Chapter XXIII: Canto THE SECOND: Matrimony (9)

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.