JACK-O'LANTERN.

Designed. Etched & Published by George Cruikshank. January 1st1842.Jack o'Lantern.

Designed. Etched & Published by George Cruikshank. January 1st1842.

Jack o'Lantern.

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

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

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

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

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

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

BY SAM. SLY.

Now is the timeFor all things prime!Cramm'd Turkeys, dropsied Lambs, and oily Geese,Forced Chickens, bloated Pigs, and tons of grease;Sir-loins of suet—legs, and wings, of fat,And boys from school, to say they "can't touch that;"Mountains of Mutton, tubs of tails and blubber,Larks by the yard, like onions on a string,And giblets by the pailful is a thingEnough to turn the stomach of a grubber,Unless he tweak his nose and shut his eyes.And then again there's piles of Lemon-peel,Hillocks of nutmegs, currants, plums, and figs;And children gazing "merry as the grigs,"Longing (for that which joy cannot conceal)That some of these may sweeten their "minced pies."Now, men get civil—lads more mild appear,Than they were wont to do throughout the year;The hat is doff'd—civilities come fastThat after Christmas who shall say will last?Now, pens are busy writing out "old scores,"And birds get pert and hop about our doors,Fighting their comrades for the largest crumbs.See that old lady shivering as she goes,Furr'd to the eyes, and muffled to the nose,And he who thumps his sides to warm his thumbs.Mark the lone berry on the Mountain AshLike a child's coral on a leafless twig—Watch the Tom-titThat's shaking it:He's getting desperate—bolting it slap dash—A decent mouthful for a throat not big.Now here's a pretty lesson for all sinners,Hunger's the sauce to sweeten Christmas dinners.The fire burns blue—the nearest part gets roasted—The "off-side" suffers in the frigid zone;Just like a slice of bread that's been half toasted—One spot is brown'd—the other cold as stone.The winds are hoarse, the sun gets shy and cool,That is, he's not so warm with his embraces—And old Jack Frost instead begins to rule,So with his brush puts rouge on ladies' faces;A tint more lovely than the finest powder,And speaking to the eye and heart much louder.Now friends get close—and cousins meet their cousins,Babbies their daddies—aunts their pretty nieces;The jokes go round, and lies perhaps by dozens,And Jacky pulls his master all to pieces.Now prayers and cards are all the go—How's that you ask? Well, I don't know;I only know—the fact is so!

Now is the time

For all things prime!

Cramm'd Turkeys, dropsied Lambs, and oily Geese,

Forced Chickens, bloated Pigs, and tons of grease;

Sir-loins of suet—legs, and wings, of fat,

And boys from school, to say they "can't touch that;"

Mountains of Mutton, tubs of tails and blubber,

Larks by the yard, like onions on a string,

And giblets by the pailful is a thing

Enough to turn the stomach of a grubber,

Unless he tweak his nose and shut his eyes.

And then again there's piles of Lemon-peel,

Hillocks of nutmegs, currants, plums, and figs;

And children gazing "merry as the grigs,"

Longing (for that which joy cannot conceal)

That some of these may sweeten their "minced pies."

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

Now, men get civil—lads more mild appear,

Than they were wont to do throughout the year;

The hat is doff'd—civilities come fast

That after Christmas who shall say will last?

Now, pens are busy writing out "old scores,"

And birds get pert and hop about our doors,

Fighting their comrades for the largest crumbs.

See that old lady shivering as she goes,

Furr'd to the eyes, and muffled to the nose,

And he who thumps his sides to warm his thumbs.

Mark the lone berry on the Mountain Ash

Like a child's coral on a leafless twig—

Watch the Tom-tit

That's shaking it:

He's getting desperate—bolting it slap dash—

A decent mouthful for a throat not big.

Now here's a pretty lesson for all sinners,

Hunger's the sauce to sweeten Christmas dinners.

The fire burns blue—the nearest part gets roasted—

The "off-side" suffers in the frigid zone;

Just like a slice of bread that's been half toasted—

One spot is brown'd—the other cold as stone.

The winds are hoarse, the sun gets shy and cool,

That is, he's not so warm with his embraces—

And old Jack Frost instead begins to rule,

So with his brush puts rouge on ladies' faces;

A tint more lovely than the finest powder,

And speaking to the eye and heart much louder.

Now friends get close—and cousins meet their cousins,

Babbies their daddies—aunts their pretty nieces;

The jokes go round, and lies perhaps by dozens,

And Jacky pulls his master all to pieces.

Now prayers and cards are all the go—

How's that you ask? Well, I don't know;

I only know—the fact is so!

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

A "JOLLY" SONG—By Charles Hookey Walker, Esq.

Leave, O! leave, that set of fellows,Who are always sensible;They give one the blues and yellows—'Tis most reprehensible!Stretch your mouths from ear to ear,Never mind your beauty:Wisdom never holds it dear—Laugh, and do your duty!Laughing does a person good,Muscles exercising;Helping to digest the food—So 'tis not surprisingThat by laughing all grow fat,Chasing off the yellows,The blue devils, and all that;Laugh, then, jolly fellows!Push the bottle round the board,Tell the tale so merry,Sing the songs that areencored.Let's be happy—very!Push the bottle round about,Let us hear your singing,Give it voice, and troll it out.Set the glasses ringing!"Here's a health to her I love!Hip! hip! hip! hurra, sirs!""D'ye think, sir, that the gods aboveShave themselves with razors?""No, sir, to be sure they don't,But with shells of oysters!""Wine with me, sir?" "No, I won't!"Thus go on the roysters.Laughing, quaffing, glee and fun!That's the time of day, sir;Laugh that life was e'er begun,Laugh your life away, sir!Never wish you ne'er were born,Don't sit sadly sighing;Morn and eve, from eve to morn,Laugh, for time is flying!

Leave, O! leave, that set of fellows,

Who are always sensible;

They give one the blues and yellows—

'Tis most reprehensible!

Stretch your mouths from ear to ear,

Never mind your beauty:

Wisdom never holds it dear—

Laugh, and do your duty!

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

Laughing does a person good,

Muscles exercising;

Helping to digest the food—

So 'tis not surprising

That by laughing all grow fat,

Chasing off the yellows,

The blue devils, and all that;

Laugh, then, jolly fellows!

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

Push the bottle round the board,

Tell the tale so merry,

Sing the songs that areencored.

Let's be happy—very!

Push the bottle round about,

Let us hear your singing,

Give it voice, and troll it out.

Set the glasses ringing!

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

"Here's a health to her I love!

Hip! hip! hip! hurra, sirs!"

"D'ye think, sir, that the gods above

Shave themselves with razors?"

"No, sir, to be sure they don't,

But with shells of oysters!"

"Wine with me, sir?" "No, I won't!"

Thus go on the roysters.

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

Laughing, quaffing, glee and fun!

That's the time of day, sir;

Laugh that life was e'er begun,

Laugh your life away, sir!

Never wish you ne'er were born,

Don't sit sadly sighing;

Morn and eve, from eve to morn,

Laugh, for time is flying!

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

And thou wert there! and I was not with thee!

Thy bright eyes shone on many, but their ray

Was just as if you had been Alice Gray,

And hadn't braided up your hair for me.

This method of expressing it, you see,

Implies the same as if I were to say

(Asvidesong) your eyes were turned away,

And my heart's breaking!—as it ought to be—

(And so it is of course). This world is drear!

Most drear—without thee,Some One! at my side!

Death! peace! I'll go and drown myself, that's clear!

In the affairs of men I'll findmytide.

Yes! life has now no music for my ear,

Except that tune of which the old cow died!—C. H. W.

BY DR. BULGARDO.

The toiling sun has spedTo his ever-distant goal;And the moon hangs overheadLike a silver parasol.Long has she not unfurledHer banner thus on high,But looked, for all the world,Like a muffin in the sky.The tears saline, I weep,Have no effect I see;The screech-owl talks in her sleep,But thou say'st nought to me.Thy eyelashes, love, are soft,And long as a skein of silk;Thou'rt harmless, it strikes me oft,As a grain of sugar of milk.

The toiling sun has sped

To his ever-distant goal;

And the moon hangs overhead

Like a silver parasol.

Long has she not unfurled

Her banner thus on high,

But looked, for all the world,

Like a muffin in the sky.

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

The tears saline, I weep,

Have no effect I see;

The screech-owl talks in her sleep,

But thou say'st nought to me.

Thy eyelashes, love, are soft,

And long as a skein of silk;

Thou'rt harmless, it strikes me oft,

As a grain of sugar of milk.

BY JOHN COPUS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No!"

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

"No!"

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

"No!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mrs. Frampfeels exceedingly grievedthat she and Mr. Framp are unable to accept Mrs. J. G. Peewitt's kind invitation for Wednesday,——inst.—Grumpion Parade, Tuesday afternoon."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"She speaks, yet she saysn—th—g!"—R—o and J—t.

Go, bid the st—rs forget to shine,The o—n-tides to ebb and flow,Bid fl—rs forget to blush and pine,But bid not me to b—n—sh w—e!Thou canst not guess my s—rr—w's source,My pass—n's spring thou canst not see;Thou knowest not its depth and force,—Thou dreamest not 'tis l—ve for th—!Fiercer than fires in Æ—a's breastMy s—cr—t burns in this lone h—t;D—y brings no light, sl—p yields no rest,And h—vn no air, but where th— art.I listen to the w—nds at night,They speak of th— in whispers fine;In D—n's or Au—ra's light,I see no beauty, none but th—!All l—ve save mine's an idle taleOf Hy—n's torch and C—d's bow;I envy Cl—p—ra's wail,Or S—pho leaping, wild, below.For V—ry'spâtéholds for me—Or G—nt—r's soup—no poison rare;And leaping from a b—lc—y,Were quite absurd—in Belg—ve Square.My s—st—r raves of H—w—ll, Ja—s,And thinks with dr—ss to ease my thrall;She deems not of d—vour—g flamesBeneath one's f—fty-g—nea sh—wl!M—ma to M—rt—r and St—rrDrags me with sweet maternal haste;My p—rls of s—l they can't restore,Nor l—fe's bright d—m—ds, turn'd to paste!P—pa and br—th—r N—d would winMy spirit forth to ball and rout;They think of course to t—ke me in—Alas! they only t—ke me out!In vain R—b—ni's sweetness now,In vain Lab—che's boldest air;In vain M—cr—dy plays,—if th—,Th—, the Ad—r'd one, art not there!Whilst thou, unbless'd with st-ck or l-nd,Hast not one cr—wn per annum clear,Thou knowest not that—"here's my h-nd,With f-ft—n th—s—d p—-ds a year."Andwereit known, this pass—n wild,Then d—th would at my h—rt-st—gs tug!No, none shall know that th— art styled,The H-n-r-ble Fr-nk F-tz M—gg!L. B.

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

Go, bid the st—rs forget to shine,

The o—n-tides to ebb and flow,

Bid fl—rs forget to blush and pine,

But bid not me to b—n—sh w—e!

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

Thou canst not guess my s—rr—w's source,

My pass—n's spring thou canst not see;

Thou knowest not its depth and force,—

Thou dreamest not 'tis l—ve for th—!

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

Fiercer than fires in Æ—a's breast

My s—cr—t burns in this lone h—t;

D—y brings no light, sl—p yields no rest,

And h—vn no air, but where th— art.

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

I listen to the w—nds at night,

They speak of th— in whispers fine;

In D—n's or Au—ra's light,

I see no beauty, none but th—!

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

All l—ve save mine's an idle tale

Of Hy—n's torch and C—d's bow;

I envy Cl—p—ra's wail,

Or S—pho leaping, wild, below.

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

For V—ry'spâtéholds for me—

Or G—nt—r's soup—no poison rare;

And leaping from a b—lc—y,

Were quite absurd—in Belg—ve Square.

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

My s—st—r raves of H—w—ll, Ja—s,

And thinks with dr—ss to ease my thrall;

She deems not of d—vour—g flames

Beneath one's f—fty-g—nea sh—wl!

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

M—ma to M—rt—r and St—rr

Drags me with sweet maternal haste;

My p—rls of s—l they can't restore,

Nor l—fe's bright d—m—ds, turn'd to paste!

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

P—pa and br—th—r N—d would win

My spirit forth to ball and rout;

They think of course to t—ke me in—

Alas! they only t—ke me out!

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

In vain R—b—ni's sweetness now,

In vain Lab—che's boldest air;

In vain M—cr—dy plays,—if th—,

Th—, the Ad—r'd one, art not there!

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

Whilst thou, unbless'd with st-ck or l-nd,

Hast not one cr—wn per annum clear,

Thou knowest not that—"here's my h-nd,

With f-ft—n th—s—d p—-ds a year."

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

Andwereit known, this pass—n wild,

Then d—th would at my h—rt-st—gs tug!

No, none shall know that th— art styled,

The H-n-r-ble Fr-nk F-tz M—gg!

L. B.

A STRIKING ADVENTURE.

BY LAMAN BLANCHARD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BY A. BIRD.

Oh when I was a little boy, how well I can remember,The jolly day we had upon the fifth of each November!But now the march of intellect has changed the matter quite,And Boyhood's day of merriment is turned to sober night:His hoops are made of iron, like our ships upon the seas;From infancy to manhood now—from elephants to fleas[18],All life is hurry-scurry—toil—trouble, and contentions:Oh, what an age we live in! with its wonderful inventions!But yesterday—and granite paved our good old London town,Now patent wood is all the go—and nothing else goes down,Excepting horses by the score, yet that's a trifle too—We only wait perfection in a "horse's patent shoe."We talk by electricity—we've got an infant "Steam"Who smokes, and with an iron rod he drives a pretty team,And a pretty pace he goes! the boy! and a pretty power is his!Beware, my gentle reader, or he'll flatten out your phiz.Oh, what an age is this! how very wonderful and new!Our bridges once were always square, now half are built askew.Our horses once were taught to draw a something at their tails,A coach, or cart, or gig—but now, another mode prevails;The horse istrainedto stand within a carriage of his own,And while he eats a bit of hay some forty miles are done.There are wonders upon wonders whichever way one peeps;They sayourpoor are starving, yet,Lascarsare turned to sweeps.Our cattle-shows are wonders too—the fat out-weighs the meat,Which is, no doubt, for tallow good—detestable to eat!—Oh, what an age is this—for beasts!—how wonderful and newWith wire just fit for binding corks, we've built a bridge at Kew[19]![20]Breakwaters now are taught to float, and (per comparison, id est)They'll cost the nation but a song, yet be much better than the best,(To say thus much—this wonder tell—I know those lines exceed,But when thePiper'spaid byBull, for extra feet I plead;)To[21]Maccheroni'taties change! your Niger men declare(For want of something better,q?) "they are the best of fare."Youngsteamhas swamped the wherries, which is "wery" sad for thoseWho tell unto "the Funny Club" their miserable woes"How steamers run the river down—and boats by hundreds too"—"In this inwentive, vicked hage"—so wonderful and new!Exchequer bills were sometime held much safer than the Bank,Now holders find they've only held a monstrous ugly blank.The very piles[22]which once were driven one inch within the hour,Now go the pace, the railroad pace! by some mechanic power.Within a little—ay—alas! and ere its pipes are old,Bright Bude will come and Gas will pass, "e'en as a tale that's told."Then we shall see!—I wonder what! 'tis dazzling quite to think,"I'm downright dizzy with the thought"—I'm standing on a brink,It turns my brain! this age so economical and new,When tories, like our steamers, try—to go the pace, and—screw!"And said I that my eyes were dim" with glories dazzling bright!When I confess my rising thoughts, you'll say that well they might.This age, methought, this wondrous age must understand the thing,Since England's Queen—our blessed Queen—outshines each former King!May Heaven unite this wondrous age in one harmonic whole!I pray and hope—and think it will—I do upon my soul.E'en hand-bills match the mightyTimes; tho' strip them from the walls,Miss Kemble and her Norma would soon paper up St. Paul's.God bless, say I, the Queen I love—her loving subjects too—And with this universal prayer I bid the age—adieu!

Oh when I was a little boy, how well I can remember,

The jolly day we had upon the fifth of each November!

But now the march of intellect has changed the matter quite,

And Boyhood's day of merriment is turned to sober night:

His hoops are made of iron, like our ships upon the seas;

From infancy to manhood now—from elephants to fleas[18],

All life is hurry-scurry—toil—trouble, and contentions:

Oh, what an age we live in! with its wonderful inventions!

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

But yesterday—and granite paved our good old London town,

Now patent wood is all the go—and nothing else goes down,

Excepting horses by the score, yet that's a trifle too—

We only wait perfection in a "horse's patent shoe."

We talk by electricity—we've got an infant "Steam"

Who smokes, and with an iron rod he drives a pretty team,

And a pretty pace he goes! the boy! and a pretty power is his!

Beware, my gentle reader, or he'll flatten out your phiz.

Oh, what an age is this! how very wonderful and new!

Our bridges once were always square, now half are built askew.

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

Our horses once were taught to draw a something at their tails,

A coach, or cart, or gig—but now, another mode prevails;

The horse istrainedto stand within a carriage of his own,

And while he eats a bit of hay some forty miles are done.

There are wonders upon wonders whichever way one peeps;

They sayourpoor are starving, yet,Lascarsare turned to sweeps.

Our cattle-shows are wonders too—the fat out-weighs the meat,

Which is, no doubt, for tallow good—detestable to eat!—

Oh, what an age is this—for beasts!—how wonderful and new

With wire just fit for binding corks, we've built a bridge at Kew[19]!

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

[20]Breakwaters now are taught to float, and (per comparison, id est)

They'll cost the nation but a song, yet be much better than the best,

(To say thus much—this wonder tell—I know those lines exceed,

But when thePiper'spaid byBull, for extra feet I plead;)

To[21]Maccheroni'taties change! your Niger men declare

(For want of something better,q?) "they are the best of fare."

Youngsteamhas swamped the wherries, which is "wery" sad for those

Who tell unto "the Funny Club" their miserable woes

"How steamers run the river down—and boats by hundreds too"—

"In this inwentive, vicked hage"—so wonderful and new!

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

Exchequer bills were sometime held much safer than the Bank,

Now holders find they've only held a monstrous ugly blank.

The very piles[22]which once were driven one inch within the hour,

Now go the pace, the railroad pace! by some mechanic power.

Within a little—ay—alas! and ere its pipes are old,

Bright Bude will come and Gas will pass, "e'en as a tale that's told."

Then we shall see!—I wonder what! 'tis dazzling quite to think,

"I'm downright dizzy with the thought"—I'm standing on a brink,

It turns my brain! this age so economical and new,

When tories, like our steamers, try—to go the pace, and—screw!

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

"And said I that my eyes were dim" with glories dazzling bright!

When I confess my rising thoughts, you'll say that well they might.

This age, methought, this wondrous age must understand the thing,

Since England's Queen—our blessed Queen—outshines each former King!

May Heaven unite this wondrous age in one harmonic whole!

I pray and hope—and think it will—I do upon my soul.

E'en hand-bills match the mightyTimes; tho' strip them from the walls,

Miss Kemble and her Norma would soon paper up St. Paul's.

God bless, say I, the Queen I love—her loving subjects too—

And with this universal prayer I bid the age—adieu!

"Still, still I love thee,—love thee, love thee, still."—La Sonnambula

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