Deer Sir its gut to be the fashun now to rite letters to the candid 8s and I wus chose at a public Meetin in Jalaam to du wut wus nessary fur that town. I writ to 271 ginerals and gut ansers to 209. the air called candid 8s but I don't see nothin candid about em. this here 1 which I send wus thought satty's factory. I dunno as it's ushle to print Poscrips, but as all the ansers I got hed the saim, I sposed it wus best. times has gretly changed. Formaly to knock a man into a cocked hat wus to use him up, but now it ony gives him a chance furthe cheef madgutracy.—H. B.
Dear Sir—You wish to know my notionsOn sartin pints thet rile the land;There's nothin' thet my natur so shunsEs bein' mum or underhand;I'm a straight-spoken kind o' creeturThet blurts right out wut's in his head,An' ef I've one pecooler feetur,It is a nose thet wunt be led.
So, to begin at the beginnin';An' come directly to the pint,I think the country's underpinnin'Is some consid'ble out o' jint;I aint agoin' to try your patienceBy tellin' who done this or thet,I don't make no insinooations,I jest let on I smell a rat.
Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so,But, ef the public think I'm wrongI wunt deny but wut I be so—An', fact, it don't smell very strong;My mind's tu fair to lose its balanceAn' say wich party hez most sense;There may be folks o'greater talenceThet can't set stiddier on the fence.
I'm an eclectic: ez to choosin''Twixt this an'thet, I'm plaguy lawth;I leave a side thet looks like losin',But (wile there's doubt) I stick to both;I stan' upon the Constitution,Ez preudunt statesmun say, who've plannedA way to git the most profusionO' chances ez to ware they'll stand.
Ez fer the war, I go agin it—I mean to say I kind o' du—Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it,The best way wuz to fight it thru;Not but wut abstract war is horrid,I sign to thet with all my heart—But civlyzation doos git forridSometimes upon a powder-cart.
About thet darned Proviso matterI never hed a grain o' doubt,Nor I aint one my sense to scatterSo's no one couldn't pick it out;My love fer North an' South is equil,So I'll just answer plump an' frank,No matter wut may be the sequil—Yes, sir, I am agin a Bank.
Ez to the answerin' o' questions,I 'am an off ox at bein' druv,Though I aint one thet ary test shunsI'll give our folks a helpin' shove;Kind o' promiscoous I go itFer the holl country, an' the groundI take, ez nigh ez I can show it,Is pooty gen'ally all round.
I don't appruve o' givin' pledges;You'd ough' to leave a feller free,An' not go knockin' out the wedgesTo ketch his fingers in the tree;Pledges air awfle breachy cattleThet preudent farmers don't turn out—Ez long'z the people git their rattle,Wut is there fer'm to grout about?
Ez to the slaves, there's no confusionIn MY idees consarnin' them—Ithink they air an Institution,A sort of—yes, jest so—ahem:DoIown any? Of my meritOn thet pint you yourself may jedge;All is, I never drink no sperit,Nor I haint never signed no pledge.
Ez to my principles, I gloryIn hevin' nothin' o' the sort;I aint a Wig, I aint a Tory,I'm jest a candidate, in short;Thet's fair an' square an' parpendicler,But, ef the Public cares a figTo hev me an' thin' in particler.Wy, I'm a kind o' peri-wig.
Ez we're a sort o' privateerin',O' course, you know, it's sheer an' sheerAn' there is sutthin' wuth your hearin'I'll mention in YOUR privit ear;Ef you git ME inside the White House,Your head with ile I'll kio' o' 'nintBy gitt'n' YOU inside the Light-houseDown to the eend o' Jaalam Pint
An' ez the North hez took to brustlin'At bein' scrouged from off the roost,I'll tell ye wut'll save all tusslin'An' give our side a harnsome boost—Tell 'em thet on the Slavery questionI'm RIGHT, although to speak I'm lawth;This gives you a safe pint to rest on,An' leaves me frontin' South by North.
I du believe in Freedom's cause,Ez fur away ez Paris is;I love to see her stick her clawsIn them infarnal Pharisees;It's wal enough agin a kingTo dror resolves and triggers,—But libbaty's a kind o' thingThet don't agree with niggers.
I du believe the people wantA tax on teas and coffees,Thet nothin' aint extravygunt,—Purvidin' I'm in office;For I hev loved my country senceMy eye-teeth filled their sockets,An' Uncle Sam I reverence,Partic'larly his pockets.
I du believe in ANY planO' levyin' the taxes,Ez long ez, like a lumberman,I git jest wut I axes:I go free-trade thru thick an' thin,Because it kind o' rousesThe folks to vote—and keep us inOur quiet custom-houses.
I du believe it's wise an' goodTo sen' out furrin missions,Thet is, on sartin understoodAn' orthydox conditions;—I mean nine thousan' dolls. per ann.,Nine thousan' more fer outfit,An' me to recommend a manThe place 'ould jest about fit.
I du believe in special waysO' prayin' an' convartin';The bread comes back in many days,An' buttered, tu, fer sartin;—I mean in preyin' till one bustsOn wut the party chooses,An' in convartin' public trustsTo very privit uses.
I do believe hard coin the stuffFer 'lectioneers to spout on;The people's ollers soft enoughTo make hard money out on;Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his,An' gives a good-sized junk to all—I don't care HOW hard money is,Ez long ez mine's paid punctooal.
I du believe with all my soulIn the gret Press's freedom,To pint the people to the goalAn' in the traces lead 'em:Palsied the arm thet forges yokesAt my fat contracts squintin',An' wilhered be the nose thet pokesInter the gov'ment printin'!
I du believe thet I should giveWut's his'n unto Caesar,Fer it's by him I move an' live,From him my bread an' cheese airI du believe thet all o' meDoth bear his souperscription,—Will, conscience, honor, honesty,An' things o' thet description.
I du believe in prayer an' praiseTo him thet hez the grantin'O' jobs—in every thin' thet pays,But most of all in CANTIN';This doth my cup with marcies fill,This lays all thought o' sin to rest—I DON'T believe in princerple,But, O, I DU in interest.
I du believe in bein' thisOr thet, ez it may happenOne way, or t' other hendiest isTo ketch the people nappin';It aint by princerples nor menMy preudent course is steadied—I scent wich pays the best, an' thenGo into it baldheaded.
I du believe thet holdin' slavesComes nat'ral tu a President,Let 'lone the rowdedow it savesTo have a wal-broke precedunt;Fer any office, small or gret,I could'nt ax with no face,Without I'd been, thru dry an' wet,The unrizziest kind o' doughface.
I du believe wutever trash'll keep the people in blindness,—Thet we the Mexicans can thrashRight inter brotherly kindness—Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ballAir good-will's strongest magnets—Thet peace, to make it stick at all,Must be druv in with bagnets.
In short, I firmly du believeIn Humbug generally,Fer it's a thing thet I perceiveTo hev a solid vally;This heth my faithful shepherd ben,In pasturs sweet heth led me,An' this'll keep the people greenTo feed ez they have fed me.
Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown,An' peeked in thru the winder,An there sot Huldy all alone,'ith no one nigh to hender.
Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung,An' in among 'em rustedThe ole queen's arm thet gran'ther YoungFetched back from Concord busted.
The wannut logs shot sparkles outToward the pootiest, bless her!An' leetle fires danced all aboutThe chiny on the dresser.
The very room, coz she wuz in,Looked warm frum floor to ceilin'.An' she looked full ez rosy aginEz th' apple she wuz peelin'.
She heerd a foot an' knowd it, tu,Araspin' on the scraper—All ways to once her feelins flewLike sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,Some doubtfle of the seekle:His heart kep' goin' pitypat,But hern went pity Zekle.
By Bary ALLe is like the suL,WheL at the dawL it fliLgsIts goldeL sBiles of light upoLEarth's greeL and loLely thiLgs.IL vaiL I sue, I oLly wiLFroB her a scorLful frowL,But sooL as I By prayers begiL,She cries O Lo! begoLe,Yes! yes! the burtheL of her soLgIs Lo! Lo! Lo! begoLe!
By Bary ALLe is like the mooL,WheL first her silver sheeLAwakes the LightiLgale's soft tuLe,That else had sileLt beeL.But Bary ALLe, like darkest Light,OL be, alas! looks dowL;Her sBiles oL others beaB their light,Her frowLs are all By owL.I've but oLe burtheL to By soLg—Her frowLs are all By owL.
A WICKED one lies buried here,Who died in a DECLINE;He never rose in rank, I fear,Though he was born to SHINE.
He once was FAT, but now, indeed,He's thin as any griever;He died—the Doctors all agreed,Of a most BURNING fever.
One thing of him is said with truth,With which I'm much amused;It is—that when he stood, forsooth,A STICK he always used.
Now WINDING-SHEETS he sometimes made,But this was not enough,For finding it a poorish trade,He also dealt in SNUFF.
If e'er you said "GO OUT, I pray,"He much ill nature show'd;On such occasions he would say,"Vy, if I do, I'M BLOW'D"
In this his friends do all agree,Although you'll think I'm joking,When GOING OUT 'tis said that heWas very fond of SMOKING.
Since all religion he despised,Let these few words suffice,Before he ever was baptizedThey DIPP'D him once or twice.
On going forth last night, a friend to see,I met a man by trade a s-n-o-B;Reeling along the path he held his way."Ho! ho!" quoth I, "he's d-r-u-n-K"Then thus to him—"Were it not better, far,You were a little s-o-b-e-R?'T were happier for your family, I guess,Than playing of such rum r-i-g-S.Besides, all drunkards, when policemen see 'em,Are taken up at once by t-h-e-M."'Me drunk!" the cobbler cried, "the devil trouble youYou want to kick up a blest r-o-W.Now, may I never wish to work for Hoby,If drain I've had!" (the lying s-n-O-B!)I've just return'd from a tee-total party,Twelve on us jamm'd in a spring c-a-R-P.The man as lectured, now, WAS drunk; why, bless ye,He's sent home in a c-h-a-i-S-E.He'd taken so much lush into his belly,I'm blest if he could t-o-dd-L-E.A pair on 'em—hisself and his good lady;—The gin had got into her h-e-A-D.(My eye and Betty! what weak mortals WE are;They said they took but ginger b-e-E-R!)But as for me, I've stuck ('t was rather ropy)All day to weak imperial p-O-P.And now we've had this little bit o' sparrin',Just stand a q-u-a-r-t-e-R-N!"
What! then you won't accept it, wont you? Oh!No matter; pshaw! my heart is breaking, though.My bouquet is rejected; let it be:For what am I to you, or you to me?'Tis true I once had hoped; but now, alas!Well, well; 'tis over now, and let it pass.I was a fool—perchance I am so still;You won't accept it! Let me dream you will:But that were idle. Shall we meet again?Why should we? Water for my burning brain?I could have loved thee—Could! I love thee yetCan only Lethe teach me to forget?Oblivion's balm, oh tell me where to find!Is it a tenant of the anguish'd mind?Or is it?—ha! at last I see it come;Waiter! a bottle of your oldest rum.
Smile, lady, smile! (BLESS ME! WHAT'S THAT?CONFOUND THE CAT!)—Smile, lady, smile! One glance bestowOn him who sadly waits below,To catch—(A VILLAIN UP ABOVEHAS THROWN SOME WATER ON ME, LOVE!)To catch one token—(OH, LORD! MY HEAD IS BROKEN;THE WRETCH WHO THREW THE WATER DOWN,HAS DROPPED THE JUG UPON MY CROWN)—To catch one token, which shall beAs dear as life itself to me.List, lady, then; while on my luteI breathe soft—(NO! I'LL NOT BE QUIET;HOW DARE YOU CALL MY SERENADE A RIOT?I DO DEFY YOU)—while upon my luteI breathe soft sighs—(YES, I DISPUTEYOUR RIGHT TO STOP ME)—breathe soft sighs.Grant but one look from those dear eyes—(THERE, TAKE THAT STUPID NODDLE IN AGAIN;CALL THE POLICE!—DO! I'LL PROLONG MY STRAIN),We'll wander by the river's placid flow—(UNTO THE STATION-HOUSE!—NO, SIR, I WON'T GO;LEAVE ME ALONE!)—and talk of love's delight.(OH, MURDER!—HELP! I'M LOCKED UP FOR THE NIGHT!)
RAILROAD NURSERY RHYME.PUNCH.Air—"Ride a Cock Horse."
Fly by steam force the country across,Faster than jockey outside a race-horse:With time bills mismanaged, fast trains after slow,You shall have danger wherever you go.
I have found out a gig-gig-gift for my fuf-fuf-fair,I have found where the rattle-snakes bub-bub-breed;Will you co-co-come, and I'll show you the bub-bub-bear,And the lions and tit-tit-tigers at fuf-fuf-feed.
I know where the co-co-cockatoo's songMakes mum-mum-melody through the sweet vale;Where the mum-monkeys gig-gig-grin all the day longOr gracefully swing by the tit-tit-tit-tail.
You shall pip-pip-play, dear, some did-did-delicate jokeWith the bub-bub-bear on the tit-tit-top of his pip-pip-pip-pole;But observe, 'tis forbidden to pip-pip-poke At the bub-bub-bear withyour pip-pip-pink pip-pip-pip-pip-parasol!
You shall see the huge elephant pip-pip-play,You shall gig-gig-gaze on the stit-stit-stately racoon;And then did-did-dear, together we'll strayTo the cage of the bub-bub-blue-faced bab-bab-boon.
You wished (I r-r-remember it well,And I lul-lul-loved you the m-m-more for the wish)To witness the bub-bub-beautiful pip-pip-pel-ican swallow the l-l-live little fuf-fuf-fish!
Oh dem that absawd Cwystal Palace! alas,What a pity they took off the duty on glass!It's having been evaw ewected, in fact,Was en-ti-a-ly owing to that foolish act.
Wha-evew they put it a cwowd it will dwaw,And that is the weason I think it a baw;I have no gweat dislike to the building, as sutch;The People is what I object to sa mutch.
The People!—I weally am sick of the wawd:The People is ugly, unpleasant, absawd;Wha-evaw they go, it is always the case,They are shaw to destroy all the chawm of the place.
Their voices are loud, and their laughter is hawse;Their fealyaws are fabsy, iwegulaw, cause;How seldom it is that their faces disclose,What one can call, pwopally speaking, a nose!
They have dull heavy looks, which appeaw to expwessDisagweeable stwuggles with common distwess;The People can't dwess, doesn't know how to walk.And would uttaly wuin a spot like the Pawk.
That I hate the People is maw than I 'll say;I only would have them kept out of my way,Let them stay at the pot-house, wejoice in the pipe,And wegale upon beeaw, baked patatas, and twipe.
We must have the People—of that tha's no doubt—In shawt they could not be, pahaps, done without.If'twa not faw the People we could not have BootsTha's no doubt that they exawcise useful pasuits.
They are all vewy well in their own pwopa spheeawA long distance off; but I don t like them neeaw;The slams is the place faw a popula show;Don't encouwage the people to spoil Wotten Wow.
It is odd that the DUKE OF AWGYLL could pasue,So eccentwic a cawse, and LAD SHAFTESBUWY too,As to twy and pwesawve the Glass House on its site,Faw no weason on awth but the People's delight.
A must wead Uncle Tom—a wawkWhich A'm afwaid's extwemely slow,People one meets begin to talkOf Mrs. HARWIETBEECHASTOWE.
'Tis not as if A saw ha nameTo walls and windas still confined;All that is meawly vulga fame:A don't wespect the public mind.
But Staffa'd House has made haw quiteAnotha kind a pawson look,A Countess would pasist, last night,In asking me about haw book.
She wished to know if I admiawdEVA, which quite confounded me;And then haw Ladyship inqwaw'dWhethaw A did'nt hate LEGWEE?
Bai JOVE! A was completely flaw'd;A wish'd myself, or haw, at Fwance;And that's the way a fella's baw'dBy ev'wy gal he asks to dance.
A felt myself a gweat a foolThan A had evaw felt befaw;A'll study at some Wagged SchoolThe tale of that old Blackamaw!
A don't object at all to WarWith a set a fellas like the Fwench,But this dem wupcha with the Czar,It gives one's feeling quite a wench.
The man that peace in Yawwup keptGives all his pwevious life the lie;A fina fella neva stepped,Bai JOVE, he's maw than six feet high!
He cwushed those democwatic beasts;He'd flog a Nun; maltweat a Jew,Or pawsecute those Womish Pwiests,Most likely vewy pwoppa too.
To think that afta such a cawce,Which nobody could eva blame,The EMP'WA should employ bwute fawceAgainst this countwy just the same!
We all consida'd him our fwiend,But in a most erwoneus light,In shawt, it seems you can't dependOn one who fancies might is wight.
His carwacta is coming out;His motives—which A neva saw—Are now wevealed beyond a doubt,And we must fight—but what a baw!
THE LAST KICK OF FOP'S ALLEY.PUNCH.Air—"Weber's Last Waltz."
My wawst feaws are wealized; the Op wa is na maw,And the wain of DONIZETTI and TAPISCHOWE are aw!No entapwising capitalist bidding faw the lot,In detail at last the pwopaty is being sold by SCOTT.
Fahwell to Anna Bolena; to Nauma, oh, fahwell!Adieu to La Sonnambula! the hamma wings haw knell;I Puwitani, too, must cease a cwowded house to dwaw,And they've knocked down lovely Lucia, the Bwide of Lammamaw.
Fahwell the many twinkling steps; fahwell the gwaceful fawmThat bounded o'er the wose-beds, and that twipped amid the stawm;Fahwell the gauze and muslin—doomed to load the Hebwew's bags;Faw the Times assauts the wawdwobe went—just fancy—as old wags!
That ev'wy thing that's bwight must fade, we know is vewy twue,And now we see what sublunawy glowwy must come to;How twue was MAIDSTONE'S pwophecy; the Deluge we beholdNow that HAW MAJESTY'S Theataw is in cawse of being sold.
THE MAD CABMAN'S SONG OF SIXPENCE[Footnote: This inimitable burlesque was published soon after the cabfare had reduced from eightpence to sixpence a mile.]PUNCH.
Wot's this?—wot hever is this 'ere?Eh?—arf a suvrin!—feels like vun—Boohoo! they won't let me have no beer!Suppose I chucks it up into the sun!—No—that ain't right—The yaller's turned wite!Ha, ha, ho!—he's sold and done—Come, I say!—I won't stand that—'Tis all my eye and BETTY MARTIN!Over the left and all round my hat,As the pewter pot said to the kevarten.
Who am I? HEMPRER of the FRENCHLEWIS NAPOLEON BONYPART,Old Spooney, to be sure—Between you and me and the old blind ossAnd the doctor says there ain't no cure.
D' ye think I care for the blessed Bench?—From Temple Bar to Charing Cross?Two mile and better—arf a crown—Talk of screwing a feller down!As for poor BILL, it's broke his art.Cab to the Moon, sir? Here you are!—That's—how much?—A farthin' touch!Now as we can't demand back fare.
But, guv'ner, wot can this 'ere be?—The fare of a himperial carridge?You don't mean all this 'ere for me!In course you ain't heerd about my marridge—I feels so precious keveer!How was it I got that kick o' the 'ed?I've ad a slight hindispositionBut a Beak ain't no Physician.Wot's this 'ere, sir? wot's this 'ere?You call yerself a gentleman? yer Snob!He wasn't bled:And I was let in for forty bob,Or a month, instead:And I caught the lumbago in the brain—I've been confined—But never you mind—Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho! I ain't hinsane.
Vot his this 'ere? Can't no one tell?It sets my ed a spinnin—The QUEEN'S eye winks—it ain't no sell—The QUEEN'S 'ed keeps a grinnin:Ha, ha! 't was guvBy the cove I druv—I vunders for wot e meant it!For e sez to me,E sez, sez e,As I ort to be contented!Wot did yer say, sir, wot did yer say?My fare!—wot, that!Yer knocks me flat.Hit in the vind!—I'm chokin—give us air—My fare? Ha, ha! My fare? Ho, ho! My fare?
Call that my fare for drivin yer a mile?I ain't hinsane—not yet—not yet avile!Wot makes yer smile?My blood is bilin' in a wiolent manner!Wot's this I've got?Show us a light—This 'ere is—wot?—There's sunthin the matter with my sight—It is—yes!—No!—'Tis, raly, though—Oh, blow! blow! blow!—Ho, ho, ho, ho! it is, it is a Tanner!
ALARMING PROSPECTPUNCH.To the Editor of "PUNCH."
SIR—You are aware, of course, that in the progress of a few centuries the language of a country undergoes a great alteration; that the Latin of the Augustan age was very different from that of the time of Tarquin; and no less so from that which prevailed at the fall of the Roman empire. Also, that the Queen's English is not precisely what it was in Elizabeth's days; to say nothing of its variation from what was its condition under the Plantagenets.
I observe, with regret, that our literature is becoming conversational, and our conversation corrupt. The use of cant phraseology is daily gaining ground among us, and this evil will speedily infect, if it has not already infected, the productions of our men of letters. I fear most for our poetry, because what is vulgarly termed SLANG is unfortunately very expressive, and therefore peculiarly adapted for the purposes of those whose aim it is to clothe "thoughts that breathe" in "words that burn;" and, besides, it is in many instances equivalent to terms and forms of speech which have long been recognized among poetical writers as a kind of current coin.
The peril which I anticipate I have endeavored to exemplify in the following
Gently o'er the meadows prigging, [1]Joan and Colin took their way,While each flower the dew was swigging, [2]In the jocund month of May.
Joan was beauty's plummiest [3] daughter;Colin youth's most nutty [4] son;Many a nob [5] in vain had sought her—Him full many a spicy [6] one.
She her faithful bosom's jewelDid unto this young un' [7] plight;But, alas! the gov'nor [8] cruel,Said as how he'd never fight. [9]
Soon as e'er the lark had risen,They had burst the bonds of snooze, [10]And her daddle [11] link'd in his'n, [12]Gone to roam as lovers use.
In a crack [13] the youth and maidenTo a flowery bank did come,Whence the bees cut, [14] honey-laden,Not without melodious hum.
Down they squatted [15] them together,"Lovely Joan," said Colin bold,"Tell me, on thy davy, [16] whetherThou dost dear thy Colin hold?"
"Don't I, just?" [17] with look ecstatic,Cried the young and ardent maid;"Then let's bolt!" [18] in tone emphatic,Bumptuous [19] Colin quickly said.
"Bolt?" she falter'd, "from the gov'nor?Oh! my Colin, that won't pay; [20]He will ne'er come down, [21] my love, norHelp us, if we run away."
"Shall we then be disunited?"Wildly shrieked the frantic cove; [22]"Mull'd [23] our happiness! and blightedIn the kinchin-bud [24] our love!
"No, my tulip! [25] let us ratherHand in hand the bucket kick; [26]Thus we'll chouse [27] your cruel father—Cutting from the world our stick!" [28]
Thus he spoke, and pull'd a knife out,Sharp of point, of edge full fine;Pierc'd her heart, and let the life out—"Now," he cried, "here's into mine!" [29]
But a hand unseen behind himDid the fatal blow arrest.Oh, my eye! [30] they seize and bind him—Gentle Mure, conceal the rest!
In the precints of the prison,In his cold crib [31] Colin lies;Mourn his fate all you who listen,Draw it mild, and mind your eyes! [32]
1. "Prigging," stealing; as yet exclusively applied to petty larceny. "Stealing" is as well known to be a poetical term as it is to be an indictable offense; the Zephyr and the Vesper Hymn, cum multis aliis, are very prone to this practice. 2. "Swigging," drinking copiously—of malt liquor in particular. "Pearly drops of dew we drink."—OLD SONG. 3. "Plummiest," the superlative of "plummy," exquisitely delicious; an epithet commonly used by young gentlemen in speaking of a bonne bouche or "tit bit," as a mince pie, a preserved apricot, or an oyster patty. The transference of terms expressive of delightful and poignant savor to female beauty, is common with poets. "Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath."—SHAKESPEARE. "Charley loves a pretty girl, AS SWEET AS SUGAR CANDY."—ANON. 4. "Nutty," proper—in the old English sense of "comely," "handsome." "Six PROPER youths, and tall."—OLD SONG. 5. "Nob," a person of consequence; a word very likely to be patronized, from its combined brevity and significancy. 6. "Spicy," very smart and pretty; it has the same recommendation, and will probably supplant the old favorite "bonny." "Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride."—HAMILTON. 7. "Young'un," youth, young man. "A YOUTH to fortune and to fame unknown."—GRAY. 8. "Gov'nor," or "guv'nor," a contraction of "governor," a father. It will, no doubt, soon supersede sire, which is at present the poetical equivalent for the name of the author of one's existence. See all the poets, passim. 9. "Said as how he'd never fight," the thing was out of the question; a metaphorical phrase, though certainly, at present, a vulgar one. 10. "Snooze," slumber personified, like "Morpheus," or "Somnus." 11. "Daddle."—Q. from daktulos, a finger—pars pro toto!—Hand, the only synonym for it that we have, except "Paw," "Mawley," &c., which are decidedly generis ejusdem.12. "His'n," his own; corresponding to the Latin suus, his own and nobody else's, so frequently met with in OVID and others. 13. "Crack," a twinkling, an extremely short interval of time, which was formerly expressed, in general, by a periphrasis; as, "Ere the leviathan can swim a league!"—SHAKESPEARE. 14. "Cut," sped. A synonym. 15. "Squatted," sat. Id. 16. "Davy," affidavit, solemn oath. Significant and euphonious, therefore alluring to the versifier. 17. "Don't I, just?" A question for a strong affirmation, as, "Oh, yes, indeed I do;" a piece of popular rhetoric, pithy and forcible and consequently almost sure to be adopted—especially by the pathetic writers. 18. "Bolt," ran away. Syn. 19. "Bumptious," fearless, bold, and spirited; a very energetic expression such as those rejoice in who would fair "DENHAM'S strength with Waller's sweetness join." 20. "That won't pay," that plan will never answer. Metaph. 21. "Come down," disburse; also rendered in the vernacular by "fork out." etc. Id. 22. "Cove," swain. "Alexis shunn'd his fellow SWAINS."—PRIOR. See also SHENSTONE PASSIM. 23. "Mull'd," equivalent to "wreck'd," a term of pathos. 24. "Kinchin-bud," infant-bud. Metaph.; moreover, very tender, sweet, and touching, as regards the idea. 25. "My tulip," a term of endearment. "Fairest FLOWER, all flowers excelling." ODE TO A CHILD: COTTON. 26. "The bucket kick," pleonasm for die; as, "to breathe life's latest sigh."—"To yield the soul,"—"the breath,"—or, UT APUD ANTIQ. "Animam expirare," seu "efflare," etc. 27. "Chouse," cheat. Syn. 28. "Cutting . . . our stick." Pleon. ut supra. 29. "Here's unto mine!" A form of speech analogous to "Have at thee."—SHAKESPEARE, and the dramatists generally. 30. "Oh, my eye!" an interjectional phrase, tantamount to "Oh, heavens!" "Merciful powers!" etc. 31. "Cold crib," cold bed. "Go to thy cold bed and warm thee."—SHAK. 32. "Draw it mild," etc. Metaph. for "Rule your passions, and beware!"
I doubt not that it will be admitted by your judicious readers that I have substantiated my case. Our monarchical institutions may preserve our native tongue for a time, but if it does not become, at no very distant period, as strange a medley as that of the American is at present—to use the expressive but peculiar idiom of that people—"IT'S A PITY." I am, sir, etc., P.
Collisions fourOr five she bore,The Signals wor in vain;Grown old and rusted,Her biler busted,And smash'd the Excursion Train.
Ven a prig has come to grief,He's no call for desperation;Though I'm a conwicted thief,Still I've opes of liberation.The Reverend Chapling to deceiveA certain dodge and safe resource is,Whereby you gets a Ticket of Leave,And then resumes your wicious courses.
(SPOKEN.) I vos lagged, my beloved pals, on a suspicion of burglary, 'ad up afore the Recorder, and got seven years' penal serwitude and 'ard labor. Hand preshus 'ard labor and 'ard lines I found it at first, mind you. Vell, I says to myself, blow me! I ain't a goin' to stand this 'ere, you know: but 'taint no ass kickin' agin stone walls and iron spikes: wot I shall try and do is to gammon the parson.
"Ven a prig," etc.
Them parsons is so jolly green,They're sure to trust in your conwersion,Which they, in course, believes 'as beenThe consequence of their exertion.You shakes your 'ead, turns up your eyes,And they takes that to be repentance;Wherein you moans, and groans, and sighs,By reason only of your sentence.
(SPOKEN.) Wen in a state of wiolent prespiration smokin' 'ot from the crank, the Chapling comes into my cell, and he says, says he, "My man," he says, "how do you feel?" "'Appy, sir," says I, with a gentle sithe: "thank you, sir: quite 'appy." "But you seem distressed, my poor fellow," says he. "In body, sir," says I; "yes. But that makes me more 'appy. I'm glad to be distressed in body. It serves me right. But in mind I'm 'appy: leastways almost 'appy." "'Ave you hany wish to express," says he: "is there any request as you would like to make." "'AWKER'S HEVENING POTION, sir," says I, "and the DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER: if 'AWKER'S HEVENING POTION was but mine—and the DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER—I think, sir, I should be quite 'appy." "My friend," says the parson, "your desire shall be attended to," and hout he valked: me a takin' a sight at 'im be'ind 'is back; for as soon as I thought he wos out of 'earin', sings I to myself— "Ven a prig," etc
In the chapel hof the Jug,Then I did the meek and lowly,Pullin' sitch a spoony mugThat I looked unkimmon pure and 'oly.As loud as ever I could shout,All the responses too I hutter'd,Well knowing what I was about:So the reverend Gent I buttered.
(Spoken.) Won day he comes to me arter service, and axes me what I thought: I could do for myself in the way of yarnin a honest liveliwood, if so be as I was to be allowed my liberty and to go back to the world. "Ah! sir," says I, "I don't think no longer about the world. 'Tis a world of sorrow and wanity, I havn't given a thought to what I should do in it" "Every one," says the Chapling "has his sphere of usefulness in society; can you think of no employment which you have the desire and ability to follow?" "Well, sir," says I "if there is a wocation which I should feel delight and pleasure in follerin 'tis that of a Scripter Reader. But I ain't worthy to be a Scripter Reader. A coal-porter of tracts and religious books, sir, I thinks that's what I should like to try and be, if the time of my just punishment was up. But there's near seven year, sir, to think about that—and p'raps 'tis better for me to be here." That's the way I used to soap the Chapling—Cos vy? "Ven a prig," etc. So he thought I kissed the rod, All the while my 'art was 'ardened; And I 'adn't been very long in quod Afore he got me as good as pardoned; And here am I with my Ticket of Leave, Obtained by shamming pious feeling, Which lets me loose again to thieve, For I means to persewere in stealing.
(Spoken.) With which resolution, my beloved pals, if you please I'll couple the 'elth of the clergy; and may they hever continue to be sitch kind friends as they now shows theirselves to us when we gets into trouble. For, "Ven a prig," etc.
Qui nunc dancere vult modo,Wants to dance in the fashion, oh!Discere debet—ought to know,Kickere floor cum heel and toe,One, two, three,Hop with me,Whirligig, twirligig, rapide.
Polkam jungere, Virgo, vis,Will you join the polka, miss?Liberius—most willingly,Sic agimus—then let us try:Nunc vide,Skip with me,Whirlabout, roundabout, celere.
Turn laeva cito, tum dextra,First to the left, and then t' other way;Aspice retro in vultu,You look at her, and she looks at you.Das palmamChange hands, ma'am;Celere—run away, just in sham.
All hale! thou mighty annimil—all hale!You are 4 thousand pounds, and am purty welPerporshund, thou tremenjos boveen nuggit!I wonder how big you was wen youWos little, and if yure muther wud no you nowThat you've grone so long, and thick, and phat;Or if yure father would rekognize his ofspringAnd his kaff, thou elefanteen quodrupid!I wonder if it hurts you mutch to be so big,And if you grode it in a month or so.I spose wen you wos young tha didn't ginYou skim milk but all the kreme you kud stuffInto your little stummick, jest to seeHow big yude gro; and afterward tha no doubtFed you on otes and ha and sich like,With perhaps an occasional punkin or squosh!In all probability yu don't no yure ennyBigger than a small kaff; for if you did,
Yude brake down fences and switch your tail,And rush around, and hook, and beller,And run over fowkes, thou orful beastO, what a lot of mince pize yude maik,And sassengers, and your tale,Whitch kan't wa fur from phorty pounds,Wud maik nigh unto a barrel of ox-tail soop,And cudn't a heep of stakes be cut oph yu,Whitch, with salt and pepper and termaterKetchup, wouldn't be bad to taik.Thou grate and glorious inseckt!But I must klose, O most prodijus reptile!And for mi admirashun of yu, when yu di,I'le rite a node unto yore peddy and remanes,Pernouncin' yu the largest of yure race;And as I don't expect to have a half a dollarAgin to spare for to pa to look at yu, and asI ain't a ded head, I will sa, farewell.
Sphinx was a monster that would eatWhatever stranger she could get;Unless his ready wit disclos'dThe subtle riddle she propos'd.Oedipus was resolv'd to go,And try what strength of parts would do.Says Sphinx, on this depends your fate;Tell me what animal is thatWhich has four feet at morning bright,Has two at noon and three at night?'Tis man, said he, who, weak by nature,At first creeps, like his fellow creature,Upon all-four; as years accrue,With sturdy steps he walks on two;In age, at length, grows weak and sick,For his third leg adopts a stick.Now, in your turn, 'tis just methinks,You should resolve me, Madam Sphinx.What greater stranger yet is heWho has four legs, then two, then three;Then loses one, then gets two more,And runs away at last on four?
By birth I'm a slave, yet can give you a crown,I dispose of all honors, myself having none:I'm obliged by just maxims to govern my life,Yet I hang my own master, and lie with his wife.When men are a-gaming I cunningly sneak,And their cudgels and shovels away from them take.Pair maidens and ladies I by the hand get,And pick off their diamonds, tho' ne'er so well set.For when I have comrades we rob in whole bands,Then presently take off your lands from your hands.But, this fury once over, I've such winning arts,That you love me much more than you do your own hearts.
Form'd half beneath, and half above the earth,We sisters owe to art our second birth:The smith's and carpenter's adopted daughters,Made on the land, to travel on the waters.Swifter they move, as they are straiter bound,Yet neither tread the air, or wave, or ground:They serve the poor for use, the rich for whim,Sink when it rains, and when it freezes swim.
RIDDLES BY DEAN SWIFT AND HIS FRIENDS. [Footnote: The following notice is subjoined to some of those riddles, in the Dublin edition: "About nine or ten years ago (i. e. about 1724), some ingenious gentle-men, friends to the author, used to entertain themselves with writing riddles, and send them to him and their other acquaintance; copies of which ran about, and some of them were printed, both here and in England. The author, at his leisure hours, fell into the same amusement; although it be said that he thought them of no great merit, entertainment, or use. However, by the advice of some persons, for whom the author has a great esteem, and who were pleased to send us the copies, we have ventured to print the few following, as we have done two or three before, and which are allowed to be genuine; because we are informed that several good judges have a taste for such kind of compositions."]
Deprived of root, and branch, and rind,Yet flowers I bear of every kind:And such is my prolific power,They bloom in less than half an hour;Yet standers-by may plainly seeThey get no nourishment from me.My head with giddiness goes round,And yet I firmly stand my ground;All over naked I am seen,And painted like an Indian queen.No couple-beggar in the landE'er join'd such numbers hand in hand.I join'd them fairly with a ring;Nor can our parson blame the thing.And though no marriage words are spoke,They part not till the ring is broke:Yet hypocrite fanatics cry,I'm but an idol raised on high;And once a weaver in our town,A damn'd Cromwellian, knock'd me down.I lay a prisoner twenty years,And then the jovial cavaliersTo their old post restored all three—I mean the church, the king, and me.
I with borrowed silver shine,What you see is none of mine.First I show you but a quarter,Like the bow that guards the Tartar:Then the half, and then the whole,Ever dancing round the pole.
What will raise your admiration,I am not one of God's creation,But sprung (and I this truth maintain),Like Pallas, from my father's brain.And after all, I chiefly oweMy beauty to the shades below.Most wondrous forms you see me wear,A man, a woman, lion, bear,A fish, a fowl, a cloud, a field,All figures heaven or earth can yield;Like Daphne sometimes in a tree;Yet am not one of all you see.
I am jet black, as you may see,The son of pitch and gloomy night;Yet all that know me will agree,I'm dead except I live in light.
Sometimes in panegyric high,Like lofty Pindar, I can soar,And raise a virgin to the sky,Or sink her to a filthy ——.
My blood this day is very sweet,To-morrow of a bitter juice;Like milk, 'tis cried about the street,And so applied to different use.
Most wondrous is my magic power:For with one color I can paint;I'll make the devil a saint this hour,Next make a devil of a saint.
Through distant regions I can fly,Provide me but with paper wings;And fairly show a reason whyThere should be quarrels among kings;
And, after all, you'll think it odd,When learned doctors will dispute,That I should point the word of God,And show where they can best confute.
Let lawyers bawl and strain their throats'Tis I that must the lands convey,And strip their clients to their coats;Nay, give their very souls away.
I'm up and down, and round about,Yet all the world can't find me out;Though hundreds have employ'd their leisure,They never yet could find my measure.I'm found almost in every garden,Nay, in the compass of a farthing.There's neither chariot, coach, nor mill,Can move an inch except I will.
In youth exalted high in air,Or bathing in the waters fair,Nature to form me took delight,And clad my body all in white.My person tall, and slender waist,On either side with fringes graced;Tell me that tyrant man espied,And dragg'd me from my mother's side,No wonder now I look so thin;The tyrant stript me to the skin:My skin he flay'd, my hair he cropt:At head and foot my body lopt:And then, with heart more hard than s one,He pick'd my marrow from the bone.To vex me more, he took a freakTo slit my tongue and make me speakBut, that which wonderful appears,I speak to eyes, and not to ears.He oft employs me in disguise,And makes me tell a thousand lies:To me he chiefly gives in trustTo please his malice or his lust,From me no secret he can hide:I see his vanity and pride:And my delight is to exposeHis follies to his greatest foes.All languages I can command,Yet not a word I understand.Without my aid, the best divineIn learning would not know a line:The lawyer must forget his pleading;The scholar could not show his readingNay; man my master is my slave;I give command to kill or save.Can grant ten thousand pounds a-year,And make a beggar's brat a peer.But, while I thus my life relate,I only hasten on my fate.My tongue is black, my mouth is furr'd,I hardly now can force a word.I die unpitied and forgot,And on some dunghill left to rot.
From India's burning clime I'm brought,With cooling gales like zephyrs fraught.Not Iris, when she paints the sky,Can show more different hues than I:Nor can she change her form so fast,I'm now a sail, and now a mast.I here am red, and there am green,A beggar there, and here a queen.I sometimes live in a house of hair,And oft in hand of lady fair.I please the young, I grace the old,And am at once both hot and coldSay what I am then, if you can,And find the rhyme, and you're the man.
Begotten, and born, and dying with noise,The terror of women, and pleasure of boys,Like the fiction of poets concerning the wind,I'm chiefly unruly when strongest confined.For silver and gold I don't trouble my head,But all I delight in is pieces of lead;Except when I trade with a ship or a town,Why then I make pieces of iron go down.One property more I would have you remark,No lady was ever more fond of a spark;The moment I get one my soul's all a-fire,And I roar out my joy, and in transport expire.
All of us in one you'll find,Brethren of a wondrous kind;Yet among us all no brotherKnows one title of the other;We in frequent counsels are,And our marks of things declare,Where, to us unknown, a clerkSits, and takes them in the dark.He's the register of allIn our ken, both great and small;By us forms his laws and rules,He's our master, we his tools;Yet we can with greatest easeTurn and wind him where you please.One of us alone can sleep,Yet no watch the rest will keep,But the moment that he closes,Every brother else reposes.If wine's bought or victuals drest,One enjoys them for the rest.Pierce us all with wounding steel,One for all of us will feel.Though ten thousand cannons roar,Add to them ten thousand more,Yet but one of us is foundWho regards the dreadful sound.
From Heaven I fall, though from earth I begin.No lady alive can show such a skin.I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather,But heavy and dark, when you squeeze me together.Though candor and truth in my aspect I bear,Yet many poor creatures I help to insnare.Though so much of Heaven appears in my make,The foulest impressions I easily take.My parent and I produce one another,The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother.
Of all inhabitants on earth,To man alone I owe my birth,And yet the cow, the sheep, the bee,Are all my parents more than he:I, a virtue, strange and rare,Make the fairest look more fair;And myself, which yet is rarer,Growing old, grow still the fairer.Like sots, alone I'm dull enough,When dosed with smoke, and smear'd with snuff;But, in the midst of mirth and wine,I with double luster shine.Emblem of the Fair am I,Polish'd neck, and radiant eye;In my eye my greatest grace,Emblem of the Cyclops' race;Metals I like them subdue,Slave like them to Vulcan too;Emblem of a monarch old,Wise, and glorious to behold;Wasted he appears, and pale,Watching for the public weal:Emblem of the bashful dame,That in secret feeds her flame,Often aiding to impartAll the secrets of her heart;Various is my bulk and hue,Big like Bess, and small like Sue:Now brown and burnish'd like a nut,At other times a very slut;Often fair, and soft and tender,Taper, tall, and smooth, and slender:Like Flora, deck'd with various flowersLike Phoebus, guardian of the hours:But whatever be my dress,Greater be my size or less,Swelling be my shape or smallLike thyself I shine in all.Clouded if my face is seen,My complexion wan and green,Languid like a love-sick maid,Steel affords me present aid.Soon or late, my date is done,As my thread of life is spun;Yet to cut the fatal threadOft revives my drooping head;Yet I perish in my prime,Seldom by the death of time;Die like lovers as they gaze,Die for those I live to please;Pine unpitied to my urn,Nor warm the fair for whom I burn;Unpitied, unlamented too,Die like all that look on you.
Though I, alas! a prisoner be,My trade is prisoners to set free.No slave his lord's commands obeysWith such insinuating ways.My genius piercing, sharp, and bright,Wherein the men of wit delight.The clergy keep me for their ease,And turn and wind me as they please.A new and wondrous art I showOf raising spirits from below;In scarlet some, and some in white;They rise, walk round, yet never frightIn at each mouth the spirits pass,Distinctly seen as through a glass.O'er head and body make a rout,And drive at last all secrets out;And still, the more I show my art,The more they open every heart.A greater chemist none than IWho, from materials hard and dry,Have taught men to extract with skillMore precious juice than from a still.Although I'm often out of case,I'm not ashamed to show my face.Though at the tables of the greatI near the sideboard take my seat;Yet the plain 'squire, when dinner's done,Is never pleased till I make one;He kindly bids me near him stand,And often takes me by the hand.I twice a-day a-hunting go,And never fail to seize my foe;And when I have him by the poll,I drag him upward from his hole;Though some are of so stubborn kind,I'm forced to leave a limb behind.I hourly wait some fatal end;For I can break, but scorn to bend.
Never sleeping, still awake,Pleasing most when most I speak;The delight of old and young,Though I speak without a tongue.Nought but one thing can confound me,Many voices joining round me;Then I fret, and rave, and gabble,Like the laborers of Babel.Now I am a dog, or cow,I can bark, or I can low;I can bleat, or I can sing,Like the warblers of the spring.Let the love-sick bard complain,And I mourn the cruel pain;Let the happy swain rejoice,And I join my helping voice:Both are welcome, grief or joy,I with either sport and toy.Though a lady, I am stout,Drums and trumpets bring me out:Then I clash, and roar, and rattle,Join in all the din of battle.Jove, with all his loudest thunder,When I'm vexed can't keep me under,Yet so tender is my ear,That the lowest voice I fear;Much I dread the courtier's fate,When his merit's out of date,For I hate a silent breath,And a whisper is my death.
We are little airy creatures,All of different voice and features;One of us in glass is set,One of us you'll find in jet.T'other you may see in tin,And the fourth a box within.If the fifth you should pursue,It can never fly from you.
We are little brethren twain,Arbiters of loss and gain,Many to our counters run,Some are made, and some undone:But men find it to their cost,Few are made, but numbers lost.Though we play them tricks forever,Yet they always hope our favor.
By something form'd, I nothing am,Yet every thing that you can name;In no place have I ever been,Yet everywhere I may be seen;In all things false, yet always true,I'm still the same—but ever now.Lifeless, life's perfect form I wear,Can show a nose, eye, tongue, or ear,Yet neither smell, see, taste, nor hear.All shapes and features I can boast,No flesh, no bones, no blood-no ghost:All colors, without paint, put on,And change, like the chameleon.Swiftly I come, and enter there,Where not a chink lets in the air;Like thought, I'm in a moment gone,Nor can I ever be alone:All things on earth I imitateFaster than nature can create;Sometimes imperial robes I wear,Anon in beggar's rags appear;A giant now, and straight an elf,I'm every one, but ne'er myself;Ne'er sad I mourn, ne'er glad rejoice,I move my lips, but want a voice,I ne'er was born, nor ne'er can die,Then, pr'ythee, tell me what am I?
Ever eating, ever cloying,All-devouring, all-destroyingNever finding full repast,Till I eat the world at last.
ADDISON, JOSEPH—The Essayist of the "Spectator;" born 1632 died 1708. Addison, though one of the most celebrated of English humorists, wrote scarcely a line of humorous verse.
ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM—An American writer; contributor to "Putnam'sMagazine;" author of a volume of poems recently published in Hartford.
ANONYMOUS—To Punch's Almanac, for 1856, we are indebted for an account of this prolific writer:
"Of Anon," says Punch, "but little is known, though his works are excessively numerous. He has dabbled in every thing. Prose and Poetry are alike familiar to his pen. One moment he will be up the highest flights of philosophy, and the next he will be down in some kitchen garden of literature, culling an Enormous Gooseberry, to present it to the columns of some provincial newspaper. His contributions are scattered wherever the English language is read. Open any volume of Miscellanies at any place you will, and you are sure to fall upon some choice little bit signed by 'Anon.' What a mind his must have been! It took in every thing like a pawnbroker's shop. Nothing was too trifling for its grasp. Now he was hanging on to the trunk of an elephant and explaining to you how it was more elastic than a pair of India-rubber braces; and next he would be constructing a suspension bridge with a series of monkey's tails, tying them together as they do pocket- handkerchief's in the gallery of a theater when they want to fish up a bonnet that has fallen into the pit.
"Anon is one of our greatest authors. If all the things which are signed with Anon's name were collected on rows of shelves, he would require a British Museum all to himself. And yet of this great man so little is known that we are not even acquainted with his Christian name. There is no certificate of baptism, no moldy tombstone, no musty washing-bill in the world on which we can hook the smallest line of speculation whether it was John, or James, or Joshua, or Tom, or Dick, or Billy Anon. Shame that a man should write so much, and yet be known so little. Oblivion uses its snuffers, sometimes, very unjustly. On second thoughts, perhaps, it is as well that the works of Anon were not collected together. His reputation for consistency would not probably be increased by the collection. It would be found that frequently he had contradicted himself—-that in many instances when he had been warmly upholding the Christian white of a question he had afterward turned round, and maintained with equal warmth the Pagan black of it. He might often be discovered on both sides of a truth, jumping boldly from the right side over to the wrong, and flinging big stones at any one who dared to assail him in either position. Such double-sidedness would not be pretty, and yet we should be lenient to such inconsistencies. With one who had written so many thousand volumes, who had twirled his thoughts as with a mop on every possible subject, how was it possible to expect any thing like consistency? How was it likely that he could recollect every little atom out of the innumerable atoms his pen had heaped up?
"Anon ought to have been rich, but he lived in an age when piracy was the fashion, and when booksellers walked about, as it were, like Indian chiefs with the skulls of the authors they had slain, hung round their necks. No wonder, therefore, that we know nothing of the wealth of Anon. Doubtless he died in a garret, like many other kindred spirits, Death being the only score out of the many knocking at his door that he could pay. But to his immortal credit let it be said he has filled more libraries than the most generous patrons of literature. The volumes that formed the fuel of the barbarians' bonfire at Alexandria would be but a small book-stall by the side of the octavos, quartos, and duodecimos he has pyramidized on our book-shelves. Look through any catalogue you will, and you will find that a large proportion of the works in it have been contributed by Anon. The only author who can in the least compete with him in fecundity is Ibid."
ANTI-JACOBIN, THE—-Perhaps the most famous collection of Political Satires extant. Originated by Canning in 1797, it appeared in the form of a weekly newspaper, interspersed with poetry, the avowed object of which was to expose the vicious doctrines of the French Revolution, and to hold up to ridicule and contempt the advocates of that event, and the sticklers for peace and parliamentary reform. The editor was William Gifford, the vigorous and unscrupulous critic and poetaster the writers, Mr. John Hookham Frere, Mr. Jenkinson (afterward Earl of Liverpool); Mr. George Ellis, Lord Clare, Lord Mornington (afterward Marquis Wellesley), Lord Morpeth (afterward Earl of Carlisle), Baron Macdonald, and others. These gentlemen spared no means, fair or foul, in their attempts to blacken their adversaries. Their most distinguished countrymen, if opposed to the Tory government of the time being, were treated with no more respect than foreign adversaries, and were held up to public execration as traitors, blasphemers, and debauchees. The period was one of great political excitement, a fierce war with republican France being in progress, the necessity for which divided the public into two great parties; national credit being affected, the Bank of England suspending cash payments, mutinies breaking out in the fleets at Spithead and the Nore, and Ireland at the verge of rebellion. Spain, also, had declared war against Britain, which was thus left to contend singly against the power of France. Party feeling running very high, the anti-Jacobins were by no means discriminating in their attacks, associating men together who really had nothing in common. Hence the reader is surprised to find Charles Lamb and other non-intruders into politics, figuring as congenial conspirators with Tom Paine. Fox, Sheridan, Erskine, and other eloquent liberals of the day, with Tierney, Home Tooke, and Coleridge were at the same tune writing and talking in the opposite extreme, and little quarter was given—certainly none on the part of the Tory wits. The poetry of the "Anti-Jacobin," however, was not exclusively political, comprising also parodies and burlesques on the current literature of the day, some being of the highest degree of merit, and distinguished by sharp wit and broad humor of the happiest kind. In these, Canning and his coadjutors did a real service to letters, and assisted in a purification which Gifford, by his demolition of the Delia Cruscan school of poetry had so well begun. Perhaps no lines in the English language have been more effective or oftener quoted than Canning's "Friend of Humanity and the Knife Grinder." Many of the celebrated caricatures of Gilray were originally designed to illustrate the Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin. It had, however, but a brief, though brilliant existence. Wilberforce and others of the more moderate supporters of the ministry became alarmed at the boldness of the language employed. Pitt (himself a contributor to the journal), was induced to interfere, and after a career of eight months, the "Anti-Jacobin" (in its original form), ceased to be.
AYTOUN, WILLIAM—Professor of Polite Literature in the Edinburg University: editor of "Blackwood's Magazine:" son-in-law of the late Professor Wilson. Professor Aytoun was bred to the bar but, we believe, never came into practice. He is tha author of several humorous pieces, and of many in which the intention to be humorous was not realized. He is what the English call a very CLEVER man. Like many others who excel in ridicule and sarcasm, he is devoid of that kind of moral principle which makes a writer prefer the Just to the Dashing. Aytoun is a fierce Tory in politics—a snob on principle. The specimens of his humorous poetry contained in this collection were taken from the "Ballads of Bon Gaultier," and the "Idees Napoleoniennes," editions of both of which have been published in this country.
BARHAM, REV. RICHARD HARRIS—Author of the celebrated "Ingoldsby Legends," published originally in "Bentley's Miscellany," afterward collected and published in three volumes, with a memoir by a son of the author.
Mr. Barham was born at Canterbury, England, December 6th, 1788. His family is of great antiquity, having given its name to the well-known "Barham Downs," between Dover and Canterbury. He was educated at St. Paul's School in Canterbury, where he made the acquaintance of Richard Bentley, who afterward became his publisher. From this school, he wont to Oxford, entering Brazennose College, as a gentleman commoner, where he met Theodore Hook, and formed a friendship with that prince of wits which terminated only with Hook's life. At the University, Barham led a wild, dissipated life—as the bad custom then was—and was noted as a wit and good fellow. Being called to account, on one occasion, by his tutor for his continued absence from morning prayer, Barham replied,
"The fact is, sir, you are too LATE for me."
"Too late?" exclaimed the astonished tutor.
"Yes, sir," rejoined the student, "I can not sit up till seven o'clock in the morning. I am a man of regular habits, and unless I get to bed by four or five, I am fit for nothing the next day."
The tutor took this jovial reply seriously, and Barham perceiving that he was really wounded, offered a sincere apology, and afterward attended prayers more regularly.
Entering the church, he devoted himself to his clerical duties with exemplary assiduity, and obtained valuable preferment, rising at length to be one of the Canons of St. Paul's Cathedral. This office brought him into relations with Sydney Smith, with whom, though Barham was a Tory, he had much convivial intercourse.
Very early in life Mr. Barham became an occasional contributor to Blackwood's Magazine, then in the prime of its vigorous youth. The series of contributions called "Family Poetry," which appear in the volumes for 1823, and subsequent years, were by him. Most of those humorous effusions have been transferred to this volume. In 1837 Mr. Bentley established his "Miscellany," and secured the services of his friend Barham, who, up to this time was unknown to the general public, though he had been for nearly twenty years a successful writer. The "Ingoldsby Legends" now appeared in rapid succession, and proved so popular that their author soon became one of the recognized wits of the day. A large number of these unique and excellent productions enrich the present collection, "As respects these poems," says Mr. Barham's biographer, "remarkable as they have been pronounced for the wit and humor which they display, their distinguishing attractions lies in the almost unparalleled flow and felicity of the versification. Popular phrases, sentences the most prosaic, even the cramped technicalities of legal diction, and snatches from well-nigh every language, are wrought in with an apparent absence of all art and effort that surprises, pleases, and convulses the reader at every turn. The author triumphs with a master hand over every variety of stanza, however complicated or exacting; not a word seems out of place, not an expression forced; syllables the most intractable, and the only partners fitted for them throughout the range of language are coupled together as naturally as those kindred spirits which poets tell us were created pairs, and dispersed in space to seek out their particular mates. A harmony pervades the whole, a perfect modulation of numbers, never, perhaps, surpassed, and rarely equaled in compositions of their class. This was the forte of Thomas Ingoldsby; a harsh line or untrue rhyme grated on his ear like the Shandean hinge." These observations are just. As a rhymer, Mr. Barham has but one equal in English literature—Byron.