The American Union Speaker

by John D. Philbrick

BOOK THIRD.

HUMOROUS SELECTIONS.

POETRY.

CCCLVI.

The DUEL.

In Brentford town, of old renown,
There lived a Mister Bray
Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,
And so did Mister Clay.

To see her ride from Hammersmith,
By all it was allowed,
Such fair "outside" was never seen,—
An angel on a cloud.

Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,
"You choose to rival me,
And court Miss Bell; but there your court
No thoroughfare shall be.

"Unless you now give up your suit,
You may repent your love;—
I who have shot a pigeon match,
Can shoot a turtle dove.

"So pray, before you woo her more,
Consider what you do:
If you pop aught to Lucy Bell,—
I'll pop it into you."

Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,
"Your threats I do explode;—
One who has been a volunteer
Knows how to prime and load.

"And so I say to you, unless
Your passion quiet keeps,
I, who have shot and hit bulls' eyes,
May chance to hit a sheep's!"

Now gold is oft for silver changed,
And that for copper red;
But these two went away to give
Each other change for lead.

But first they found a friend apiece,
This pleasant thought to give—
That when they both were dead, they'd have
Two seconds yet to live.

To measure out the ground, not long
The seconds next forbore;
And having taken one rash step,
They took a dozen more.

They next prepared each pistol pan,
Against the deadly strife;
By putting in the prime of death
Against the prime of life.

Now all was ready for the foes;
But when they took their stands,
Fear made them tremble so, they found
They both were shaking hands.

Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,
"Here one of us must fall,
And, like St. Paul's Cathedral now,
Be doomed to have a ball.

"I do confess I did attach
Misconduct to your name!
If I withdraw the charge, will then
Your ramrod do the same?"

Said Mr. B., "I do agree;—
But think of Honor's courts,—
If we go off without a shot,
There will be strange reports.

"But look! the morning now is bright,
Though cloudy it begun;
Why can't we aim above as if
We had called out the sun?"

So up into the harmless air
Their bullets they did send;
And may all other duels have
That upshot in the end.
T. Hood.

CCCLVII.

MUSIC FOR THE MILLION.

Amongst the great inventions of this age,
Which every other century surpasses,
Is one,—just now the rage,—
Called "Singing for all classes,"
That now, alas! have no more ear than asses,
To learn to warble like the birds in June—
In time and tune,
Correct as clocks, and musical as glasses!

Whether this grand harmonic scheme
Will ever get beyond a dream,
And tend to British happiness and glory
May be no, and may be yes,
Is more than I pretend to guess—
However here's my story.
In one of those small, quiet streets,
Where business retreats,

To shun the daily bustle and the noise
The shoppy Strand enjoys,
But land, joint-companies, and life-insurance
Find past endurance—
In one of these back streets, to peace so dear,
The other day a ragged wight
Began to sing with all his might,
"I have a silent sorrow here!"

Heard in that quiet place,
Devoted to a still and studious race,
The noise was quite appalling!
To seek a fitting simile, and spin it,
Appropriate to his calling,
His voice had all Lablache's body, in it;
But oh! the scientific tone it lacked,
And was in fact
Only a forty-boatswain power of bawling!

'T was said indeed for want of vocal nous
The stage had banished him when he 'tempted it,
For though his voice completely filled the house,
It also emptied it.
However, there he stools
Vociferous—a ragged don!
And with his iron pipes laid on—
A row to all the neighborhood.

In vain were sashes closed,
And doors against the persevering Stentor;
Though brick and glass, and solid oak opposed,
The intruding voice would enter,
Heedless of ceremonial or decorum,
Den, office, parlor, study, and sanctorum;
Where clients and attorneys, rogues and fools,
Ladies, and masters who attend the schools,
Clerks, agents all provided with their tools,
Were sitting upon sofas, chairs, and stools,
With shelves, pianos, tables, desks, before 'em—
How it did bore 'em!

Louder and louder still,
The fellow sang with horrible good-will,
Curses, both loud and deep, his sole gratuities,
From scribes bewildered, making many a flaw,
In deeds of law
They had to draw;
With dreadful incongruities
In posting legers, making up accounts,
To large amounts,
Or casting up annuities—
Stunned by that voice so loud and hoarse,
Against whose overwhelming force
No invoice stood a chance, of course!

From room to room, from floor to floor,
From Number One to Twenty-four,
The nuisance bellowed; till all patience lost,
Down came Miss Frost,
Expostulating at her open door—
"Peace, monster, peace!
Where is the new police?
I vow I cannot work, or read, or pray,
Do n't stand there bawling, fellow, don't!
You really send my serious thoughts astray,
Do—there's a dear, good man—do, go away."
Says he, "I won't!"

The spinster pulled her door to with a slam,
That sounded like a wooden d—n;
For so some moral people, strictly loth
To swear in words, however up,
Will crash a curse in setting down a cup,
Or through a door-post vent a banging oath,—
In fad, this sort of physical transgression
Is really no more difficult to trace,
Than in a given face
A very bad expression.

However in she went
Leaving the subject of her discontent
To Mr. Jones's clerk at Number Ten;
Who throwing up the sash,
With accents rash,
Thus hailed the most vociferous of men;
"Come, come, I say, old fellow, stop your chant;
I cannot write a sentence—no one can't!
So pack up your trumps,—
And stir your stumps."
Says he "I shan't!"

Down went the sash,
As if devoted to "eternal smash."
(Another illustration
Of acted imprecation,)
While close at hand, uncomfortably near,
The independent voice, so loud and strong,
And clanging like a gong,
Roared out again the everlasting song,
"I have a silent sorrow here!"

The thing was hard to stand!
The music-master could not stand it,
But rushing forth with fiddle-stick in hand,
As savage as a bandit,
Made up directly to the tattered man,
And thus in broken sentences began:
"Com—com—I say!
You go away!
Into two parts my head you split—
My fiddle cannot hear himself a bit,
When I do play—
You have no business in a place so still!
Can you not come another day?"
Says he, "I will."

"No—no—you scream and bawl!
You must not come at all!
You have no right, by rights, to beg-
You have not one off leg—
You ought to work—you have not some complaint—
You are not cripple in your back or bones—
Your voice is strong enough to break some stones"—
Says he, "It ain't."

"I say you ought to labor!
You are in a young case,
You have not sixty years upon your face,
To come and beg your neighbor—
And discompose his music with a noise
More worse than twenty boys—
Look what a street it is for quiet!
No cart to make a riot,
No coach, no horses, no postillion:
If you will sing, I say, it is not just
To sing so loud."
Says he, "I must!
I'm singing for the million!"
T. Hood.

CCCLVIII.

ODE T0 MY BOY, AGED THREE YEARS.

Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop, first let me kiss away that tear,)
Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry, laughing sprite,
With spirits feather light,
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin—
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)
Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestruck,
Light as the singing bird that wings the air—
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)
Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire!)
Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In love's dear chain, so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents—(Drat the boy!
There goes my ink.)

Thou cherub, but of earth;
Fit play-fellow for fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,
(That dog will bite him if he pulls his tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble!—that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping rope!)
With pure heart, newly stampt from nature's mint,
(Where did he learn that squint?)
Thou young domestic dove!
(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
(Are those torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!)
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life—
(He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!
No storms, no clouds in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,
My elfin John!
Toss the light ball—bestride the stick—
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)

With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)
Thou pretty opening rose!
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy and breathing music like the south,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as the star,—
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,—
(I'll tell you what, my love,
I cannot write unless he's sent above.)
T. Hood.

CCCLIX.

THE HEIGHT OF THE RIDICULOUS.

I wrote some lines, once on a time
In wondering merry mood,
And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,
I laughed as I would die;
Albeit in the general way,
A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came;
How kind it was of him,
To mind a slender man like me,
He of the mighty limb!

"These to the printer," I exclaimed,
And, in my humorous way,
I added (as a trifling jest),
"There'll be the devil to pay."

He took the paper, and I watched,
And saw him peep within;
At the first line he read, his face
Was all upon a grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad.
And shot from ear to ear;
He read the third; a chuckling noise
I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar;
The fifth; his waistband split;
The sixth; he burst five buttons off,
And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man;
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.
O. W. Holmes.

CCCLX.

THE SEPTEMBER GALE.

I'm not a chicken; I have seen
Full many a chill September,
And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember;
The day before my kite-string snapped,
And I, my kite pursuing,
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;—
For me two storms were brewing!

It came as quarrels sometimes do,
When married pairs get clashing;
There was a heavy sigh or two,
Before the fire was flashing,—
A little stir among the clouds,
Before they rent asunder,—
A little rocking of the trees,
And then came on the thunder.

Oh! how the ponds and rivers boiled,
And how the shingles rattled!
And oaks were scattered on the ground,
As if the Titans battled;
And all above was in a howl,
And all below a clatter,—
The earth was like a frying-pan,
Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our washing-day,
And all our things were drying;
The storm came roaring through the lines,
And set them all a flying;
I saw the shirts and petticoats
Go riding off like witches;
I lost, ah! bitterly I wept,—
I lost my Sunday breeches!

I saw them straddling through the air,
Alas! too late to win them;
I saw them chase the clouds as if
A demon had been in them;
They were my darlings and my pride,—
My boyhood's only riches,—
"Farewell, farewell," I faintly cried,—
"My breeches! O my breeches!"

That night I saw them in my dreams,
How changed from what I knew them!
The dews had steeped their faded thread,
The winds had whistled through them;
I saw the wide and ghastly rents,
Where demon claws had torn them;
A hole was in their amplest part,
As if an imp had worn them.

I have had many happy years,
And tailors kind and clever,
But those young pantaloons have gone
Forever and forever!
And not till fate has cut the last
Of all my earthly stitches,
This aching heart shall cease to mourn
My loved, my long-lost breeches!
O. W. Holmes.

CCCLVI.

LOVE AND MURDER.

In Manchester a maiden dwelt,
Her name was Phbe Blown;
Her cheeks were red, her hair was black,
And, she was considered by good judges to be
by all odds the best looking girl in town.

Her age was nearly seventeen,
Her eyes were sparkling bright;
A very lovely girl she was,
And for about a year and a half there had been a young man
paying his attention to her, by the name of Reuben Wright.

Now Reuben was a nice young man
As any in the town,
And Phbe loved him very dear,
But, on account of his being obliged to work for a living,
he never could make himself agreeable to old Mr. and Mrs. Brown.

Her parents were resolved
Another she should wed,
A rich old miser in the place,
And old Brown frequently declared, that rather than have his
daughter marry Reuben Wright, he'd sooner knock him in the head.

But Phbe's heart was brave and strong,
She feared not her parents' frowns;
And as for Reuben Wright so bold,
I've heard him say more than fifty times that (with the exception of Phbe)
he did n't care a cent for the whole race of Browns.

So Phbe Brown and Reuben Wright
Determined they would marry;
Three weeks ago last Tuesday night,
They started for old Parson Webster's, determined to be united in the holy
bonds of matrimony, though it was tremendous dark, and rained like the old
Harry.

But Captain Brown was wide awake,
He loaded up his gun,
And then pursued the loving pair;
He overtook 'em when they'd got about half way to the Parson's, and then
Reuben and Phbe started off upon the run.

Old Brown then took a deadly aim
Toward young Reuben's head,
But, oh! it was a bleeding shame,
He made a mistake, and shot his only daughter, and had the unspeakable
anguish of seeing her drop right down stone dead.

Then anguish filled young Reuben's heart,
And vengeance crazed his brain,
He drew an awful jack-knife out,
And plunged it into old Brown about fifty or sixty times, so that it's very
doubtful about his ever coming to again.

The briny drops from Reuben's eyes
In torrents pouréd down,—
And in this melancholy and heart-rending manner terminates the history of
Reuben and Phbe and likewise old Captain Brown.
Anonymous.

CCCLXII.

THE REMOVAL.

A nervous old gentleman, tired of trade,—
By which, though, it seems, he a fortune had made,—
Took a house 'twixt two sheds, at the skirts of the town,
Which he meant, at his leisure, to buy and pull down.

This thought struck his mind when he viewed the estate;
But, alas! when he entered he found it too late;
For in each dwelt a smith;—a more hard-working two
Never doctored a patient, or put on a shoe.

At six in the morning, their anvils, at work,
Awoke our good squire, who raged like a Turk.
"These fellows," he cried, "such a clattering keep,
That I never can get above eight hours of sleep."

From morning till night they keep thumping away,—
No sound but the anvil the whole of the day;
His afternoon's nap and his daughter's new song,
Were banished and spoiled by their hammer's ding-dong.

He offered each Vulcan to purchase his shop;
But, no! they were stubborn, determined to stop;
At length, (both his spirits and health to improved,)
He cried, "I'll give each fifty guineas to move."

"Agreed!" said the pair; "that will make us amends."
"Then come to my house, and let us part friends;
You shall dine; and we'll drink on this joyful occasion,
That each may live long in his new habitation."

He gave the two blacksmiths a sumptuous regale;
He spared not provisions, his wine, nor his ale;
So much was he pleased with the thought that each guest
Would take from him noise, and restore him to rest.

"And now." said he, "tell me, where mean you to move?
I hope to some spot where your trade will improve."
"Why, sir," replied one with a grin on his phiz,
"Tom Forge moves to my shop, and I move to his!"
Anonymous.

CCCLXIII.

NONGTONGPAW.

John Bull for pastime took a prance,
Some time ago, to peep at France;
To talk of sciences and arts,
And knowledge gained in foreign parts.
Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak,
And answered John in heathen Greek:
To all he asked, 'bout all he saw,
'T was "Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas."

John, to the Palais-Royal came,
Its splendor almost struck him dumb.
"I say, whose house is that there here?"
"House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."—
"What, Nongtongpaw again!" cries John;
"This fellow is some mighty Don:
No doubt he 's plenty for the maw,
I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw."

John saw Versailles from Marlé's height,
And cried, astonished at the sight,
"Whose fine estate is that there here?"
"State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."
"His? What the land and houses too?
The fellow's richer than a Jew:
On everything he lays his claw!
I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw."

Next tripping came a courtly fair,
John cried, enchanted with her air,
"What lovely wench is that there here?"
"Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur."
"What, he again? Upon my life!
A palace, lands, and then a wife
Sir Joshua might delight to draw:
I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw."

"But hold! whose funeral's that?" cries John.
"Je vous n'entends paw."—"what is he gone?
Wealth fame, and beauty could not save
Poor Nongtongpaw then from the grave!
His race is run, his game is up,—
I'd with him breakfast, dine and sup;
But since he chooses to withdraw,
Good-night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw."
C. Dibdin.

CCCLXIV.

THE SWELLS SOLILOQUY ON THE WAR.

I don't approve this hawid waw;
Those dweadful bannahs hawt my eyes;
And guns and drums are such a baw—
Why don't the pawties compwamise?

Of cawce, the twoilet has its chawms;
But why must all the vulgah crowd
Pawsist in spawting uniforms
In cullaws so extremely loud?

And then the ladies—precious deahs!—
I mawk the change on ev'wy bwow;
Bai Jove! I really have my feahs
They wathah like the howid wow!

To hear the chawming cweatures talk,
Like patwons of the bloody wing,
Of waw and all its dawty wark?—
It does n't seem a pwappah thing!

I called at Mrs. Gween's last night,
To see her niece, Miss Mary Hertz,
And found her making—cwushing sight!—
The weddest kind of flannel shirts!
Of cawce I wose and saught the daw,
With fewy flashing from my eyes!
I can't approve this hawid waw;—
Why don't the parties compromise?
Vanity Fair.

CCCLXV.

THE ALARMED SKIPPER.

Many a long, long year ago,
Nantucket skippers had a plan
Of finding out, though "lying low,"
How near New York their schooners ran.

They greased the lead before it fell,
And then, by sounding through the night,
Knowing the soil that stuck, so well,
They always guessed their reckoning right.

A skipper gray, whose eye's were dim,
Could tell by tasting, just the spot,
And so below, he'd "dowse the glim,"—
After, of course, his "something hot."

Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock,
This ancient skipper might be found;
No matter how his craft would rock,
He slept,—for skippers' naps are sound!

The watch on deck would now and then
Run down and wake him, with the lead;
He'd up and taste, and tell the men
How many miles they went ahead.

One night, 't was Jotham Marden's watch,
A curious wag,—the pedler's son;
And so he mused (the wanton wretch),
"To-night I'll have a grain of fun.

"We're all a set of stupid fools,
To think the skipper knows by tasting,
What ground he's on; Nantucket schools
Don't teach such stuff; with all their basting!"

And so he took the well-greased lead,
And rubbed it o'er a box of earth
That stood on deck—(a parsnip bed),—
And then he sought the skipper's berth.

"Where are we now, sir, please to taste."
The skipper yawned, put out his tongue,
Then oped his eyes in wondrous haste,
And then upon the floor he sprung!

The skipper stormed, and tore his hair,
Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden,—
"Nantucket 's sunk, and here we are
Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!"
J. T. Fields.

CCCLXVI.

THE COLD-WATER MAN.

It was an honest fisherman,
I knew him passing well;
And he lived by a little pond,
Within a little dell.

A grave and quiet man was he,
Who loved his hook and rod;
So even ran his line of life
His neighbors thought it odd.

For science and for books, he said
He never had a wish;
No school to him was worth a fig,
Except a school of fish.

In short, this honest fisherman,
All other tools forsook;
And though no vagrant man was he,
He lived by hook and crook.

He ne'er aspired to rank or wealth,
Nor cared about a name;
For though much famed for fish was he,
He never fished for fame!

To charm the fish he never spoke,
Although his voice was fine;
He found the most convenient way
Was just to drop a line!

And many a gudgeon of the pond,
If they could speak to-day,
Would own, with grief, the angler had
A mighty taking way!

One day, while fishing on a log,
He mourned his want of luck,—
When suddenly, he felt a bite,
And jerking—caught a duck!

Alas! that day this fisherman
Had taken too much grog;
And being but a landsman, too,
He could n't keep the log!

'T was all in vain with might and main
He strove to reach the shore;
Down, down he went, to feed the fish
He'd baited oft before!

The jury gave their verdict, that
'T was nothing else but gin,
That caused the fisherman to be
So sadly taken in;

Though one stood out upon a whim,
And said the angler's slaughter,
To be exact about the fact,
Was clearly gin-and-water.

The moral of this mournful tale,
To all is plain and clear,—
That drinking habits bring a man
Too often to his bier;

And he who scorns to "take the pledge,"
And keep the promise fast,
May be, in spite of fate, a stiff
Cold-water man, at last!
J. G. Saxe.

CCCLXVII.

WHITTLING.

The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school,
Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool,
The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye
Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby;
His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it,
Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it;
And, in the education of the lad,
No little part that implement hath had,—
His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings
A growing knowledge of material things.

Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art,
His chestnut whistle and his shingle dart,
His elder pop-gun with its hickory rod,
its sharp explosion and rebounding wad,
His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone
That murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone,
Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed
His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed,
His windmill, raised the passing breeze to win,
His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin;
Or, if his father lives upon the shore,
You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor,"
Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers stanch
And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.

Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven,
Ere long he'll solve you any problem given;
Make any jim-crack, musical or mute,
A plough, a couch, an organ or a flute;
Make you a locomotive or a clock,
Cut a canal, or build a floating dock,
Or lead forth Beauty from a marble block;—
Make anything, in short, for sea or shore,
From a child's rattle, to a seventy-four;—
Make it, said I?—Ay, when he undertakes it,
He'll make the thing, and the machine that makes it.

And when the thing is made, whether it be
To move on earth, in air, or on the sea;
Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide,
Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide;
Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring,
Whether it be a piston or a spring,
Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass,
The thing designed shall surely come to pass;
For, when his hand 's upon it, you may know
That there's go in it, and he'll make it go.
J. Pierpont.

CCCLXVIII.

HOTSPUR'S ACCOUNT OF A FOP.

My liege, I did deny no prisoners.
But, I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,
Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped,
Showed like a stubble land at harvest-home.
He was perfumed like a milliner;
And. 'twixt his finger and his thumb, he held
A pouncet-box, which ever and anon,
He gave his nose, and took 't away again;—
And still he smiled and talked;
And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
He called them—untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms
He questioned me; among the rest, demanded
My prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.
I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,
To be so pestered with a popinjay,
Out of my grief and my impatience,
Answered neglectingly, I know not what;
He should, or he should not;—for he made me mad.
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God save the mark!)
And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth
Was parmaceti for an inward bruise;
And that it was a great pity, so it was,
This villainous saltpetre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.
This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord,
I answered indirectly, as I said;
And, I beseech you, let not this report
Come current for an accusation
Betwixt my love and your high majesty.
Shakespeare.

CCCLXIX.

HOW TO HAVE WHAT WE LIKE.

Hard by a poet's attic lived a chemist,
Or alchemist, who had a mighty
Faith in the elixir vitæ;
And, though unflattered by the dimmest
Glimpse of success, kept credulously groping
And grubbing in his dark vocation;
Stupidly hoping
To onto the art of changing metals,
And so coin guineas, from his pots and kettles,
By mystery of transmutation.

Our starving poet took occasion
To seek this conjurer's abode;
Not with encomiastic ode,
Of laudatory dedication,
But with an offer to impart,
For twenty pounds, the secret art
Which should procure, without the pain
Of metals, chemistry, and fire,
What he so long had sought in vain,
And gratify his heart's desire.

The money paid, our bard was hurried
To the philosopher's sanctorum,
Who, as it were sublimed and flurried
Out of his chemical decorum,
Crowed, capered, giggled, seemed to spurn his
Crucibles, retort, and furnace,
And cried, as he secured the door,
And carefully put to the shutter,
"Now, now, the secret, I implore!
For heaven's sake, speak, discover, utter!"

With grave and solemn air the poet
Cried: "List! O, list, for thus I show it:
Let this plain truth those ingrates strike,
Who still, though blessed, new blessings crave;
THAT WE MAY ALL HAVE WHAT WE LIKE,
SIMPLY BY LIKING WHAT WE HAVE!"
Horace Smith.

CCCLXX.

THE THREE BLACK CROWS.

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand,
One took the other briskly by the hand:
"Hark ye," said he, "'tis an odd story this,
About the crows!"—"I don't know what it is,"
Replied his friend.—"No? I'm surprised at that;
Where I came from 't is the common chat;
But you shall hear: an odd affair indeed!
And that it happened, they are all agreed.
Not to detain you from a thing so strange,
A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change,
This week, in short, as all the alley knows,
Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows."
"Impossible!"—"Nay, but it 's really true;
I had it from good hands, and so may you."
"From whose, I pray?" So having named the man,
Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran.
"Sir, did you tell?"—relating the affair—
"Yes, sir, I did; and if it's worth you care,
Ask Mr. Such-a-one; he told it me;
But, by-the-by, 't was two black crows, not three."
Resolved to trace so wondrous an event,
Whip to the third, the virtuoso went.
"Sir,"—and so forth—"Why, yes; the thing is fact,
Though in regard to number not exact;
It was not two black crows; 't was only one;
The truth of that you may depends upon,
The gentleman himself told me the case."
"Where may I find him?"—"Why, in such a place."
Away he goes, and having found him out—
"Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt."

Then to his last informant he referred,
And begged to know if true what he had heard.
"Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?"—"Not I!"—
"Bless me! how people propagate a lie!
Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one,
And here I find at last all comes to none!
Did you say nothing of a crow at all?"
"Crow—crow—perhaps I might, now I recall
The matter over."—"And pray, sir, what was 't?"
"Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last,
I did throw up, and told my neighbor so,
Something that was as black, sir, as a crow."
Byrom.

CCCLXXI.

HELPS TO READ.

A certain artist—I've forgot his name—
Had got, for making spectacles, a fame,
Or, "helps to read," as, when they first were sold,
Was writ upon his glaring sign in gold;
And, for all uses to be had from glass,
His were allowed by readers to surpass.
There came a man into his shop one day—
"Are you the spectacle contriver, pray?"
"Yes Sir," said he, "I can in that affair
Contrive to please you, if you want a pair."
"Can you? pray do, then." So at first he chose
To place a youngish pair upon his nose;
And, book produced, to see how they would fit,
Asked how he liked them. "Like 'em!—not a bit."
"Then, sir, I fancy, if you please to try
These in my hand will better suit your eye?"—
"No, but they don't."—"Well come, sir, if you please,
Here is another sort; we'll e'en try these;
Still somewhat more they magnify the letter,
Now, sir?"—"Why, now, I'm not a bit the better."—
"No! here, take these which magnify still more,—
How do they fit"?—"Like all the rest before!"
In short, they tried a whole assortment through,
But all in vain, for none of them would do.
The operator, much surprised to find
So odd a case, thought, sure the man is blind!
"What sort of eyes can you have got?" said he.
"Why very good ones, friend, as you may see."
"Yes, I perceive the clearness of the ball.
Pray let me ask you Can you read at all?"
"No! you great blockhead!—If I could, what need
Of paying you for any 'helps to read?'"
And so he left the maker in a heat,
Resolved to post him for an arrant cheat.
Byrom.