In time of danger,

Such kind attentions from a stranger!
Assuredly that footman's throat is

Doomed to a final drop at Newgate; And he well knows (the heedless elf!) ⚫ That there's no soul at home, except myself." "Indeed!" replied the stranger, looking grave;

"Then he's a double knave:

He knows that rogues and thieves, by scores,
Nightly beset unguarded doors;

And see, how easily might one

Of these domestic foes,

Even beneath your very nose,
Perform his knavish tricks:
Enter your room, as I have done;
Blow out your candles,

thus, and thus,
Pocket your silver candlesticks,
And walk off, thus!"

So said, so done; - he made no more remark,

---

Nor waited for replies,

But marched off with his prize,

Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark!

12. THE VICTIM OF REFORM. — Blackwood's Magazine. Adapted.

A MONKEY, once, whom fate had led to list

To all the rancorous spouting and contention
Of a convention

For every one's emancipation

From every thing and body in creation,
Determined in the good work to assist.
So, with some curious notions in his noddle,
And conning portions of the precious twaddle,
Which, in the form of resolutions,

Had struck at all existing institutions,
He strode forth with a step that seemed designed
To represent the mighty march of mind.

Not far he'd wandered, when his indignation
Was roused to see

A great menagerie,

Where birds and beasts of every race and station,
All free-born animals, were kept confined,
Caged and locked up in durance vile!
It was a sight to waken all his bile.

The window of the building stood ajar;
It was not far,

Nor, like Parnassus, very hard to climb.
The hour was verging on the supper time,

And many a growl was sent through many a bar.
Meanwhile, Pug scrambled upward, like a tar,
And soon crept in,
Unnoticed in the hunger-telling din.
Full of his new emancipating zeal,

Zounds! how it made him chafe,
To look around upon this brute Bastille,
And see the King of creatures in
The desert's denizen in one small den,
Enduring all oppression's bitterest ills;
A bear in bars unbearable; and then,
The fretful porcupine, with all its quills,
Imprisoned in a pen!

A tiger limited to four feet ten;
And, still worse lot, a leopard to one spot!

a safe!

Pug went above, a solitary mounter,

Up gloomy stairs, and saw a pensive group
Of hapless fowls, cranes, vultures, owls,
In fact, it was a sort of poultry-counter,

Where feathered prisoners were doomed to droop:
Here sat an eagle, forced to make a stoop,
Not from the skies, but his impending roof;
And there, aloof,

A pining ostrich, moping in a coop;
With other samples of the bird creation
All caged against their wills,

And cramped in such a space, the longest bills
Were plainly bills of least accommodation;
In truth, it was a scene more foul than fair.

His temper little mended,

Pug from his bird-cage walk at last descended
Unto the lion and the elephant,

His bosom in a pant

To see all Nature's free list thus suspended,
And beasts deprived of what she had intended.
They could not even prey in their own way,

A hardship always reckoned quite prodigious.
Thus he revolved, and finally resolved

To give them freedom, civil and religious;
And first, with stealthy paw, Pug hastened to withdraw
The bolt that kept the King of brutes within.
"Now, Monarch of the forest, thou shalt win
Precious enfranchisement,

thy bolts are undone;
Thou art no longer a degraded creature,
But loose to roam with liberty and nature;
Free to search all the jungles about London."

Alas for Freedom, and for Freedom's hero!
Alas for liberty of life and limb!
For Pug had only half unbolted Nero,
When Nero bolted him!

13. "TIS NOT FINE FEATHERS THAT MAKE FINE BIRDS.

A PEACOCK came, with his plumage gay,
Strutting in regal pride, one day,
Where a little bird hung in a gilded cage,
Whose song might a seraph's ear engage.
The bird sang on, while the peacock stood,
Vaunting his plumes to the neighborhood;
And the radiant sun seemed not more bright
Than the bird that basked in his golden light;
But the little bird sang, in his own sweet words,
""Tis not fine feathers that make fine birds!"

The peacock strutted; - a bird so fair
Never before had ventured there,

While the small bird hung at the cottage door, And what could a peacock wish for more? Alas! the bird of the rainbow wing, He was n't contented, - he tried to sing! And they who gazed on his beauty bright, Scared by his screaming, soon took to flight; While the little bird sang, in his own sweet words, ""Tis not fine feathers that make fine birds!"

Then, prithee, take warning, maidens fair,
And still of the peacock's fate beware;
Beauty and wealth won't win your way,
Though they're attired in plumage gay;
Something to charm you all must know,
Apart from fine feathers and outward show;
A talent, a grace, a gift of mind,
Or else small beauty is left behind!

While the little birds sing, in their own true words, ""Tis not fine feathers that make fine birds!

And ounces of Pactolian sand

Lying around him.

The case admitting no denial,
They hurried him forthwith to trial;
When the Judge made a long oration
About the crime of profanation,
And gave no respite for repentance,
But instantly pronounced his sentence
"Decapitation!"—

"As to offending powers divine,"
The culprit cried, "be nothing said;
Yours is a deeper guilt than mine.
I took a portion from the head

Of the King's image; you, O fearful odds!
Strike the whole head at once from God's!"

15. THE JESTER CONDEMNED TO DEATH. -Horace Smith.

ONE of the Kings of Scanderoon, a royal jester, had in his train a gross buffoon, who used to pester the court with tricks inopportune, venting on the highest folks his scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes. It needs some sense to play the fool; which wholesome rule occurred not to our jackanapes, who consequently found his freaks lead to innumerable scrapes, and quite as many kicks and tweaks; which only made him faster try the patience of his master.

Some sin, at last, beyond all measure, incurred the desperate displeasure of his serene and raging Highness. Whether the wag had twitched his beard, which he was bound to have revered, or had intruded on the shyness of the seraglio, or let fly an epigram at royalty, none knows his sin was an occult one; but records tell us that the Sultan, meaning to terrify the knave, exclaimed, ""T is time to stop that breath! Thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave! Thou stand'st condemned to certain death! Silence, base rebel! no replying. But such is my indulgence still, that, of my own free grace and will, I leave to thee the mode of dying." "Your royal will be done; 't is just," replied the wretch, and kissed the dust; "since, my last moments to assuage, your majesty's humane decree has deigned to leave the choice to me, I'll die, so please you, of old age!"

16. THE POET AND THE ALCHEMIST. - Horace Smith.

BEFORE this present golden age of writers, a Grub-street Garreteer existed, one of the regular inditers of odes and poems to be twisted into encomiastic verses, for patrons who have heavy purses. Besides the bellman's rhymes, he had others to let, both gay and sad, all ticketed from A to Izzard; and, living by his wits, I need not add, the rogue was lean as any lizard. Like a rope-maker's were his ways; for still one line upon another he spun, and, like his hempen brother, kept going backwards all his days. Hard by his attic lived a chemist, or alchemist, who had a mighty faith in the Elixir Vitæ ; and, though

inflattered by the dimmest glimpses of success, kept groping and grubbing in his dark vocation; stupidly hoping to find the art of changing metals, and guineas coin from pots and kettles, by mystery of transmutation.

Our starving poet took occasion to seek this conjuror's abode; not with encomiastic ode, or 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, somewhat sublimized, 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!"

-dim

17. BLINDMAN'S BUFF. -Horace Smith.

THREE wags (whom some fastidious carpers might rather designate three sharpers) entered, at York, the Cat and Fiddle; and, finding that the host was out on business for two hours or more, while Sam, the rustic waiter, wore the visage of a simple lout, whom they might safely try to diddle,- they ordered dinner in a canter, — cold or hot, it mattered not, provided it was served instanter; and, as the heat had made them very dry and dusty in their throttles, they bade the waiter bring three bottles of prime old Port, and one of Sherry. Sam ran with ardor to the larder, then to the kitchen; and, as he briskly went to work, he drew from the spit a roasted turkey, with sausages embellished, which in a trice upon the board was spread, together with a nice, cold brisket; nor did he even obliviscate half a pig's head. To these succeeded puddings, pies, custards and jellies, all doomed to fall a sacrifice to their insatiable bellies; as if, like camels, they intended to stuff into their monstrous craws enough to satisfy their maws, until their pilgrimage was ended. Talking, laughing, eating and quaffing, the bottles stood no moment still. They rallied Sam with joke and banter, and, as they drained the last decanter, called for the bill.

"T was brought, when one of them, who eyed and added up the items, cried, Extremely moderate, indeed! I'll make a point to recommend this inn to every travelling friend; and you, Sam, shall be doubly fec'd." This said, a weighty purse he drew, when his companion interposed: -"Nay, Harry, that will never do; pray let your purse again be closed; you paid all charges yesterday; 't is clearly now my turn to pay." Harry, however, would n't listen to any such insulting offer; his generous eyes appeared to glisten, indig