2. Moon! 'tis a very queer figure you cut:
One eye is staring while t'other is shut-

Tipsy, I see, and you're greatly to blame :
Old as you are, 'tis a horrible shame.

3. Then the street lamps-what a scandalous sight!
None of them soberly standing upright:
Rocking and staggering-why, on my word,
Each of those lamps is as drunk as a lord.

4. All is confusion! now isn't it odd?

Nothing is sober that I see abroad:

Sure it were rash with this crew to remain:
Better go into the tavern again.

CXCIX.-A MODEST WIT.

1. A SUPERCILIOUS nabob of the east

Haughty, being great-purse-proud, being rich, A governor, or general, at the least,

I have forgotten which

Had in his family an humble youth,

Who went from England in his patron's suite,

An unassuming boy, and in truth

A lad of decent parts, and good repute.

2. This youth had sense and spirit;

But yet, with all his sense,

Excessive diffidence

Obscured his merit.

3. One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, His honor, proudly free, severely merry, Conceived it would be vastly fine

To crack a joke upon his secretary.

4. "Young man," he said, "by what art, craft or trade, Did your good father gain a livelihood? "—

"He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said,
"And in his time was reckoned good."

5. "A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek,
Instead of teaching you to sew!
Pray, why did not your father make
A saddler, sir, of you?"

7. "My father's trade! Bless me, that's too bad!

My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad?
My father, sir, did never stoop so low-

He was a gentleman, I'd have you know."

8. "Excuse the liberty I take,"

Modestus said, with archness on his brow, "Pray, why did not your father make

A gentleman of you?"

CC.-THE JESTER CONDEMNED TO DEATH.

HORACE SMITH.

1. 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 jacanapes, 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.

2. 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 -bis sin was an occult one; but records tell us that the Sultan, meaning to terrify the knave, exclaimed, ""Tis time to stop that breath! Thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave! Thou stand'st condemned to 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: 'tis 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!"

CCI.-PARODY,-THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

1. How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!

The cheese-press, the goose-pond, the pigs in the wild-wood,
And every old stump that my infancy knew.
The big linkum-basswood, with wide-spreading shadow:
The horses that grazed where my grandmother fell:
The sheep on the mountain, the calves in the meadow,
And all the young kittens we drowned in the well-

The meek little kittens, the milk-loving kittens,
The poor little kittens, we drowned in the well.

2. I remember with pleasure my grandfather's goggles,
Which rode so majestic astraddle his nose;

And the harness, oft mended with tow-string and "toggles,"
That belonged to old Dolly, now free from her woes.
And fresh in my heart is the long maple wood-pile,
Where often I've worked with beetle and wedge,
Striving to whack up enough to last for a good while,
And grumbling because my old ax had no edge.
And there was the kitchen, and pump that stood nigh it,

Where we sucked up the drink through a quill in the spout,
And the hooks where we hung up the pumpkin to dry it;

And the old cider pitcher, "no doing without:
The brown earthen pitcher, the nozzle-cracked pitcher,
The pain-easing pitcher, "no doing without."

3. And there was the school-house, away from each dwelling,
Where school-ma'ams would govern with absolute sway:
Who taught me my "'rithmetic," reading, and spelling,
And "whaled me like blazes" about every day!

I remember the ladder that swung in the passage,
Which led to the loft in the peak of the house:

Where my grandmother hung up her "pumpkin and sausage,”
To keep them away from the rat and the mouse.
But now, far removed from that nook of creation,
Emotions of grief big as tea-kettles swell,

When Fancy rides back to my old habitation,

And thinks of the kittens we drowned in the well-
The meek little kittens, the milk-loving kittens,
The poor little kittens, we drowned in the well.

DIALOGUES.

CCII.-SCENE FROM THE LADY OF LYONS.

LYTTON. [Claude Melnotte, who had received many indignities to his slighted love, from Pauline, married her under the false appearance of an Italian prince. He afterward repents: makes proper amends; and, impelled by affection, and a noble ambition, conquers a position, and becomes, in fact, her husband. ]

MELNOTTE'S cottage-WIDOW bustling about. A table spread for supper.

WIDOW. SO-I think that looks very neat. He sent me a line, so blotted that I can scarcely read it, to say he would be here almost immediately. She must have loved him well indeed, to have forgotten his birth; for though he was introduced to her in disguise, he is too honorable not to have revealed to her the artifice which her love only could forgive. Well, I do not wonder at it; for though my son is not a prince, he ought to be one, and that's almost as good. [Knock at the door.] Ah! here they are. [Enter MELNOTTE and PAULINE.]

Widow. Oh, my boy-the pride of my heart!-welcome, welcome! I beg pardon, Ma'am, but I do love him so!

Pauline. Good woman, I really—Why, Prince, what is this ?—does the old woman know you? Oh, I guess you have done her some service. Another proof of your kind heart, is it not?

Melnotte. Of my kind heart, ay!

Pauline. So you know the prince?

Widow. Know him, Madame?-Ah, I begin to fear it is you who know him not!

Pauline. Do you think she is mad? Can we stay here, my lord? I think there is something very wild about her.

Melnotte. Madame, I-No, I can not tell her! My knees knock together: what a coward is a man who has lost his honor! Speak to herspeak to her-[to his mother]—tell her that-0 Heaven, that I were dead!

Pauline. How confused he looks!-this strange place-this woman— what can it mean? I half suspect--Who are you, Madame ?-who are you? Can't you speak? are you struck dumb?

Widow. Claude, you have not deceived her ?—Ah, shame upon you! I thought that, before you went to the altar, she was to have known all ? Pauline. All! what? My blood freezes in my veins !

Widow. Poor lady!-dare I tell her, Claude? [MELNOTTE makes a sign of assent.] Know you not then, Madame, that this young man is of poor though honest parents? Know you not that you are wedded to my son, Claude Melnotte?

Pauline. Your son! hold! hold! do not speak to me--[approaches MELNOTTE and lays her hand on his arm.] Is this a jest? Is it? I know it is only speak--one word-one look-one smile. I can not believeI, who loved thee so--I can not believe that thou art such a-No, I will not wrong thee by a harsh word.--Speak!

Melnotte. Leave us--have pity on her, on me: leave us.

Widow. O Claude! that I should live to see thee bowed by shame! thee, of whom I was so proud! [Exit WIDOW

Pauline. Her son! her son!

Melnotte.

Pauline.

Now, lady, hear me.

Hear thee?

Ay, speak. Her son! have fiends a parent? Speak,
That thou mayst silence curses-Speak!

Melnotte.

No, curse me:

Thy curse would blast me less than thy forgiveness.

Pauline. [laughing wildly.] "This is thy palace, where the perfumed

light

Steals through the mist of alabaster lamps,
And every air is heavy with the sighs

Of orange-groves, and music from sweet lutes,
And murmurs of low fountains, that gush forth
I' the midst of roses!" Dost thou like the picture?
THIS is my bridal home, and THOU my bridegroom!
O fool!-O dupe !--O wretch !--I see it all--
The by-word and the jeer of every tongue
In Lyons! Hast thou in thy heart one touch
Of human kindness? If thou hast, why, kill me,

And save thy wife from madness. No, it can not,

It can not be! this is some horrid dream:

I shall wake soon. [Touching him.] Art flesh? art man? or but

The shadows seen in sleep ?—It is too real.

What have I done to thee-how sinned against thee,

That thou shouldst crush me thus?

Pauline! by pride

Melnotte.
Angels have fallen ere thy time: by pride-
That sole alloy of thy most lovely mold-