Chapter VII: Part IV (1)

And now, my little listening dears
With open mouths and open ears,
Like a rhymer whose only art is
That of telling a plain unvarnish'd tale,
To let you know I must not fail,
What became of all the parties.

Pierre went on to Compostella
To finish his pilgrimage,
His parents went back with him joyfully,
After which they returned to their own country,
And there, I believe, that all the three
Lived to a good old age.

For the gallows on which Pierre
So happily had swung,
It was resolved that never more
On it should man be hung.

To the Church it was transplanted,
As ancient books declare.
And the people in commotion,
With an uproar of devotion,
Set it up for a relic there.

What became of the halter I know not,
Because the old books show not,
But we may suppose and hope,
That the city presented Pierre
With that interesting rope.

For in his family, and this
The Corporation knew,
It rightly would be valued more
Than any cordon bleu.

The Innkeeper's wicked daughter
Confess'd what she had done,
So they put her in a Convent,
And she was made a Nun.

The Alcayde had been so frighten'd
That he never ate fowls again;
And he always pulled off his hat
When he saw a Cock and Hen.
Wherever he sat at table
Not an egg might there be placed;
And he never even muster'd courage for a custard,
Though garlic tempted him to taste
Of an omelet now and then.

But always after such a transgression
He hastened away to make confession;
And not till he had confess'd,
And the Priest had absolved him, did he feel
His conscience and stomach at rest.

The twice-born Birds to the Pilgrim's Church
As by miracle consecrated,
Were given, and there unto the Saint
They were publicly dedicated.

At their dedication the Corporation
A fund for their keep supplied;
And after following the Saint and his banners,
This Cock and Hen were so changed in their manners,
That the Priests were edified.

Gentle as any turtle-dove,
Saint Cock became all meekness and love;
Most dutiful of wives,
Saint Hen she never peck'd again,
So they led happy lives.

The ways of ordinary fowls
You must know they had clean forsaken;
And if every Cock and Hen in Spain
Had their example taken,
Why then--the Spaniards would have had
No eggs to eat with bacon.

These blessed Fowls, at seven years end,
In the odor of sanctity died:
They were carefully pluck'd and then
They were buried, side by side.

And lest the fact should be forgotten
(Which would have been a pity),
'Twas decreed, in honor of their worth,
That a Cock and Hen should be borne thenceforth,
In the arms of that ancient City.

Two eggs Saint Hen had laid--no more--
The chickens were her delight;
A Cock and Hen they proved,
And both, like their parents, were virtuous and white.

The last act of the Holy Hen
Was to rear this precious brood; and when
Saint Cock and she were dead,
This couple, as the lawful heirs,
Succeeded in their stead.

They also lived seven years,
And they laid eggs but two,
From which two milk-white chickens
To Cock and Henhood grew;
And always their posterity
The self-same course pursue.

Not one of these eggs ever addled,
(With wonder be it spoken!)
Not one of them ever was lost,
Not one of them ever was broken.

Sacred they are; neither magpie nor rat,
Snake, weasel, nor marten approaching them:
And woe to the irreverent wretch
Who should even dream of poaching them!

Thus then is this great miracle
Continued to this day;
And to their Church all Pilgrims go,
When they are on the way;
And some of the feathers are given them;
For which they always pay.

No price is set upon them,
And this leaves all persons at ease;
The Poor give as much as they can,
The Rich as much as they please.

But that the more they give the better,
Is very well understood;
Seeing whatever is thus disposed of,
Is for their own souls' good;

For Santiago will always
Befriend his true believers;
And the money is for him, the Priests
Being only his receivers.

To make the miracle the more,
Of these feathers there is always store,
And all are genuine too;
All of the original Cock and Hen,
Which the Priests will swear is true.

Thousands a thousand times told have bought them,
And if myriads and tens of myriads sought them,
They would still find some to buy;
For however great were the demand,
So great would be the supply.

And if any of you, my small friends,
Should visit those parts, I dare say
You will bring away some of the feathers,
And think of old Robin Gray.

THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS; OR, THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN. SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Oh, for a glance of that gay Muse's eye,
That lighten'd on Bandello's laughing tale,
And twinkled with a luster shrewd and sly,
When Giam Batttista bade her vision hail!--
Yet fear not, ladies, the naive detail
Given by the natives of that land canorous;
Italian license loves to leap the pale,
We Britons have the fear of shame before us,
And, if not wise in mirth, at least must be decorous.

In the far eastern clime, no great while since, Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince, Whose eyes, as oft as they perform'd their round, Beheld all others fix'd upon the ground; Whose ears received the same unvaried phrase, "Sultaun! thy vassal hears, and he obeys!" All have their tastes--this may the fancy strike Of such grave folks as pomp and grandeur like; For me, I love the honest heart and warm Of monarch who can amble round his farm, Or when the toil of state no more annoys, In chimney corner seek domestic joys-- I love a prince will bid the bottle pass, Exchanging with his subjects glance and glass; In fitting time, can, gayest of the gay, Keep up the jest, and mingle in the lay-- Such Monarchs best our free-born humors suit, But Despots must be stately, stern, and mute.

This Solimaun, Serendib had in sway-- And where's Serendib? may some critic say-- Good lack, mine honest friend, consult the chart, Scare not my Pegasus before I start! If Rennell has it not, you'll find, mayhap, The isle laid down in Captain Sinbad's map-- Famed mariner! whose merciless narrations Drove every friend and kinsman out of patience, Till, fain to find a guest who thought them shorter, He deign'd to tell them over to a porter-- The last edition see, by Long and Co., Rees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in the Row.

Serendib found, deem not my tale a fiction-- This Sultaun, whether lacking contradiction-- (A sort of stimulant which hath its uses, To raise the spirits and reform the juices, --Sovereign specific for all sorts of cures In my wife's practice, and perhaps in yours), The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome bitter, Of cordial smooth for prince's palate fitter-- Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild themes Belonging to the Mollah's subtle craft, I wot not--but the Sultaun never laugh'd, Scarce ate or drank, and took a melancholy That scorn'd all remedy profane or holy; In his long list of melancholies, mad, Or mazed, or dumb, hath Burton none so had.

Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and tried, As e'er scrawl'd jargon in a darken'd room; With heedful glance the Sultaun's tongue they eyed, Peep'd in his bath, and God knows where beside, And then in solemn accent spoke their doom, "His majesty is very far from well." Then each to work with his specific fell; The Hakim Ibrahim INSTANTER brought His unguent Mahazzim al Zerdukkaut, While Roompot, a practitioner more wily, Relied on Ms Munaskif all fillfily. More and yet more in deep array appear, And some the front assail, and some the rear; Their remedies to reinforce and vary, Came surgeon eke, and eke apothecary; Till the tired Monarch, though of words grown chary, Yet dropt, to recompense their fruitless labor, Some hint about a bowstring or a saber. There lack'd, I promise you, no longer speeches, To rid the palace of those learned leeches.

Then was the council call'd--by their advice (They deem'd the matter ticklish all, and nice, And sought to shift it off from their own shoulders) Tartars and couriers in all speed were sent, To call a sort of Eastern Parliament Of feudatory chieftains and freeholders-- Such have the Persians at this very day, My gallant Malcolm calls them couroultai;-- I'm not prepared to show in this slight song That to Serendib the same forms belong-- E'en let the learn'd go search, and tell me if I'm wrong.

The Omrahs, each with hand on scimitar, Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice for war-- "The saber of the Sultaun in its sheath Too long has slept, nor own'd the work of death, Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle, Bang the loud gong, and raise the shout of battle! This dreary cloud that dims our sovereign's day, Shall from his kindled bosom flit away, When the bold Lootie wheels his courser round, And the arm'd elephant shall shake the ground. Each noble pants to own the glorious summons-- And for the charges--Lo! your faithful Commons!"

The Riots who attended in their places (Serendib language calls a farmer Riot) Look'd ruefully in one another's faces, From this oration auguring much disquiet, Double assessment, forage, and free quarters; And fearing these as China-men the Tartars, Or as the whisker'd vermin fear the mousers, Each fumbled in the pockets of his trowsers.

And next came forth the reverend Convocation, Bald heads, white beards, and many a turban green, Imaum and Mollah there of every station, Santon, Fakir, and Calendar were seen. Their votes were various--some advised a Mosque With fitting revenues should be erected, With seemly gardens and with gay Kiosque, To create a band of priests selected; Others opined that through the realms a dole Be made to holy men, whose prayers might profit The Sultaun's weal in body and in soul. But their long-headed chief, the Sheik Ul-Sofit, More closely touch'd the point;--"Thy studious mood," Quoth he, "O Prince! hath thicken'd all thy blood, And dull'd thy brain with labor beyond measure; Wherefore relax a space and take thy pleasure, And toy with beauty, or tell o'er thy treasure; From all the cares of state, my Liege, enlarge thee, And leave the burden to thy faithful clergy."

These counsels sage availed not a whit, And so the patient (as is not uncommon Where grave physicians lose their time and wit) Resolved to take advice of an old woman; His mother she, a dame who once was beauteous, And still was called so by each subject duteous. Now whether Fatima was witch in earnest, Or only made believe, I can not say-- But she profess'd to cure disease the sternest, By dint of magic amulet or lay; And, when all other skill in vain was shown, She deem'd it fitting time to use her own.

"Sympathia magica hath wonders done" (Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son), "It works upon the fibers and the pores, And thus, insensibly, our health restores, And it must help us here.--Thou must endure The ill, my son, or travel for the cure. Search land and sea, and get, where'er you can, The inmost vesture of a happy man: I mean his SHIRT, my son; which, taken warm And fresh from off his back, shall chase your harm, Bid every current of your veins rejoice, And your dull heart leap light as shepherd-boy's." Such was the counsel from his mother came;-- I know not if she had some under-game, As doctors have, who bid their patients roam And live abroad, when sure to die at home; Or if she thought, that, somehow or another, Queen-Regent sounded better than Queen-Mother; But, says the Chronicle (who will go look it?) That such was her advice--the Sultaun took it.

All are on board--the Sultaun and his train, In gilded galley prompt to plow the main. The old Rais was the first who question'd, "Whither?" They paused--"Arabia," thought the pensive Prince, "Was call'd The Happy many ages since-- For Mokha, Rais."--And they came safely thither. But not in Araby, with all her balm, Not where Judea weeps beneath her palm, Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste, Could there the step of Happiness be traced. One Copt alone profess'd to have seen her smile When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant Nile: She bless'd the dauntless traveler as he quaff'd But vanish'd from him with the ended draught. "Enough of turbans," said the weary King. "These dolimans of ours are not the thing; Try we the Giaours, these men of coat, and cap, I Incline to think some of them must be happy; At least they have as fair a cause as any can, They drink good wine and keep no Ramazan. Then northward, ho!"--The vessel cuts the sea, And fair Italia lies upon her lee.-- But fair Italia, she who once unfurl'd Her eagle-banners o'er a conquer'd world, Long from her throne of domination tumbled, Lay, by her quondam vassals, sorely humbled, The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale, and lean, And was not half the man he once had been. "While these the priest and those the noble fleeces, Our poor old boot," they said, "is torn to pieces. Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel, And the Great Devil is rending toe and heel. If happiness you seek, to tell you truly, We think she dwells with one Giovanni Bulli; A tramontane, a heretic--the buck, Poffaredio! still has all the luck; By land or ocean never strikes his flag-- And then--a perfect walking money-bag." Off set our Prince to seek John Bull's abode, But first took France--it lay upon the road.

Monsieur Baboon, after much late commotion, Was agitated like a settling ocean, Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what ail'd him, Only the glory of his house had fail'd him; Besides, some tumors on his noddle biding, Gave indication of a recent hiding. Our Prince, though Sultauns of such things are heedless, Thought it a thing indelicate and needless To ask, if at that moment he was happy. And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il faut, a Loud voice muster'd up, for "Vive le Roi!" Then whisper'd, "'Ave you any news of Nappy?" The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross question-- "Pray, can you tell me aught of one John Bull, That dwells somewhere beyond your herring-pool?" The query seem'd of difficult digestion, The party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and took his snuff, And found his whole good-breeding scarce enough.

Twitching his visage into as many puckers As damsels wont to put into their tuckers (Ere liberal Fashion damn'd both lace and lawn, And bade the vail of modesty be drawn), Replied the Frenchman, after a brief pause, "Jean Bool!--I vas not know him--yes, I vas-- I vas remember dat, von year or two, I saw him at von place call'd Vaterloo-- Ma foi! il s'est tres joliment battu, Dat is for Englishman--m'entendez-vous? But den he had wit him one damn son-gun, Rogue I no like--dey call him Vellington." Monsieur's politeness could not hide his fret, So Solimaun took leave, and cross'd the strait.

John Bull was in his very worst of moods, Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods; His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw, And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo. His wars were ended, and the victory won, But then, 'twas reckoning-day with honest John; And authors vouch, 'twas still this Worthy's way, "Never to grumble till he came to pay; And then he always thinks, his temper's such, The work too little, and the pay too much." Yet grumbler as he is, so kind and hearty, That when his mortal foe was on the floor, And past the power to harm his quiet more, Poor John had well-nigh wept for Bonaparte! Such was the wight whom Solimaun salam'd-- "And who are you," John answer'd, "and be d--d?"

'A stranger come to see the happiest man-- So, signior, all avouch--in Frangistan.'-- "Happy? my tenants breaking on my hand; Unstock'd my pastures, and untill'd my land; Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and moths The sole consumers of my good broadcloths-- Happy?---why, cursed war and racking tax Have left us scarcely raiment to our backs."-- "In that case, signior, I may take my leave; I came to ask a favor--but I grieve."-- "Favor?" said John, and eyed the Sultaun hard, "It's my belief you came to break the yard!-- But, stay, you look like some poor foreign sinner-- Take that to buy yourself a shirt and dinner."-- With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head; But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said, "Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline; A SHIRT indeed I seek, but none of thine. Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you well,"-- "Kiss and be d--d," quoth John, "and go to hell!"

Next door to John there dwelt his sister Peg, Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg When the blithe bagpipe blew--but, soberer now, She DOUCELY span her flax and milk'd her cow. And whereas erst she was a needy slattern, Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern, Yet once a month her house was partly swept, And once a week a plenteous board she kept. And, whereas, eke, the vixen used her claws And teeth of yore, on slender provocation. She now was grown amenable to laws, A quiet soul as any in the nation; The sole remembrance of her warlike joys Was in old songs she sang to please her boys. John Bull, whom, in their years of early strife, She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life, Now found the woman, as he said, a neighbor, Who look'd to the main chance, declined no labor, Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern jargon. And was d--d close in making of a bargain.

The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg, And with decorum courtesy'd sister Peg; (She loved a book, and knew a thing or two, And guess'd at once with whom she had to do). She bade him "Sit into the fire," and took Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from the nook; Ask'd him "About the news from Eastern parts: And of her absent bairns, puir Highland hearts! If peace brought down the price of tea and pepper, And if the NITMUGS were grown ONY cheaper;-- Were there nae SPEERINGS of our Mungo Park-- Ye'll be the gentleman that wants the sark? If ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spinning I'll warrant ye it's a weel-wearing linen."

Then up got Peg, and round the house 'gan scuttle In search of goods her customer to nail, Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely throttle And hallo'd--"Ma'am, that is not what I ail. Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug glen?"-- "Happy?" said Peg; "What for d'ye want to ken? Besides, just think upon this by-gane year, Grain wadna pay the yoking of the pleugh."-- "What say you to the present?"--"Meal's sae dear, To make their brose my bairns have scarce aneugh."-- "The devil take the shirt," said Solimaun, "I think my quest will end as it began.-- Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I beg"-- "Ye'll no be for the linen then?" said Peg.

Now, for the land of verdant Erin, The Sultaun's royal bark is steering, The Emerald Isle, where honest Paddy dwells, The cousin of John Bull, as story tells. For a long space had John, with words of thunder Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy under, Till the poor lad, like boy that's flogg'd unduly, Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly. Hard was his lot and lodging, you'll allow, A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow; His landlord, and of middle men two brace, Had screw'd his rent up to the starving-place; His garment was a top-coat, and an old one, His meal was a potato, and a cold one; But still for fun or frolic, and all that, In the round world was not the match of Pat. The Sultaun saw him on a holiday, Which is with Paddy still a jolly day; When mass is ended, and his load of sins Confess'd, and Mother Church hath from her binns Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit, Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and spirit! To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free, And dance as light as leaf upon the tree.

"By Mahomet," said Sultaun Solimaun, "That ragged fellow is our very man! Rush in and seize him--do not do him hurt, But, will he nill he, let me have his SHIRT."

Shilela their plan was well-nigh after baulking (Much less provocation will set it a-walking), But the odds that foil'd Hercules foil'd Paddy Whack; They seized, and they floor'd, and they stripp'd him--Alack Up-bubboo! Paddy had not--a shirt to his back!!! And the King, disappointed, with sorrow and shame Went back to Serendib as sad as he came.

THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS.
THOMAS MOORE.

A donkey whose talent for burden was wondrous,
So much that you'd swear he rejoiced in a load,
One day had to jog under panniers so pond'rous,
That--down the poor donkey fell, smack on the road.

His owners and drivers stood round in amaze--
What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy
So easy to drive through the dirtiest ways,
For every description of job-work so ready!

One driver (whom Ned might have "hail'd" as a "brother")
Had just been proclaiming his donkey's renown,
For vigor, for spirit, for one thing or other--
When, lo! 'mid his praises, the donkey came down.

But, how to upraise him?--one shouts, T'OTHER whistles,
While Jenky, the conjurer, wisest of all,
Declared that an "over-production" of thistles--
(Here Ned gave a stare)--was the cause of his fall.

Another wise Solomon cries, as he passes--
"There, let him alone, and the fit will soon cease,
The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses,
And this is his mode of 'TRANSITION TO PEACE'"

Some look'd at his hoofs, and, with learned grimaces,
Pronounced that too long without shoes he had gone--
"Let the blacksmith provide him a sound metal basis
(The wiseacres said), and he's sure to jog on."

But others who gabbled a jargon half Gaelic,
Exclaim'd, "Hoot awa, mon, you're a' gane astray"--
And declared that "whoe'er might prefer the METALLIC,
They'd shoe their OWN donkeys with papier mache."

Meanwhile the poor Neddy, in torture and fear,
Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan,
And, what was still dolefuler--lending an ear
To advisers whose ears were a match for his own.

At length, a plain rustic, whose wit went so far
As to see others' folly, roar'd out as he pass'd--
"Quick--off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are,
Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last."

MISADVENTURES AT MARGATE. A LEGEND OF JARVIS'S JETTY. B. HARRIS BABHAM.

MR. SIMPKINSON (loquitur). I was in Margate last July, I walk'd upon the pier, I saw a little vulgar Boy--I said "What make you here?-- The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks any thing but joy;" Again I said, "What make you here, you little vulgar Boy?"

He frown'd, that little vulgar Boy--he deem'd I meant to scoff-- And when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off;" He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose,-- He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose!

"Hark! don't you hear, my little man?--it's striking nine," I said, "An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed. Run home and get your supper, else your Ma' will scold--Oh fie!-- It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!"

The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring, His bosom throbb'd with agony--he cried like any thing! I stoop'd, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur--"Ah I haven't got no supper! and I haven't got no Ma'!--

"My father, he is on the seas,--my mother's dead and gone! And I am here on this here pier, to roam the world alone; I have not had, this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart, Nor 'BROWN' to buy a bit of bread with,--let alone a tart.

"If there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ, By day or night, then blow me tight!" (he was a vulgar Boy;) "And now I'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent To jump, as Mr. Levi did from off the Monu-ment!"

"Cheer up! cheer up! my little man--cheer up!" I kindly said. You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head: If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your legs, Perhaps your neck--then Bogey'd have you, sure as eggs are eggs!

"Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and sup; My landlady is Mrs. Jones--we must not keep her up-- There's roast potatoes on the fire,--enough for me and you-- Come home,--you little vulgar Boy--I lodge at Number 2."

I took him home to Number 2, the house beside "The Foy" I bade him wipe his dirty shoes,--that little vulgar Boy,-- And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex, "Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X!"

But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise, She said she "did not like to wait on little vulgar Boys." She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubb'd the delft Said I might "go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself!"

I did not go to Jericho--I went to Mr. Cobb-- I changed a shilling--(which in town the people call "a Bob")-- It was not so much for myself as for that vulgar child-- And I said, "A pint of double X, and please to draw it mild!"

When I came back I gazed about--I gazed on stool and chair-- I could not see my little friend--because he was not there! I peep'd beneath the table-cloth--beneath the sofa too-- I said "You little vulgar Boy! why what's become of you?"

I could not see my table-spoons--I look'd, but could not see The little fiddle-pattern'd ones I use when I'm at tea; --I could not see my sugar-tongs--my silver watch--oh, dear! I know 'twas on the mantle-piece when I went out for beer.

I could not see my Mackintosh!--it was not to be seen! Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimm'd and lined with green; My carpet-bag--my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and soy,-- My roast potatoes!--all are gone!--and so's that vulgar Boy!

I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below, "--Oh, Mrs. Jones! what do you think?--ain't this a pretty go? --That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here to-night, --He's stolen my things and run away!!"--Says she, "And sarve you right!!"

* * * * * *

Next morning I was up betimes--I sent the Crier round, All with his bell and gold-laced hat, to say I'd give a pound To find that little vulgar Boy, who'd gone and used me so; But when the Crier cried "O Yes!" the people cried, "O No!"

I went to "Jarvis' Landing-place," the glory of the town, There was a common sailor-man a-walking up and down; I told my tale--he seem'd to think I'd not been treated well, And called me "Poor old Buffer!" what that means I cannot tell.

That sailor-man, he said he'd seen that morning on the shore, A son of--something--'twas a name I'd never heard before, A little "gallows-looking chap"--dear me; what could he mean? With a "carpet-swab" and "muckingtogs," and a hat turned up with green.

He spoke about his "precious eyes," and said he'd seen him "sheer," --It's very odd that sailor-men should talk so very queer-- And then he hitch'd his trowsers up, as is, I'm told, their use, --It's very odd that sailor-men should wear those things so loose.

I did not understand him well, but think he meant to say He'd seen that little vulgar Boy, that morning swim away In Captain Large's Royal George about an hour before, And they were now, as he supposed, "someWHERES" about the Nore.

A landsman said, "I TWIG the chap--he's been upon the Mill-- And 'cause he GAMMONS so the FLATS, ve calls him Veeping Bill!" He said "he'd done me wery brown," and "nicely STOW'D the SWAG." --That's French, I fancy, for a hat--or else a carpet-bag.

I went and told the constable my property to track; He asked me if "I did not wish that I might get it back?" I answered, "To be sure I do!--it's what I come about." He smiled and said, "Sir, does your mother know that you are out?"

Not knowing what to do, I thought I'd hasten back to town, And beg our own Lord Mayor to catch the Boy who'd "done me brown." His Lordship very kindly said he'd try and find him out, But he "rather thought that there were several vulgar boys about."

He sent for Mr. Whithair then, and I described "the swag," My Mackintosh, my sugar-tongs, my spoons, and carpet-bag; He promised that the New Police should all their powers employ; But never to this hour have I beheld that vulgar Boy!

MORAL. Remember, then, what when a boy I've heard my Grandma' tell, "BE WARN'D IN TIME BY OTHERS' HARM, AND YOU SHALL DO FULL WELL!" Don't link yourself with vulgar folks, who've got no fix'd abode, Tell lies, use naughty words, and say they "wish they may be blow'd!" Don't take too much of double X!--and don't at night go out To fetch your beer yourself, but make the pot-boy bring you stout! And when you go to Margate next, just stop and ring the bell, Give my respects to Mrs. Jones, and say I 'm pretty well!

THE GHOST.
R. HARRIS BARHAM.

There stands a City,--neither large nor small, Its air and situation sweet and pretty; It matters very little--if at all-- Whether its denizens are dull or witty, Whether the ladies there are short or tall, Brunettes or blondes, only, there stands a city!-- Perhaps 'tis also requisite to minute That there's a Castle, and a Cobbler in it.

A fair Cathedral, too, the story goes, And kings and heroes lie entombed within her; There pious Saints, in marble pomp repose, Whose shrines are worn by knees of many a Sinner; There, too, full many an Aldermanic nose Roll'd its loud diapason after dinner; And there stood high the holy sconce of Becket, --Till four assassins came from France to crack it.

The Castle was a huge and antique mound, Proof against all th' artillery of the quiver, Ere those abominable guns were found, To send cold lead through gallant warrior's liver It stands upon a gently rising ground, Sloping down gradually to the river, Resembling (to compare great things with smaller) A well-scooped, moldy Stilton cheese--but taller.

The Keep, I find, 's been sadly alter'd lately, And 'stead of mail-clad knights, of honor jealous, In martial panoply so grand and stately, Its walls are rilled with money-making fellows, And stuff'd, unless I'm misinformed greatly, With leaden pipes, and coke, and coal, and bellows In short, so great a change has come to pass, Tis now a manufactory of Gas.

But to my tale.--Before this profanation, And ere its ancient glories were out short all, A poor hard-working Cobbler took his station In a small house, just opposite the portal; His birth, his parentage, and education, I know but little of--a strange, odd mortal; His aspect, air, and gait, were all ridiculous; His name was Mason--he'd been christened Nicholas.

Nick had a wife possessed of many a charm, And of the Lady Huntingdon persuasion; But, spite of all her piety, her arm She'd sometimes exercise when in a passion; And, being of a temper somewhat warm, Would now and then seize, upon small occasion, A stick, or stool, or any thing that round did lie, And baste her lord and master most confoundedly.

No matter;--'tis a thing that's not uncommon, 'Tis what we all have heard, and most have read of,-- I mean, a bruising, pugilistic woman, Such as I own I entertain a dread of, --And so did Nick,--whom sometimes there would come on A sort of fear his Spouse might knock his head off, Demolish half his teeth, or drive a rib in, She shone so much in "facers" and in "fibbing."

"There's time and place for all things," said a sage (King Solomon, I think), and this I can say, Within a well-roped ring, or on a stage, Boxing may be a very pretty FANCY, When Messrs. Burke or Bendigo engage; --'Tis not so well in Susan or in Nancy:-- To get well mill'd by any one's an evil, But by a lady--'tis the very Devil.

And so thought Nicholas, whose only trouble (At least his worst) was this, his rib's propensity; For sometimes from the ale-house he would hobble, His senses lost in a sublime immensity Of cogitation--then he couldn't cobble-- And then his wife would often try the density Of his poor skull, and strike with all her might, As fast as kitchen wenches strike a light.

Mason, meek soul, who ever hated strife, Of this same striking had a morbid dread, He hated it like poison--or his wife-- A vast antipathy!--but so he said-- And very often, for a quiet life, On these occasions he'd sneak up to bed, Grope darkling in, and soon as at the door He heard his lady--he'd pretend to snore.

One night, then, ever partial to society, Nick, with a friend (another jovial fellow), Went to a Club--I should have said Society-- At the "City Arms," once call'd the "Porto Bello" A Spouting party, which, though some decry it, I Consider no bad lounge when one is mellow; There they discuss the tax on salt, and leather, And change of ministers and change of weather.

In short, it was a kind of British Forum, Like John Gale Jones', erst in Piccadilly, Only they managed things with more decorum, And the Orations were not QUITE so silly; Far different questions, too, would come before 'em Not always politics, which, will ye nill ye, Their London prototypes were always willing, To give one QUANTUM SUFF. of--for a shilling.

It more resembled one of later date, And tenfold talent, as I'm told, in Bow-street, Where kindlier nurtured souls do congregate, And, though there are who deem that same a low street Yet, I'm assured, for frolicsome debate And genuine humor it's surpassed by no street, When the "Chief Baron" enters, and assumes To "rule" o'er mimic "Thesigers" and "Broughams."

Here they would oft forget their Rulers' faults, And waste in ancient lore the midnight taper, Inquire if Orpheus first produced the Waltz, How Gas-lights differ from the Delphic Vapor. Whether Hippocrates gave Glauber's Salts, And what the Romans wrote on ere obey'd paper,-- This night the subject of their disquisitions Was Ghosts, Hobgoblins, Sprues, and Apparitions.

One learned gentleman, "a sage grave man," Talk'd of the Ghost in Hamlet, "sheath'd in steel:"-- His well-read friend, who next to speak began, Said, "That was Poetry, and nothing real;" A third, of more extensive learning, ran To Sir George Villiers' Ghost, and Mrs. Veal; Of sheeted Specters spoke with shorten'd breath, And thrice he quoted "Drelincourt on Death."

Nick, smoked, and smoked, and trembled as he heard The point discuss'd, and all they said upon it, How frequently some murder'd man appear'd, To tell his wife and children who had done it; Or how a Miser's Ghost, with grisly beard, And pale lean visage, in an old Scotch bonnet, Wander'd about to watch his buried money! When all at once Nick heard the clock strike One--he

Sprang from his seat, not doubting but a lecture Impended from his fond and faithful She; Nor could he well to pardon him expect her, For he had promised to "be home to tea;" But having luckily the key o' the back door, He fondly hoped that, unperceived, he Might creep up stairs again, pretend to doze, And hoax his spouse with music from his nose.

Vain fruitless hope!--The wearied sentinel
At eve may overlook the crouching foe,
Till, ere his hand can sound the alarum-bell,
He sinks beneath the unexpected blow;
Before the whiskers of Grimalkin fell,
When slumb'ring on her post, the mouse may go,--
But woman, wakeful woman, 's never weary,
--Above all, when she waits to thump her deary.

Soon Mrs. Mason heard the well-known tread; She heard the key slow creaking in the door, Spied through the gloom obscure, toward the bed Nick creeping soft, as oft he had crept before; When, bang, she threw a something at his head, And Nick at once lay prostrate on the floor; While she exclaim'd with her indignant face on,-- "How dare you use your wife so, Mr. Mason?"

Spare we to tell how fiercely she debated, Especially the length of her oration,-- Spare we to tell how Nick expostulated, Roused by the bump into a good set passion, So great, that more than once he execrated, Ere he crawl'd into bed in his usual fashion; --The Muses hate brawls; suffice it then to say, He duck'd below the clothes--and there he lay:

'Twas now the very witching time of night, When church-yards groan, and graves give up their dead, And many a mischievous, enfranchised Sprite Had long since burst his bonds of stone or lead, And hurried off, with schoolboy-like delight, To play his pranks near some poor wretch's bed, Sleeping, perhaps, serenely as a porpoise, Nor dreaming of this fiendish Habeas Corpus.

Not so our Nicholas, his meditations Still to the same tremendous theme recurred, The same dread subject of the dark narrations, Which, back'd with such authority, he'd heard; Lost in his own horrific contemplations, He pondered o'er each well-remembered word; When at the bed's foot, close beside the post, He verily believed he saw--a Ghost!

Plain and more plain the unsubstantial Sprite To his astonish'd gaze each moment grew; Ghastly and gaunt, it rear'd its shadowy height, Of more than mortal seeming to the view, And round its long, thin, bony fingers drew A tatter'd winding-sheet, of course ALL WHITE;-- The moon that moment peeping through a cloud, Nick very plainly saw it THROUGH THE SHROUD!

And now those matted locks, which never yet Had yielded to the comb's unkind divorce, Their long-contracted amity forget, And spring asunder with elastic force; Nay, e'en the very cap, of texture coarse, Whose ruby cincture crown'd that brow of jet, Uprose in agony--the Gorgon's head Was but a type of Nick's up-squatting in the bed.

From every pore distill'd a clammy dew. Quaked every limb,--the candle too no doubt, En regle, WOULD have burnt extremely blue, But Nick unluckily had put it out; And he, though naturally bold and stout, In short, was in a most tremendous stew;-- The room was fill'd with a sulphureous smell, But where that came from Mason could not tell.

All motionless the Specter stood,--and now Its reverend form more clearly shone confest, From the pale cheek a beard of purest snow Descended o'er its venerable breast; The thin gray hairs, that crown'd its furrow'd brow, Told of years long gone by.--An awful guest It stood, and with an action of command, Beckon'd the Cobbler with its wan right hand.

"Whence, and what art thou, Execrable Shape?" Nick MIGHT have cried, could he have found a tongue, But his distended jaws could only gape, And not a sound upon the welkin rung, His gooseberry orbs seem'd as they would have sprung Forth from their sockets,--like a frightened Ape He sat upon his haunches, bolt upright, And shook, and grinn'd, and chatter'd with affright.

And still the shadowy finger, long and lean, Now beckon'd Nick, now pointed to the door; And many an ireful glance, and frown, between, The angry visage of the Phantom wore, As if quite vexed that Nick would do no more Than stare, without e'en asking, "What d' ye mean?" Because, as we are told,--a sad old joke too,-- Ghosts, like the ladies, "never speak till spoke to."

Cowards, 'tis said, in certain situations, Derive a sort of courage from despair, And then perform, from downright desperation, Much more than many a bolder man would dare. Nick saw the Ghost was getting in a passion, And therefore, groping till he found the chair, Seized on his awl, crept softly out of bed, And follow'd quaking where the Specter led.

And down the winding stair, with noiseless tread, The tenant of the tomb pass'd slowly on, Each mazy turning of the humble shed Seem'd to his step at once familiar grown, So safe and sure the labyrinth did he tread As though the domicile had been his own, Though Nick himself, in passing through the shop, Had almost broke his nose against the mop.

Despite its wooden bolt, with jarring sound, The door upon its hinges open flew; And forth the Spirit issued,--yet around It turn'd as if its follower's fears it knew, And once more beckoning, pointed to the mound, The antique Keep, on which the bright moon threw With such effulgence her mild silvery gleam, The visionary form seem'd melting in her beam.

Beneath a pond'rous archway's somber shade, Where once the huge portcullis swung sublime, 'Mid ivied battlements in ruin laid, Sole, sad memorials of the olden time, The Phantom held its way,--and though afraid Even of the owls that sung their vesper chime, Pale Nicholas pursued, its steps attending, And wondering what on earth it all would end in.

Within the moldering fabric's deep recess At length they reach a court obscure and lone; It seemed a drear and desolate wilderness, The blackened walls with ivy all o'ergrown; The night-bird shrieked her note of wild distress, Disturb'd upon her solitary throne, As though indignant mortal step should dare, So led, at such an hour, should venture there!

--The Apparition paused, and would have spoke Pointing to what Nick thought an iron ring, But then a neighboring chanticleer awoke, And loudly 'gan his early matins sing And then "it started like a guilty thing," As that shrill clarion the silence broke. --We know how much dead gentlefolks eschew The appalling sound of "Cock-a-doodle-do!"

The vision was no more--and Nick alone-- "His streamer's waving" in the midnight wind, Which through the ruins ceased not to groan; --His garment, too, was somewhat short behind,-- And, worst of all, he knew not where to find The ring,--which made him most his fate bemoan-- The iron ring,--no doubt of some trap door, 'Neath which the old dead Miser kept his store.

"What's to be done?" he cried, "'t were vain to stay Here in the dark without a single clew-- Oh, for a candle now, or moonlight ray! 'Fore George, I'm sadly puzzled what to do." (Then clapped his hand behind)--"'Tis chilly too-- I'll mark the spot, and come again by day. What can I mark it by?--Oh, here's the wall-- The mortar's yielding--here I'll stick my awl!"

Then rose from earth to sky a withering shriek, A loud, a long-protracted note of woe, Such as when tempests roar, and timbers creak, And o'er the side the masts in thunder go; While on the deck resistless billows break, And drag their victims to the gulfs below;-- Such was the scream when, for the want of candle, Nick Mason drove his awl in up to the handle.

Scared by his Lady's heart-appalling cry, Vanished at once poor Mason's golden dream-- For dream it was;--and all his visions high, Of wealth and grandeur, fled before that scream-- And still he listens, with averted eye, When gibing neighbors make "the Ghost" their theme While ever from that hour they all declare That Mrs. Mason used a cushion in her chair!

A LAY OF ST. GENGULPHUS.
R. HARRIS BARHAM

Gengulphus comes from the Holy Land,
With his scrip, and his bottle, and sandal shoon;
Full many a day hath he been away,
Yet his lady deems him return'd full soon.

Full many a day hath he been away,
Yet scarce had he crossed ayont the sea,
Ere a spruce young spark of a Learned Clerk
Had called on his Lady, and stopp'd to tea.

This spruce young guest, so trimly drest,
Stay'd with that Lady, her revels to crown;
They laugh'd, and they ate, and they drank of the best
And they turn'd the old castle quite upside down.

They would walk in the park, that spruce young Clerk,
With that frolicsome Lady so frank and free,
Trying balls and plays, and all manner of ways,
To get rid of what French people call Ennui.

* * * * * *

Now the festive board with viands is stored,
Savory dishes be there, I ween,
Rich puddings and big, and a barbacued pig,
And ox-tail soup in a China tureen.

There's a flagon of ale as large as a pail--
When, cockle on hat, and staff in hand,
While on naught they are thinking save eating and drinking,
Gengulphus walks in from the Holy Land!

"You must be pretty deep to catch weasels asleep,"
Says the proverb: that is "take the Fair unawares."
A maid o'er the banisters chancing to peep,
Whispers, "Ma'am, here's Gengulphus a-coming up-stairs."

Pig, pudding, and soup, the electrified group,
With the flagon pop under the sofa in haste,
And contrive to deposit the Clerk in the closet,
As the dish least of all to Gengulphus's taste.

Then oh! what rapture, what joy was exprest,
When "poor dear Gengulphus" at last appear'd!
She kiss'd and she press'd "the dear man" to her breast,
In spite of his "great, long, frizzly beard."

Such hugging and squeezing! 'twas almost unpleasing,
A smile on her lip, and a tear in her eye;
She was so very glad, that she seem'd half mad,
And did not know whether to laugh or to cry.

Then she calls up the maid and the table-cloth's laid,
And she sends for a pint of the best Brown Stout;
On the fire, too, she pops some nice mutton-chops,
And she mixes a stiff glass of "Cold Without."

Then again she began at the "poor dear" man;
She press'd him to drink, and she press'd him to eat,
And she brought a foot-pan, with hot water and bran,
To comfort his "poor dear" travel-worn feet.

"Nor night nor day since he'd been away,
Had she had any rest," she "vow'd and declared."
She "never could eat one morsel of meat,
For thinking how 'poor dear' Gengulphus fared."

She "really did think she had not slept a wink
Since he left her, although he'd been absent so long,"
Here he shook his head,--right little he said,
But he thought she was "coming it rather too strong."
Now his palate she tickles with the chops and the pickles
Till, so great the effect of that stiff gin grog,
His weaken'd body, subdued by the toddy,
Falls out of the chair, and he lies like a log.

Then out comes the Clerk from his secret lair;
He lifts up the legs, and she lifts up the head,
And, between them, this most reprehensible pair
Undress poor Gengulphus and put him to bed.

Then the bolster they place athwart his face,
And his night-cap into his mouth they cram;
And she pinches his nose underneath the clothes,
Till the "poor dear soul" goes off like a lamb.

* * * * *

And now they tried the deed to hide;
For a little bird whisper'd "Perchance you may swing;
Here's a corpse in the case, with a sad swell'd face,
And a Medical Crowner's a queer sort of thing!"

So the Clerk and the wife, they each took a knife,
And the nippers that nipp'd the loaf-sugar for tea;
With the edges and points they sever'd the joints
At the clavicle, elbow, hip, ankle, and knee.

Thus, limb from limb, they dismember'd him
So entirely, that e'en when they came to his wrists,
With those great sugar-nippers they nipped off his "flippers,"
As the Clerk, very flippantly, termed his fists.

When they cut off his head, entertaining a dread
Lest the folks should remember Gengulphus's face,
They determined to throw it where no one could know it,
Down the well,--and the limbs in some different place.

But first the long beard from the chin they shear'd,
And managed to stuff that sanctified hair,
With a good deal of pushing, all into the cushion
That filled up the seat of a large arm-chair.

They contriv'd to pack up the trunk in a sack,
Which they hid in an osier-bed outside the town,
The Clerk bearing arms, legs, and all on his back,
As that vile Mr. Greenacre served Mrs. Brown.

But to see now how strangely things sometimes turn out,
And that in a manner the least expected!
Who could surmise a man ever could rise
Who'd been thus carbonado'd, out up, and dissected?

No doubt 't would surprise the pupils at Guy's;
I am no unbeliever--no man can say that o' me--
But St. Thomas himself would scarce trust his own eyes
If he saw such a thing in his School of Anatomy.

You may deal as you please with Hindoos and Chinese,
Or a Mussulman making his heathen salaam, or
A Jew or a Turk, but it's rather guess work
When a man has to do with a Pilgrim or Palmer.

* * * * *

By chance the Prince Bishop, a Royal Divine,
Sends his cards round the neighborhood next day, and urges his
Wish to receive a snug party to dine,
Of the resident clergy, the gentry, and burgesses.

At a quarter past five they are all alive,
At the palace, for coaches are fast rolling in,
And to every guest his card had express'd
"Half-past" as the hour for "a greasy chin."

Some thirty are seated, and handsomely treated
With the choicest Rhine wine in his Highness's stock
When a Count of the Empire, who felt himself heated,
Requested some water to mix with his Hock.

The Butler, who saw it, sent a maid out to draw it,
But scarce had she given the windlass a twirl,
Ere Gengulphus's head, from the well's bottom, said
In mild accents, "Do help us out, that's a good girl!"

Only fancy her dread when she saw a great head
In her bucket;--with fright she was ready to drop:--
Conceive, if you can, how she roar'd and she ran,
With the head rolling after her, bawling out "Stop!"

She ran and she roar'd, till she came to the board
Where the Prince Bishop sat with his party around,
When Gengulphus's poll, which continued to roll
At her heels, on the table bounced up with a bound.

Never touching the cates, or the dishes or plates,
The decanters or glasses, the sweetmeats or fruits,
The head smiles, and begs them to bring his legs,
As a well-spoken gentleman asks for his boots.

Kicking open the casement, to each one's amazement
Straight a right leg steps in, all impediment scorns,
And near the head stopping, a left follows hopping
Behind,--for the left leg was troubled with corns.

Next, before the beholders, two great brawny shoulders,
And arms on their bent elbows dance through the throng;
While two hands assist, though nipped off at the wrist,
The said shoulders in bearing the body along.

They march up to the head, not one syllable said,
For the thirty guests all stare in wonder and doubt,
As the limbs in their sight arrange and unite,
Till Gengulphus, though dead, looks as sound as a trout.

I will venture to say, from that hour to this day,
Ne'er did such an assembly behold such a scene;
Or a table divide fifteen guests of a side
With a dead body placed in the center between.
Yes, they stared--well they might at so novel a sight
No one utter'd a whisper, a sneeze, or a hem,
But sat all bolt upright, and pale with affright;
And they gazed at the dead man, the dead man at them.

The Prince Bishop's Jester, on punning intent,
As he view'd the whole thirty, in jocular terms
Said "They put him in mind of a Council of Trente
Engaged in reviewing the Diet of Worms."

But what should they do?--Oh! nobody knew
What was best to be done, either stranger or resident;
The Chancellor's self read his Puffendorf through
In vain, for his book could not furnish a precedent.

The Prince Bishop mutter'd a curse, and a prayer,
Which his double capacity hit to a nicety;
His Princely, or Lay, half induced him to swear,
His Episcopal moiety said "Benedicite!"

The Coroner sat on the body that night,
And the jury agreed,--not a doubt could they harbor,--
"That the chin of the corpse--the sole thing brought to light--
Had been recently shav'd by a very bad barber."

They sent out Van Taunsend, Von Burnie, Von Roe,
Von Maine, and Von Rowantz--through chalets and chateaux,
Towns, villages, hamlets, they told them to go,
And they stuck up placards on the walls of the Stadthaus.

"MURDER!!