If I did not take care,

Would come in for a share;
Which I no wise intended
Till their manners were mended.
Of that there's no sign,

I do therefore enjoin,
And do strictly command,
Of which witness my hand,
That naught I have got
Be brought to hotch-pot;
But I give and devise
As much as in me lies
To the son of my mother,
My own dear brother,
To have and to hold,
All my silver and gold,
Both sutton and potten,
Until the world's rotten,
As the affectionate pledges
Of his brother.

ECHO.

I ASKED of Echo, 't other day,

JOHN HEDGES.

(Whose words are few and often funny,) What to a novice she could say

Of courtship, love, and matrimony?
Quoth Echo, plainly, - "Matter-o'-money!"

Whom should I marry?- should it be
A dashing damsel, gay and pert,

A pattern of inconstancy;

Or selfish, mercenary flirt?

Quoth Echo, sharply, - "Nary flirt!" What if, aweary of the strife

That long has lured the dear deceiver, She promise to amend her life,

And sin no more; can I believe her? Quoth Echo, very promptly, "Leave her!" But if some maiden with a heart

On me should venture to bestow it,
Pray, should I act the wiser part

To take the treasure, or forego it?
Quoth Echo, with decision, "Go it!"

But what if, seemingly afraid

But if some maid with beauty blest,

As pure and fair as Heaven can make her, Will share my labor and my rest

Till envious Death shall overtake her? "Take her!"

Quoth Echo (sotto voce), ·

JOHN G. SAXE.

PHILOSOPHY OF HUDIBRAS.

BESIDE, he was a shrewd philosopher,
And had read every text and gloss over;
Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath,
He understood b' implicit faith.
Whatever sceptic could inquire for,
For every why he had a wherefore;
Knew more than forty of them do,
As far as words and terms could go :
All which he understood by rote,
And, as occasion served, would quote;
No matter whether right or wrong;
They might be either said or sung.
His notions fitted things so well
That which was which he could not tell;
But oftentimes mistook the one

For the other, as great clerks have done.
He could reduce all things to acts,
And knew their natures by abstracts;
Where entity and quiddity,
The ghosts of defunct bodies, fly;
Where truth in person does appear,
Like words congealed in northern air :
He knew what's what, and that's as high
As metaphysic wit can fly.

SAMUEL BUTLER.

LOGIC OF HUDIBRAS.

He was in logic a great critic,
Profoundly skilled in analytic;
He could distinguish and divide

A hair 'twixt south and southwest side;
On either which he would dispute,
Confute, change hands, and still confute :
He'd undertake to prove, by force
Of argument, a man's no horse;
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl,
And that a lord may be an owl,

A calf an alderman, a goose a justice,
And rooks committee-men and trustees.
He'd run in debt by disputation,
And pay with ratiocination:

All this by syllogism true,

In mood and figure he would do.

SAMUEL BUTLER.

A REMINISCENCE OF "THE LATE ONPLEASANTNESS.”

As vonce I valked by a dismal swamp,
There sot an Old Cove in the dark and damp,
And at everybody as passed that road

And venever he flung his stick or his stone, He'd set up a song of "Let me alone."

EVENING.

BY A TAILOR.

DAY hath put on his jacket, and around His burning bosom buttoned it with stars. Here will I lay me on the velvet grass, That is like padding to earth's meagre ribs, And hold communion with the things about me. Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid That binds the skirt of night's descending robe ! The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads, Do make a music like to rustling satin, As the light breezes smooth their downy nap.

Ha! what is this that rises to my touch, So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage? It is, it is that deeply injured flower, Which boys do flout us with; - but yet I love thee, Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout. Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright As these, thy puny brethren; and thy breath Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air; But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau, Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences, And growing portly in his sober garments.

Is that a swan that rides upon the water?
O no, it is that other gentle bird,
Which is the patron of our noble calling.
I well remember, in my early years,

When these young hands first closed upon a goose;
I have a scar upon my thimble finger,
Which chronicles the hour of young ambition.
My father was a tailor, and his father,
And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors;
They had an ancient goose, it was an heir-loom

From some remoter tailor of our race.
It happened I did see it on a time

When none was near, and I did deal with it,
And it did burn me, O, most fearfully!

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS. A BRACE of sinners, for no good,

Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood,

And in a fair white wig looked wondrous fine. Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel;

In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,
The priest had ordered peas into their shoes:
A nostrum famous in old popish times
For purifying souls that stunk of crimes :
A sort of apostolic salt,

Which popish parsons for its powers exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray;
But very different was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners galloped on,
Swift as a bullet from a gun;

The other limped, as if he had been shot.
One saw the Virgin soon, Peccavi cried,

Had his soul whitewashed all so clever; Then home again he nimbly hied,

Made fit with saints above to live forever.

In coming back, however, let me say,
He met his brother rogue about half-way,
Hobbling, with outstretched arms and bended
knees,

Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas;
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.
"How now," the light-toed, whitewashed pil
grim broke,

"You lazy lubber!"

"Ods curse it!" cried the other, "'t is no joke; My feet, once hard as any rock,

Are now as soft as blubber.

"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear, As for Loretto, I shall not get there;

No, to the Devil my sinful soul must go,

For damme if I ha' n't lost every toe.
But, brother sinner, pray explain
How 't is that you are not in pain.

What power hath worked a wonder for your toes
Whilst I just like a snail am crawling,
Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,

Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?

"How is 't that you can like a greyhound go,

Merry as if that naught had happened, burn ye!" "Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know,

A fellow in a market-town,
Most musical, cried razors up and down,
And offered twelve for eighteen pence;
Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap,
And, for the money, quite a heap,

As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard, -
Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard,
That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his
nose:

With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid,
And proudly to himself in whispers said,
"This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.
"No matter if the fellow be a knave,
Provided that the razors shave;

It certainly will be a monstrous prize." So home the clown, with his good fortune, went, Smiling, in heart and soul content,

And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes. Being well lathered from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, Just like a hedger cutting furze ;

'T was a vile razor! - then the rest he tried, – All were impostors. "Ah!" Hodge sighed,

"I wish my eighteen pence within my purse." In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped,

and swore;

Sirrah! I tell you you 're a knave,

To cry up razors that can't shave!"

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave;

As for the razors you have bought,

Upon my soul, I never thought

That they would shave.”

"Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes,

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for, then, you dog?" he cries.

"Made," quoth the fellow with a smile, "to sell."

DR. WOLCOTT (PETER PINDAR).

THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.

A MAN in many a country town we know,
Professing openly with death to wrestle;
Entering the field against the grimly foe,
Armed with a mortar and a pestle.
Yet some affirm no enemies they are,
But meet just like prize-fighters at a fair,
Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,

With all the love and kindness of a brother;
So, (many a suffering patient saith,)
Though the apothecary fights with death,
Still they 're sworn friends with one another.

Lived in Newcastle-upon-Tyne;
A member of this Esculapian race
No man could better gild a pill,
Or make a bill,

Or chatter scandal by your bed,

Or tell a twister.

Which oftentimes will genius flatter, Read works of fancy, it is said,

And cultivated the belles-lettres,