THE STONEN STEPS.

A MAN AND HIS FRIEND.

M. THESE Stonen steps that stand so true
With tread on tread, a foot-reach wide,
Have always climbed the sloping side
Of this steep ledge, for me and you;
Had people built the steps before
They turned the arch of our old door?
Were these old stairs laid down by man,
Before the bridge's archèd span ?

Did workmen set these stones so trim. Before they built the spire so slim? Fr. Ah! who can tell when first, ay whoThese steps first bore a shoe?

M. And here, beside the sloping hump,
From stone to stone with faces flat,
The little-footed children pat,
And heavy-booted menfolk clump;
But which the last may beat a shoe,
On these old stones, shall I or you?
Which little boy of mine shall climb
These well-worn steps, the last in time?
Which girl, childquick, or womanslow,
Shall walk the last these stones in row?
Fr. Ay, who among us now can know
Who last shall come or go?

M. The road leads on, below these blocks
To yonder springhead's stony cove,
And Meldon Hall; and elm-tree grove,
And mill, beside the foamy rocks,
And up these well-worn blocks of stone
I came when I first ran alone,
The stonen stairs beclimbed the mound,
Ere father put a foot to ground,
'Twas up the steps his father came,
To make his mother change her name.
Fr. Ay, who can ever tell what pairs
Of feet once trod the stairs?

AT THE DOOR.

THE waters roll, quick-bubbling by the shoal,
Or leap the rock, outfoaming in a bow.
The wind blows free in gushes round the tree,
Along the grove of oaks in double row,
Where lovers seek the maidens' evening floor,
With stip-step light, and tip-tap slight,
Against the door.

With iron bound, the wheel-rims roll around,
And crunch the crackling flint below their load.
The gravel, trod by horses iron-shod,

All crackles shrill along the beaten road,
Where lovers come to seek, in our old place,
With stip-step light, and tip-tap slight,
The maiden's face.

And oh! how sweet 's the time the lover's feet
May come before the door to seek a bride,
As he may stand and knock with shaking hand,
And lean to hear the sweetest voice inside;
While there a heart will leap, to hear once more
The stip-step light, and tip-tap slight,
Against the door.

How sweet's the time when we are in our prime, With children, now our care and aye our joy, And child by child may scamper, skipping wild, Back home from school or play-games, girl or

boy,

And there upon the door-stone leap once more,
With stip-step light, and tip-tap slight,
Against the door.

Be my abode, beside some up-hill road,
Where people pass along, if not abide,
And not a place where day may bring no face
With kindly smiles, as lonesome hours may
glide;

But let me hear some friend, well known before,
With stip-step light, and tip-tap slight,
Against the door.

THE OLD CLOCK.

THAT old clock's face yet keeps its place,
And wheels its hands around;
His bob still swings, his bell still rings,
As when I heard his sound,
On leaving home so long ago,
And left him ticking, ticking slow.

No rust yet clogs its catching cogs,
To keep its wheels all still;
No blow e'er fell to crack his bell,
That hourly ringles shrill.

I wish my life were guided on
As true as that old clock has gone.
Who now may wind his chain, untwined
In running out his hours,
Or make a gloss to shine across
His door, with golden flowers,
Since he has sounded out the last
Still hours our dear good mother passed?

WHEN WE THAT HAVE CHILDREN
WERE CHILDREN.

AH! where the hedge across the hill
With high-grown boughs did grow,
And ashes' limbs were widely spread,
With up-grown tips, above our head,
And out and in, with broken brink,
The brook ran on below.

As wind-blown leaves were driven dry
In drifts, we hastened through
The grove, where frost yet lingered white,
In shadows cast by winter light,
To reach our homely house ere night
Should hide our path from view.

As you might touch, with nimble tips
Of toes, the ground, so, fleet
In whirling wind, would gather strong
Behind the frock you swept along
The ruddy leaves, and lift them up
In leaps, behind your feet.
But now, again, in treading trim
Our track, the same old way,
We both walk on with slower gait,
On feet that bear our full-grown weight,
And leave our little children's toes
To leap, and run in play.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY was born in 1811, in Calcutta, where his father was in the service of the East India Company. He was educated at the Charter-house, London, and at Cambridge, but did not take a degree. He inherited £20,000, and after coming of age travelled in France, Germany, and Italy, to study art, intending to follow it as a profession. He seems not to have been very successful, except in the drawing of caricatures.

By the time he was thirty years of age he had lost a large part of his fortune, through speculation and bad investments, and he then set himself to make a living by literature. He contributed to various London journals and to "Fraser's Magazine" sketches, tales, poems, and criticisms, under the pseudonymes of Michael Angelo Titmarsh and George Fitz-Boodle. His first serial was "The Great Hoggarty Diamond," which appeared in "Fraser's" in 1841. His "Paris Sketch-Book" had been published in 1840, and the "Second Funeral of Napoleon" and the "Chronicle of the Drum" followed in 1841, and the "Irish Sketch-Book" in 1843. None of these were popular. He abounded in fine touches of irony and natural, unstrained sarcasm, but there was no broad caricature to challenge the general attention.

Vanity Fair," illustrated by himself, had gone begging for a publisher, but at last appeared in monthly numbers in 1846-'8, and at once placed him beside Dickens in the popular estimation. A Christmas-book entitled "Our Street" appeared in 1848, and another entitled "Dr. Birch and his Young Friend" in 1849. "The History of Pendennis," published serially, was completed in 1850.

In 1851 Thackeray made his début in London as a lecturer, with a delightful series of discourses on "The English Humorists of the Eighteenth Century." These lectures were repeated in Scotland and the United States, which he visited in 1855, and finally were published in 1853. Ten thousand copies were sold in one week. Another series, on "The Four Georges," were first delivered in the United States. "History of Henry Esmond, Esq.," was published in 1852 and "The Newcomes " appeared serially, being completed in 1855. These novels, with "Vanity Fair," are generally recognized as his masterpieces. "The Virginians" was published serially in 1857-'8.

The

In January, 1860, the "Cornhill Magazine" was started with Thackeray as editor, and it soon had a circulation of 100,000. His lectures on "The Four Georges," his novels "Lovel the Widower" and "Adventures of Philip on his Way through the World," and his "Roundabout Papers," first appeared in its pages. His "Ballads " were first published collectively in 1855.

THE WHITE SQUALL.

ON deck, beneath the awning,

I dozing lay and yawning;

It was the gray of dawning,

Ere yet the sun arose;

And above the funnel's roaring,
And the fitful wind's deploring,

I heard the cabin snoring

With universal nose.

I could hear the passengers snorting

I envied their disporting

Vainly I was courting

The pleasure of a doze!

So I lay, and wondered why light
Came not, and watched the twilight,
And the glimmer of the skylight
That shot across the deck;
And the binnacle pale and steady,
And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye,
And the sparks in fiery eddy

That whirled from the chimney-neck.

In our jovial floating prison
There was sleep from fore to mizzen,
And never a star had risen
The hazy sky to speck.

Strange company we harbored;
We'd a hundred Jews to larboard,

And so the hours kept tolling,
And through the ocean rolling
Went the brave "Iberia " bowling
Before the break of day-
When a SQUALL, upon a sudden,
Came o'er the water scudding;
And the clouds began to gather,
And the sea was lashed to lather,
And the lowering thunder grumbled
And the lightning jumped and tumbled,
And the ship and all the ocean,
Woke up in wild commotion.
Then the wind set up a howling,
And the poodle dog a yowling,
And the cocks began a crowing,
And the old cow raised a lowing,
As she heard the tempest blowing:
And fowls and geese did cackle,
And the cordage and the tackle
Began to shriek and crackle;

And the spray dashed o'er the funnels,
And down the deck in runnels;
And the rushing water soaks all,
From the seamen in the fo'ksal
To the stokers whose black faces
Peer out of their bed-places;

And the captain he was bawling,

And the sailors pulling, hauling,
And the quarter-deck tarpauling
Was shivered in the squalling;
And the passengers awaken,
Most pitifully shaken;

And the steward jumps up and hastens
For the necessary basins.

Then the Greeks they groaned and quivered,
And they knelt, and moaned, and shivered,
As the plunging waters met them,
And splashed and overset them;
And they call in their emergence
Upon countless saints and virgins;
And their marrow-bones are bended,
And they think the world is ended.

And the Turkish women for'ard Were frightened and behorrored;

And shrieking and bewildering,
The mothers clutched their children;
The men sang
"Allah! Illah!

Mashallah Bismillah!

As the warring waters doused them
And splashed them and soused them,
And they called upon the Prophet,
And thought but little of it.

Then all the fleas in Jewry
Jumped and bit like fury;
And the progeny of Jacob
Did on the main-deck wake up
(I wot those greasy Rabbins
Would never pay for cabins);

And each man moaned and jabbered in
His filthy Jewish garberdine,

In woe and lamentation,

And howling consternation.

And the splashing water drenches
Their dirty brats and wenches;

And they crawl from bales and benches

In a hundred thousand stenches.

This was the White Squall famous,
Which latterly o'ercame us,

And which all will well remember
On the 28th September;

When a Prussian Captain of Lancers
(Those tight-laced,,whiskered prancers)
Came on the deck astonished,
By that wild squall admonished,
And wondering cried, "Potztausend,
Wie ist der Sturm jetzt brausend!"
And looked at Captain Lewis,
Who calmly stood and blew his
Cigar in all the bustle,

And scorned the tempest's tussle,

And oft we 've thought thereafter
How he beat the storm with laughter;

For well he knew his vessel

With that vain wind could wrestle;
And when a wreck we thought her,
And doomed ourselves to slaughter,
How gayly he fought her,

And through the hubbub brought her,
And as the tempest caught her,
Cried, "GEORGE! SOME BRANDY-AND-WATER!"

And when, its force expended, The harmless storm was ended, And as the sunrise splendid

Came blushing o'er the sea; I thought, as day was breaking, My little girls were waking, And smiling, and making A prayer at home for me.

PEG OF LIMAVADDY. RIDING from Coleraine (Famed for lovely Kitty), Came a Cockney bound Unto Derby eity; Weary was his soul, Shivering and sad, he Bumped along the road Leads to Limavaddy.

Mountains stretched around,

Gloomy was their tinting,

And the horse's hoofs
Made a dismal clinting;
Wind upon the heath
Howling was and piping,
On the heath and bog,

Black with many a snipe in.
'Mid the bogs of black,
Silver pools were flashing,
Crows upon their sides

Picking were and splashing.
Cockney on the car

Closer folds his plaidy, Grumbling at the road

Leads to Limavaddy.

Through the crashing woods

Autumn brawled and blustered, Tossing round about

Leaves the hue of mustard; Yonder lay Lough Foyle,

Which a storm was whipping, Covering with mist

Lake and shores and shipping. Up and down the hill

(Nothing could be bolder), Horse went with a raw

Bleeding on his shoulder.

"Where are horses changed?
Said I to the laddy
Driving on the box:
"Sir, at Limavaddy."

Limavaddy inn 's

But a humble bait-house,
Where you may procure
Whiskey and potatoes;
Landlord at the door

Gives a smiling welcome-
To the shivering wights
Who to his hotel come.
Landlady within

Sits and kits a stocking,
With a wary foot

Baby's cradle rocking.
To the chimney-nook

Having found admittance,
There I watch a pup
Playing with two kittens
(Playing round the fire,

Which of blazing turf is,
Roaring to the pot

Which bubbles with the murphies).

And the cradle babe

Fond the mother nursed it,

Singing it a song

As she twists the worsted!

Up and down the stair

Two more young ones patter
(Twins were never seen
Dirtier nor fatter).
Both have mottled legs,
Both have snubby noses,
Both have-Here the host
Kindly interposes:

"Sure you must be froze

With the sleet and hail, sir: So will you have some punch,

Or will you have some ale, sir?"

Presently a maid

Enters with the liquor (Half a pint of ale

Frothing in a beaker). Gads! I did n't know

What my beating heart meant: Hebe's self I thought

Entered the apartment.
As she came she smiled,
And the smile bewitching,
On my word and honor,
Lighted all the kitchen!

With a courtesy neat
Greeting the new-comer,
Lovely, smiling Peg

Offers me the rummer:
But my trembling hand
Up the beaker tilted,
And the glass of ale
Every drop I spilt it:
Spilt it every drop

(Dames who read my volumes, Pardon such a word)

On my what-d'ye-call-'ems!

Witnessing the sight
Of that dire disaster,
Out began to laugh

Missis, maid, and master;
Such a merry peal

'Specially Miss Peg's was (As the glass of ale

Trickling down my legs was), That the joyful sound

Of that mingling laughter Echoed in my ears

Many a long day after.

Such a silver peal!

In the meadows listening,
You who 've heard the bells
Ringing to a christening;
You who ever heard
Caradori pretty,
Smiling like an angel,
Singing "Giovinetti; "
Fancy Peggy's laugh,

Sweet, and clear, and cheerful,

At my pantaloons

With half a pint of beer full!

When the laugh was done,

Peg, the pretty hussy, Moved about the room Wonderfully busy; Now she looks to see

If the kettle keep hot; Now she rubs the spoons, Now she cleans the teapot; Now she sets the cups

Trimly and secure : Now she scours a pot,

And so it was I drew her.

Thus it was I drew her

Scouring of a kettle, (Faith her blushing cheeks Reddened on the metal!)

This I do declare,
Happy is the laddy
Who the heart can share
Of Peg of Limavaddy.
Married if she were,

Blest would be the daddy

Of the children fair

Of Peg of Limavaddy.
Beauty is not rare

In the land of Paddy,
Fair beyond compare
Is Peg of Limavaddy.

Citizen or Squire,

Tory, Whig, or Radical, Would all desire

Peg of Limavaddy. Had I Homer's fire,

Or that of Sergeant Taddy, Meetly I'd admire

Peg of Limavaddy.

And till I expire,

Or till I grow mad, I Will sing unto my lyre Peg of Limavaddy!

Boys, as we sit; Laughter and wit Flashing so free. Life is but shortWhen we are gone, Let them sing on, Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;
Faces we miss,
Pleasant to see.
Kind hearts and true,
Gentle and just,
Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.

Care, like a dun, Lurks at the gate: Let the dog wait; Happy we'll be! Drink, every one; Pile up the coals, Fill the red bowls, Round the old tree!

Drain we the cupFriend, art afraid? Spirits are laid In the Red Sea. Mantle it up; Empty it yet; Let us forget, Round the old tree!

Sorrows, begone!
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite,
Leave us to-night,
Round the old tree.