUAL."_)

Sir John has this moment gone by
In the brougham that was to be mine,
But, my dear, I'm not going to cry,
Though I know where he's going to dine.
I shall meet him at Lady Gay's ball
With that girl to his arm clinging fast,
But it won't, love, disturb me at all,
I've recovered my spirits at last!

I was horribly low for a week,
For I could not go out anywhere
Without hearing, "You know they don't speak;"
Or, "I'm told it's all broken off there."
But the Earl whispered something last night,
I sha'n't say exactly what past,
But of this, dear, be satisfied quite,
I've recovered my spirits at last!

THE AGED PILOT MAN.

BY MARK TWAIN.

On the Erie Canal, it was,
All on a summer's day,
I sailed forth with my parents
Far away to Albany.

From out the clouds at noon that day
There came a dreadful storm,
That piled the billows high about,
And filled us with alarm.

A man came rushing from a house,
"Tie up your boat I pray!
Tie up your boat, tie up, alas!
Tie up while yet you may."

Our captain cast one glance astern,
Then forward glanced he,
And said, "My wife and little ones
I never more shall see."

Said Dollinger the pilot man,
In noble words, but few--
"Fear not, but lean on Dollinger,
And he will fetch you through."

The boat drove on, the frightened mules
Tore through the rain and wind,
And bravely still in danger's post,
The whip-boy strode behind.

"Come 'board, come 'board," the captain cried,
"Nor tempt so wild a storm;"
But still the raging mules advanced,
And still the boy strode on.

Then said the captain to us all,
"Alas, 'tis plain to me,
The greater danger is not there,
But here upon the sea.

So let us strive, while life remains,
To save all souls on board,
And then if die at last we must,
I ... _cannot_ speak the word!"

Said Dollinger the pilot man,
Tow'ring above the crew,
"Fear not, but trust in Dollinger,
And he will fetch you through."

"Low bridge! low bridge!" all heads went down,
The labouring bark sped on;
A mill we passed, we passed a church,
Hamlets, and fields of corn;

And all the world came out to see,
And chased along the shore,
Crying, "Alas, the sheeted rain,
The wind, the tempest's roar!
Alas, the gallant ship and crew,
Can _nothing_ help them more?"

And from our deck sad eyes looked out
Across the stormy scene:
The tossing wake of billows aft,
The bending forests green,

The chickens sheltered under carts,
In lee of barn the cows,
The skurrying swine with straw in mouth,
The wild spray from our bows!

"She balances?
She wavers!
_Now_ let her go about!
If she misses stays and broaches to
We're all"--[then with a shout,]
"Huray! huray!
Avast! belay!
Take in more sail!
Lor! what a gale!
Ho, boy, haul taut on the hind mule's tail!"

"Ho! lighten ship! ho! man the pump!
Ho, hostler, heave the lead!"
"A quarter-three!--'tis shoaling fast!
Three feet large!--three-e feet!--
'Tis three feet scant!" I cried in fright,
"Oh, is there _no_ retreat?"

Said Dollinger the pilot man,
As on the vessel flew,
"Fear not, but trust in Dollinger,
And he will fetch you through."

A panic struck the bravest hearts,
The boldest cheek turned pale;
For plain to all, this shoaling said
A leak had burst the ditch's bed!
And, straight as bolt from crossbow sped,
Our ship swept on, with shoaling lead,
Before the fearful gale!

"Sever the tow-line! Stop the mules!"
Too late! .... There comes a shock!

* * * * *

Another length, and the fated craft
Would have swum in the saving lock!

Then gathered together the shipwrecked crew
And took one last embrace,
While sorrowful tears from despairing eyes
Ran down each hopeless face;
And some did think of their little ones
Whom they never more might see,
And others of waiting wives at home,
And mothers that grieved would be.

But of all the children of misery there
On that poor sinking frame,
But one spake words of hope and faith,
And I worshipped as they came:
Said Dollinger the pilot man--
(O brave heart strong and true!)--
"Fear not, but trust in Dollinger,
For he will fetch you through."

Lo! scarce the words have passed his lips
The dauntless prophet say'th,
When every soul about him seeth
A wonder crown his faith!

And count ye all, both great and small,
As numbered with the dead!
For mariner for forty year,
On Erie, boy and man,
I never yet saw such a storm,
Or one 't with it began!

So overboard a keg of nails
And anvils three we threw,
Likewise four bales of gunny-sacks,
Two hundred pounds of glue,
Two sacks of corn, four ditto wheat,
A box of books, a cow,
A violin, Lord Byron's works,
A rip-saw and a sow.

A curve! a curve; the dangers grow!
"Labbord!--stabbord!--s-t-e-a-d-y!--so!--
_Hard-a.-port_, Dol!--hellum-a-lee!
Haw the head mule!--the aft one gee!
Luff!--bring her to the wind!"

For straight a farmer brought a plank,--
(Mysteriously inspired)--
And laying it unto the ship,
In silent awe retired.
Then every sufferer stood amazed
That pilot man before;
A moment stood. Then wondering turned,
And speechless walked ashore.

TIM KEYSER'S NOSE.

BY MAX ADELER.

Tim Keyser lived at Wilmington,
He had a monstrous nose,
Which was a great deal redder
Than the very reddest rose,
And was completely capable
Of most terrific blows.