way to Bristol, to go be the say. So, says one of thim (be the same token he was a cousin of mine-one Terry O'Rafferty-as dacint a boy as you could wish to meet, and as handy with a shillaly. Why, I've seen him clear a tint at Donnybrook fair in less than two minutes, with nivir a won to help except his bit of a stick, and you know that's no aisy job). 66 "Well," says Terry to me, says he, "Go down to the quay," says he, and you'll find out all about it while a cat'd be lickin' her ear." Well, I wint to a man that was standin' be the dure of a public house-it was the sign of-the sign- -What the plague is this the sign was ?—you see I like to be sarcumspectius in me joggraphyit was the sign of the blind cow kicking the dead man's eyes outor the dead man's cow kicking the blind- -no-well, it was something that way anyhow. So says I to the man, "Sir," says I, "I want a ship." 66 There you are," says he. "Where ?" says I "There," says he. "Thank you," says I. 66 Which of thim's for Ireland ?" "Oh, you're an ould countryman ?" says he. "How did you find that out ?" says I. "I know it," says he. "Who tould you ?" says "No matther," says he. "I will," says I. I. Come," says he. Well, we wint in, and we had half a pint of whisky. Oh, bedad it'd have done your heart good to see the bade rise on the top of it. May-be my heart didn't warm to him, and his to me-ow murther! "Erin go bragh!" says he. "Ceadh mille failthe!" says I. And there we wor like two sons of an Irish king in less than a minute. Thin we got to discoorsing about Dublin and Naples, and other furrin parts that we wor acquainted with; and he began talking about how like the Bay of Naples was to the Bay of Dublin-for, you see, he was an ould soger, d'ye mind ?—an' thim old sogers are always mighty 'cute chaps. He was a grate big chap that was off in the wars among the Frinch and Spaniards and the Rushers, and other barbarians. So we got talking of similitude an' joggraphy, an' the likes, an' mixin' Naples an' wather and Dublin an' whisky; and be me sowl, purty punch we made of it! I was in the middle o' me glory, whin in walks the captain o' the ship. 66 Any one here to go aboord ?" says he. "Here I am," says I. And be the same token, me head was quite soft with the whisky, and talking about Dublin an' Naples, and Naples an' whisky, and wather an' Dublin, Dublin an' Naples, Naples an' Dublin-bad 'cess to me! but I said the one place instead of the other, when they axed me where I was going, d'ye mind? Well, they brought me aboord the ship as dhrunk as a lord, and threw me down in the cellar-the hould, they called it, and the divil's own hould it was-wid sacks, pigs, praties, an' other passengers, an' there they left me in lavendher, like Paddy Ward's pig. I fell asleep the first week. Whin I woke up, didn't I heave ahead in me sthomatics enough to make me backbone and me ribs strike fire! I to meself, says I, "are they ever going to take 66 Arrah," says me home ?" Just thin I h'ard a voice sing out "There's the Bay!" That was enough for me. I scrambled upstairs till I got on the roof-the deck they call it as fast as my legs could carry me. "Land-ho!" says one of the chaps. "Where ?" says I. "There it is,” says he. "For the love of glory, show me where," says I. 66 There, over the cat's-head," says he. I looked around, but the niver the cat's-head or dog's tail aither I could see! The blaggard stared at me as if I was a banshee or a fairy. I gev another look, and there was the Bay, sure enough afore me. 66 Arrah, good luck to you!" said I, "but you warm the cockles of me heart. But what's come over the hill of Howth?" says I. "It used to be a civil, paiceable soort of a mountain; but now it's splutthering an' smokin away like a grate big lime-kiln. Sure the boys must have lit a big bone-fire on top of it, to welcome me!" With that, a vagabone that was listenin' to me, cries out, in a horse-laugh "Hill of Howth ?" says he, "You're a Grecian-that's not the Hill of Howth." "Not the Hill of Howth ?" says I. 66 66 No," says he. "That's Mount Vesuvious." Aisy, aisy," says I. "Isn't Mount Vesulpherous in Italy ?" 66 Yis," says he. "An' isn't Italy in France ?" says I. "Of coorse," says he. "An' isn't France in Gibberalther ?" says I. "To be sure," says he. "An' isn't Gibberalther in Russia ?" says I. 66 Maybe so," says he. "But we're in Italy, anyhow-this is the Bay of Naples, and that is Mount Vesuvius." "Are you sure?" says I. "I am," says he. And, be me sowl, it was thrue for him. The ship made a big blundher in takin me to Naples, whin I wanted to go to Dublin, d'ye mind? 27.-A NOCTURNAL SKETCH. THOMAS HOOD. [See page 429.] EVEN is come, and from the dark Park, hark, But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-press'd, And that she hears-what faith is man's-Ann's banns And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice; White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, 28.-LAUGH AND GET FAT. W. M. PRAED. [See page 448.] THERE'S nothing here on earth deserves If folks would let the world go round, To frighten us poor laughing sinners. One plagues himself about the sun, Whether he dines at six or seven P At last they'll plague him out of heaven! Another spins from out his brains, And Messrs. Longman pay the money! My brother gave his heart away To Mercandotti, when he met her, She married Mr. Ball one day He's gone to Sweden to forget her! I had a charmer, too-and sighed And raved all day and night about her! She caught a cold, poor thing! and died, And I—am just as fat without her! Never sigh when you can sing, But laugh, like me, at everything! For tears are vastly pretty things, But make one very thin and taper; And sighs are music's sweetest strings, Yet sound most beautiful-on paper! “Thought” is the gazer's brightest star, Her gems alone are worth his finding; But, as I'm not particular, 66 Please God I'll keep on never minding.” Never sigh when you can sing, But laugh, like me, at everything! Ah! in this troubled world of ours, Is half a pain and half a pleasure; There's nothing half so good as laughing! But laugh, like me, at everything! 29.-THE FAT ACTOR AND THE RUSTIC. HORACE SMITH. [See p. 523.] CARDINAL WOLSEY was a man 66 "Of an unbounded stomach," Shakspeare says, But had he seen a player of our days, He would have owned that Wolsey's bulk ideal Which is, moreover, all alive and real. This player, when the peace enabled shoals To visit every clime between the poles, Must not in this proceeding he mistaken: To see how money might be made, not spent. In this most laudable employ He found himself at Lille one afternoon, And that he might the breeze enjoy, And catch a peep at the ascending moon, Refreshing in the fields his soul With sight of streams, and trees, and snowy fleeces, And thoughts of crowded houses, and new pieces. When we are pleasantly employed time flies: He counted up his profits in the skies, Until the moon began to shine, On which he gazed awhile, and then |