If I did not take care, Would come in for a share; Till their manners were mended. I do therefore enjoin, 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? Whom should I marry?- should it be A pattern of inconstancy; Or selfish, mercenary flirt? Quoth Echo, sharply, "Nary flirt!" BESIDE, he was a shrewd philosopher, For the other, as great clerks have done. SAMUEL BUTLER. LOGIC OF HUDIBRAS. HE was in logic a great critic, A hair 'twixt south and southwest side; All this by syllogism true, In mood and figure he would do. SAMUEL BUTLER. THE VIRTUOSO. IN IMITATION OF SPENSER'S STYLE AND STANZA. Videmus Nugari solitos."- PERSIUS. WHILOM by silver Thames's gentle stream, Until (advancing onward by degrees) He knew whatever breeds on earth or air or seas. He many a creature did anatomize, Almost unpeopling water, air, and land; Beasts, fishes, birds, snails, caterpillars, flies, Were laid full low by his relentless hand, That oft with gory crimson was distained; He many a dog destroyed, and many a cat; Of fleas his bed, of frogs the marshes drained, Could tellen if a mite were lean or fat, And read a lecture o'er the entrails of a gnat. He knew the various modes of ancient times, Their arts and fashions of each different guise, Their weddings, funerals, punishments for crimes, Their strength, their learning eke, and rarities; Of old habiliments, each sort and size, Male, female, high and low, to him were known; Each gladiator dress, and stage disguise; With learned, clerkly phrase he could have shown How the Greek tunic differed from the Roman gown. A curious medallist, I wot, he was, And boasted many a course of ancient coin; Well as his wife's he knewen every face, From Julius Cæsar down to Constantine: For some rare sculpture he would oft ypine, (As green-sick damosels for husbands do ;) And when obtainéd, with enraptured eyne, He'd run it o'er and o'er with greedy view, And look, and look again, as he would look it through. His rich museum, of dimensions fair, With goods that spoke the owner's mind was fraught: Things ancient, curious, value-worth, and rare, From sea and land, from Greece and Rome, were brought, Which he with mighty sums of gold had bought: On these all tides with joyous eyes he pored; And, sooth to say, himself he greater thought, A REMINISCENCE OF "THE LATE ONPLEASANTNESS.” As vonce I valked by a dismal swamp, "Go back, ye waves, you blustering rogues," A stick or a stone this Old Cove throwed; 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? When these young hands first closed upon a goose; From some remoter tailor of our race. When none was near, and I did deal with it, It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs, And leap elastic from the level counter, Leaving the petty grievances of earth, The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears, And all the needles that do wound the spirit, For such a pensive hour of soothing silence. Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress, Lays bare her shady bosom ;- I can feel With all around me ;I can hail the flowers That sprig earth's mantle, — and yon quiet bird, That rides the stream, is to me as a brother. The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets, Where Nature stows away her loveliness. But this unnatural posture of the legs Cramps my extended calves, and I must go Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 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, Which popish parsons for its powers exalt, The knaves set off on the same day, The other limped, as if he had been shot. Had his soul whitewashed all so clever; Then home again he nimbly hied, Made fit with saints above to live forever. A fellow in a market-town, As every man would buy, with cash and sense. A country bumpkin the great offer heard, - With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid, 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, With all the love and kindness of a brother; Lived in Newcastle-upon-Tyne; Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister, Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and Or draw a tooth out of your head, Or chatter scandal by your bed, Or tell a twister. Of occupations these were quantum suff., - and All the old women called him "a fine man!' "P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 't is fun, That people flay themselves out of their lives. j Benjamin Bolus, though in traile, You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster-knives. Which oftentimes will genius flatter, Read works of fancy, it is said, And cultivated the belles-lettres, |