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mudhole, where we will leave him—nothing
doubting that our readers will agree with us
that a nice young man was Major Theophi
]us Bandbox Bubble.
(Eclectic of IlUt
From the Yankee Blade—Boston.
THE WEDDING RING.
Young Abram was a merry chap,
An arrant rogue was he,
As you (if you'll take pains to read)
Will by the sequel see.
Though some of the old maids declared
That he was “ little cracked,”
I never thought, nor did my muse,
That Abram knowledge lacked.
By chance our hero went to see
A farmer’s daughter, Bets —
’Tis strange, His very strange indeed,
How love in people gets.
Much stranger how it got in him,
For thirty summers bloomed,
Before he thought of courting much,
Or such a taste assumed.
Now he’d been flirting long enough,
His floating hither guessed,
And more than all his mother was
With “ hired help” unblest.
So when the harvest came along,
His Avise old daddy said
Unto young Abram, (we call him young,
His grand sire was not dead.)
“ I and your mother thought, as how
You’d get a Avife ’fore long,
For Avoman uoav are A ery thick,
They’re gotten for a song.
And as you’\'C been a courting Bets,
What say, my son, if you,
Should take to toAvn a bag of beans,
And see Avhat you could do 1
r -ft
And Avith the money, which you get
Buy Betsey a gold ring,
And tell the jeweler to write
Upon its back something.”
• What would you have put on it, dad 1”
Young Abram said Avith glee;
The old man stopped and scratched his head —
“ I s’pose, “ Remember me.”
Abram packed his beans upou his nag,
And off for town he started,
Where quick for shining silver chink
Our hero’s beans Avere parted.
Then straightway to the jeweler
He took his hurried wav,
Picked out a ring suiting his taste,
And chucked him doAvn the pay.
■ But, Mister, if its convenient,
I’ll let you Avrite upon it;
“ What shall it be 1” the merchant said,
“ Memento or a sonnet 1”
Abram tried to think, and rubbed his chops
Till they Avere all a lather;
At last he cried, “ I kaA r e it noAV !
{£ Put on “ Remember Father /”
THE SCRAPE-BOOK.
BY THOMAS HOOI).
“ Luck’s All!”
Some men seem born to be lucky. Hap
aier than kings, Fortune's wheel has for
hem no revolutions. Whatever they touch
urns to gold —their path is paved with the
philosopher's stone. At games of chance
they have no chance; but what is better, a
certainty. They hold four suits of trumps.
They get windfalls, without a breath stirring,
•is legacies. Prizes turn up for them in lot
teries. On the turf, their horse, an outsider,
always wins. They enjoy a whole season
of benefits. At the very worst, in trying to
drown themselves, they dive on some treasure
indiscovered since the Spanish Armada; or
tie their halter to a hook, that unseals a hoard
in the ceiling. That’s their luck.
There is another kind of fortune called ill
mck; so ill that you hope it will die; —but
and don’t. That’s my luck.
Other people keep scrap-books; I, a scrape
book. It is theirs to insert bon-mots, riddles,
anecdotes, caricatures, facethe of all kinds;
nine to record mischances, failures, accidents,
disappointments; in short, as the betters say.
i have always a bad book. Witness a few
extracts, bitter as extract of bark.
April UP Married on this day : in the
irst week of the honeymoon, stumbled over
ny father-in-law's beehives! tie has 252
bees; thanks to me he is now able to check
them. Some of the insects having an account
against me, preferred to settle on my calf. Oth
ers swarmed on my hands. My bald head
a perfect humming-top! Two hun
dred and fifty-two stings —it should be “ stings
and arrows of misfortune!” But that’s my
luck. Rushed bee-blind into the horse-pond,
and torn out by Tiger, the house dog. Stag
gered incontinent into the pig-stve, and col
iyHjjJ'/ dJ &A m ihilif 12 AAiEY Jg ABIET YH *
lared by the sow—sus. per coll, for kicking
her sucklings; recommended oil for my
wounds, and none but lamp ditto in the house;
relieved of the stings at last—what luck! by
252 operations.
9th. Gave my adored Belinda a black eye. in
the open street, aiming at a lad who attempted
to snatch her reticule. Belinda's part taken
by a big rascal, as deaf as a post, who want
ed to strike me “for fighting a woman.” My
luck again.
12th. Purchased a mare, warranted so
gentle that a lady might ride her, and, in
deed, no animal could be quieter, except the
leather one, formerly at the Show-room, at
Exeter Change. Meant for the first time to
ride with Belinda to the Park—put my foot
in the styrrup, and found myself on my own
back instead of the mare’s. Other men are
thrown by their horses, but a saddle does it
for “ine. Well, —nothing ;s so hard as my
luck—unless it be the fourth flag or stone
from the post at the north corner of Harley-
Street.
14th. Rfln down in a wherry by a coal
brig, off Greenwich, but providentially picked
up by a steamer, that burst her boiler directly
afterwards. Saved to be scalded ! But mis
fortunes with me never came single, from my
very childhood. I remember when my little
brothers and sisters tumbled down stairs, they
always hitched halfway at the ankle. My
luck invariably turned the corner. It coulil
not bear to bate me a single bump.
17th. Had my eye picked out by a pavior
who was axing his way, he didn’t care where.
Sent home in a hackney chariot that upset.
Paid Jarvis a sovereign for a shilling. My
luck all over!
Ist of May. My flue on fire. Not a
sweep to be had for love or money ! Lucky
enough for me —the parish engine soon ar
rived, with all the charity school. Boys are
fond of playing—and indulged their propen
sity by playing into my best drawing-room.
Every friend 1 had dropped in to dinner. —
Nothing but Lacedemonian black broth. Oth
ers have pot-luck, hut I have not even pint
luck —at least of the right sort.
Bth. Found, on getting up, that the kitchen
garden had been stripped by thieves, but had
the luck at night to catch someone in the
garden, by walking into my own trap. A
f raid to call out, for fear of being shot at by
the gardener, who would have hit me to a
dead certainty—for such is my luck !
10th. Agricultural distress is a treat to
mine. My old friend Bill—l must henceforth
call him Corn-bill—has, this morning, laid
his unfeeling wooden leg on my tenderesl toe,
like a thresher. In spite of Dibdin, I don’t
believe the oak has any heart: or it would
not be such a walking tread-mill!
12th. Two pieces of “my usual.” First
knocked down by a mad bull. Secondly,
picked up by a pick-pocket. Any body but
me would have found one honest humane man
out of a whole crowd; but lam born to suf
fer, whether done by accident or by design.
Luckily for me and the pick-pocket, I was
able to identify him, bound over to prosecute,
and had the satisfaction of exporting him to
Botany bay. I suppose I had performed well
in a court of justice, for the next day—“ En
core un coup /”—I had a summons to serve
with a Middlesex jury, at the Old Bailey, for
a fortnight.
14th. My number in the lottery has come
up a capital prize. Luck at last— if I had
not lost the ticket.
©ur Sottß of |Juncl).
_
THE MODEL BACHELOR.
Hf. lives in Chambers. He is waited upon
| by an old laundress, who lives he scarcely
knows where. He sees her once a week to
pay her wages: hut hears her every morning
! putting his room to rights. He rises late.
: He is skilful in lighting a fire—his practice
! generally of a morning. He understands the
! principle of boiling a kettle, and can cook a
chop without burning his fingers. He bears
all misfortunes with equanimity, and goes out
without an oath to take his breakfast at a
coffee-shop, if he is “out of tea.” He is not
astonished if he finds no loose silver in his
i trowsers, after they have been brushed. He
; lias lost the keys of his drawers. His tea
caddy’ is. also, open from morning to night,
the lock being, like his means, dreadfully
hampered. He is uncertain about the num
ber of his shirts. He has not seen a button
for years. He cannot tell who drinks the
grog, or what becomes of all the empty bottles.
He wonders who has taken his Waverly Nov
els, excepting the second volume of the Pi
rate. He is allowed only one pair of boots
per diem. If lie wants a clean pair, he must
clean them himself, or wait till the following
morning. His washerwoman mends his lin
en —at least she charges for it. He takes
everything good-humouredly, hut is a little put
out if he finds he has left his latch-key in
his other coat, and that he cannot get in. He
is a little ruffled, also, when he discovers the
laundress has not made his bed—on Christ
! nmrs day. for instance. He plays only two
| instruments—the fiuteand thecornet-a-piston.
He is much sought after in society, and is a
great diner-out. He can tie his handkerchief
| in a hundred different ways, and cuts an or
ange into the most impossible patterns. He
is a good hand at carving, and rarely sends a
goose into the opposite lady’s lap. He makes
i excellent rabbits on the wall to amuse the
children, and allows them to climb up his
; knees, reckless of his trowsers, and hang on
! his neck without a groan. He shines most
|at a supper party. He brews a bowl of
i punch, and mixes a lobster salad better than
any man—so lie says at least. He sings a
i good song -with a noisy chorus, and makes a
speech without being “ unaccostomed to pub
i lie speaking,” He runs through a person’s
• health neater than anybody else, and serves
; up a toast in the most glowing style, but
’ does not stuff a society with nothing else all
I the evening. He is amiable to the fair sex, and
I hands cups of tea and glasses of negus, with
out spilling them. He is in great demand as
a godfather, and keeps a silver mug on hand,
ready for the occasion. He enjoys his com
forts, but doesn’t dine at home, for he has no
cook. He studies his ease, but jumps up
readily on a cold morning to answer the door,
if the knock is repeated more than three
times. He knows where the best dinners are
to be had about town, and is intimate with
the shops for the best meat, Ihe best fish, the
best game, the best cigars, the best everything.
He walks up the stairs of his Chambers in the
dark, without falling, or trying at the wrong
door. He prides himself on knowing a good
glass of port. He is the favourite stalking
horse of the husbands, who are neverout late
but they are sure to have been with him.—
Every “glass too much” is put down to him,
every visit to the Dock3; all the half-prices at
the theatre; all the dinners, and suppers, no
matter where, are at his persuasion. The
wives consequently bear him no affection, and
generally convey their opinion by coupling
his name with the prefix “ That,” very strong
ly italicised. His good humour, however,
conquers them, and he is welcome at every
family table. He sees everything, is seen
everywhere, and scarcely cares anything for
anybody —excepting himself. His great ob
ject of life is enjoyment, and he succeeds to
his heart’s content.
Suddenly he is missed. He is not seen for
weeks. He is entombed alive in his dreary
Chambers with the gout, and only his laund
ress to tend him at distant intervals. The
long days, the never-ending nights, the rack
ing pain, the cross old woman, w r ho makes a
favour of everything and is grateful for noth
ing, the want of comforts, the utter homeless
ness of the place, strike a chill into his heart,
and he would willingly give all his past en
joyments for one kind voice to cheer him, for
I one person who he loved to be near him. He
rises from his bed an altered man. He finds
out a young niece whom he has never seen.
He buys a house and gives it to her, to allow
him to live in it. She nurses him in all his
j sicknesses, and bears all his ill-humour. He
leaves her his little property, is as kind to her
as the gout will allow him to be, and is la
mented at his death by one person at least. —
I Thus lives and dies the Model Bachelor.
THE CLERKENWELL POETS,
In the recent processions, or rather prowls,
which have taken place in London, a poet
has been the most distinguished actor, and in
deed the only one who has evinced any de
sire to stick to his post —a lamp post —when
the rumour of the arrival of the police has
been prevalent. We have had an opportuni
ty of seeing some of the poet’s productions,
and we beg to add a specimen. It is some
what on the model of a song, in a little book
called Voices from the Crowd, entitled
“wait a little longer.”
There’s A. 1 coming, boys, there’s A. 1 coming,
[ But at his staff avc’ll only laugh,
Though A. l’s coining.
What care Ave if avc go to bed,
HiiA’ing received a broken head,
From A. J coming 1
Let us disdain the crack or kick,
If the Police prov r e stronger;
There’ll be some pockets yet to pick,
Don’t hurry yet to cut your stick —
Wait a little longer.
There’s a Special now coming, boys, a Special now
coming;
Let’s knock that hat extremely flat
Os the Special now coming !
We’ll teach him lioav
To stop our row.
The Special now coming.
Ilis interference has been rash,
’Gainst us, avlio are the stronger:
There’ll be some windows yet to smash,
And p’rhaps some tills to ease of cash —
Wait a little longer !
PADDY REDIVIVUS.
Whatever may have been formerly the
quality of Irish humour, the only humour
which Ireland evinced of late has been
dreadfully sour. It is pleasant, therefore, to
find a few stray sons of Erin emitting even the
faintest flashes of that drollery which was
wont to set us in a roar. The three following
instances of Hibernian pleasantry are quite
refreshing, and remind us agreeably of othei
and better times.
On Tuesday night, at the Chartist meeting
at Clerkenwell Green, Mr. Daly, of the Irish
Confederation, declared that—
“He came there as one of the Irish Confed
eration, for the purpose of asking his fellow
countrymen to form an offensive alliance with
the Chartists of England.”
Admirable! What alliance could be more
thoroughly offensive than the combination
proposed by Mr. Daly ?
Mr. Grattan, on the same evening, com
plaining of having bsen misrepresented in the
Morning post , asserted that our peculiarly
fashionable cotemporary
“ Was mischievcous , hut perfectly harmless
Imagine the effect of this proposition on the
Collective Wisdom. We understand that
many Members have not recovered from it
yet, and that several of them —not, however,
including Mr. John O’Connell —were in real
danger of dying on the floor of the House —
with laughter.
Lastly, Mr. Doheny, at a public dinner at
Dunboyne, in allusion to the present condition
of Ireland, said —
“And if we do not better that condition, and
prepare, we should only’ insult the memory ot
those patriots who sleep in their glorious graves
and who rratch for the dawn of Ireland's in
dependence.”
Sure Ireland, then, is the land of patriotism
In what other country upon earth are there
patriots who sleep and watch at the same
time, and that in their graves—patriots dead
and buried, and alive and kicking, and asleep
and wideawake? By the Powers, we should
like to be acquainted with these patriots, and
go with Mr. Doheny and plant laurels on
their graves, and shake hands with the gen
tlemen under the roots of the daisies!
£l)c lUorking Hiatt.
THE LABORER.
Ay! stand erect! nor bend thy knee nor how.
But speak thine oavii free thoughts, and with an
eye,
Bold as an eagle’s, cleaving the bright sky,
Hold upward thy proud way! Oh, Avhy should'st
thou,
Whose iron hand has made the mighty world
A realm of beauty—has subdued the Avave, —
O’er desert vales and mountain heights unfurled
The flag of Hope, Avhy should’st thou, like a slave,
Cringe to the nod of Pride, and bend thee low,
Even on the soil thy hand has taught to bloom
Asa fair garden ; Avherefore should’st thou so
Boav down, and shut thy soul as in a tomb ?
Oh, stand erect! throw fetter off and ban,
And speak thine oAvn free thoughts—thou art a max 1
[ S. S. Andrus.
| DIGNITY OF LABOR.
We have heard, among the idlers who float
like drift-wood on the surface of society, con
temptuous flings at those whose heritage is
toil. They sneer at what they call the hard
; and swarthy hand of labor, but they forget
| that of all that is useful, luxurious or beauti
j ful on this earth, toil has been the creator —
i that from the marble palace to the white kid
| gloves of the tailor’s most exquisite walking
; sign, all has been wrought by human hands
j Much of it, too, at a painful cost to human
| hearts far more sensitive of the real dignity ot
1 manhood than the more bedizend and per
fumed of these scorners of labor. It is the
toil of these hard hands that has reared em
pires in the old and planted republics m the
i Avilderness of anew world —that has hewn
the rock in the quarry, and built the temples
and monuments of nations —that have a
chieved whatever fame belongs to genius,
with the sculptor’s chisel,'the painter's pencil,
and the poet’s pen —that has winged the ocean
with white sails, and exchanged the products
of every clime —that has measured the circles
of the stars, and plumed the lightning to de
scend upon wires and be the new Mercury ot
the world. Labor ! why, man of idleness, la
bor rocked you in the cradle and has nour
ished your pampered life —without it the wo
ven silks and wool upon your hack would he
in the silk-worm’s nest and the fleece in the
shepherd’s fold. For the meanest thing that
ministers to human want, save the air ot
heaven, man is indebted to toil; and even the
air, by God's wise ordination, is breathed with
labor. It is only the drones who toil not, who
infest the hives of activity like masses of cor
ruption and decay. The lords of the earth
are the working men, who can build or cast
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