our shoes, we got him into it without any further personal damage. I took him off in this way to the station, and sent him and the parrot off to my uncle by the first train.
We have determined that, taking our chance about a place in my uncle's will or not, we will never again have anything to do with any foreign animals, however much he may ask and desire it.
(By permission of Messrs. Chambers.)
THE SURGEON AND THE HOUSE PAINTERS.
HORACE SMITH.
PAINTERS are like the dry-rot; if we let 'em
Fix on our panels and our planks,
There's no ejectment that can get 'em
Out, till they've fairly played their pranks.
There is a time, however, when the ghastly
Spectres cease to haunt our vision;
And as my hearers, doubtless, would like vastly
To calculate it with precision,
I'll tell them, for their ease and comfort,
What happened t'other day at Romford.
In that great thoroughfare for calves,
Destined to pacify the yearning
Of Norton Folgate gormandizing,
There dwelt a surgeon, who went halves
With the apothecary, in the earnings
From broken limbs and accidents arising. But, somehow, the good Romford drones Were so confounded careful against harms, They neither broke their legs nor arms, Nor even slipped their collar bones.
In short, he couldn't find one benefactor Among these cruel calf and pig herds,
To treat him with a single fracture :Was ever such a set of niggards?
The fact is, that they never took the road,
Except on vehicles which Heaven bestowed-
But if with other legs you take a journey,
What wonder if they sometimes overturn ye?
One morn a patent safety coach
Departed from the Swan with two Necks-
A sign that seems intended to reproach
Those travellers of either sex,
Who deem one neck sufficient for the risks
Of ditches, drunkards, wheels, and four-legged frisks.
Just as they entered Romford with a dash,
Meaning to pass the opposition,
The front wheel came in violent collision
With a low post—was shivered—smash!
And down the coach came with a horrid crash.
"Zooks!" cried the coachman, as he swore and cursed, "That rascal Jack will get to Chelmsford first. We might have had worse luck on't; for I sees None of the horses hasn't broke their knees."
As to his fare, or any human limb,
Had ten been broken, 'twas all one to him.
Luckily for the passengers, the master
Of the Plough Inn, who witnessed the disaster,
Ran with his men, and maids, and spouse,
The imprisoned sufferers unpounded,
Conveyed the frighten'd, sick, and wounded
Into his house;
Then hied himself into the town, to urge on
The speed of the aforesaid surgeon.
He came inquired the wounds and spasms
Of all the mistresses and masters;
lint-poultice-balsams-plasters,
Bandaging some, and letting others blood,
And then ran home to tell how matters stood.
Like Garrick 'twixt Thalia and Melpomene,
His wife put on her tragi-comic features:
She had a heart-but also an uncommon eye
To the main chance-and so she cried, "Poor creatures!
Dear me how shocking to be wounded thus!
A famous God-send, certainly, for us!
Don't tell me any more, my dear Cathartic,
The horrid story really makes my heart ache.
One broken rib-an ankle sprained—that's worse ;
I mean that's better, for it lasts the longer;
Those careless coachmen are the traveller's curse,
How lucky that they hadn't got to Ongar!
Two bad contusions-several ugly wounds,
Why this should be a job of fifty pounds!
So now there's no excuse for being stingy;
'Tis full twelve years-no matter when it was—
At all events, the parlour's horrid dingy,
And now it shall be painted—that is poz!"
The painters come-two summer days they give
To scrape acquaintance with each panel;
Then mix the deadly stuff by which they live,
(The smell's enough to make the stoutest man ill),
And now, in all their deleterious glory,
They fall upon the wainscot con amore.
The parlour's done-you wouldn't know the room, It looks four times as large, and eight times lighter;
But most unluckily, as that grew whiter,
The hall looked less, and put on tenfold gloom.
"There's no use doing things by halves, my dear,
We must just titivate the hall, that's clear."
،، Well, be it so, you've my consent, my love,
But when that's done, the painters go, by Jove!"
They heard him, and began. All hurry-scurry,
They set to work instanter,
But presently they slackened from their hurry.
Into a species of snail's canter.
The surgeon, who had had his fill
Of stench, and trembled for his bill,
Saw day by day, with aggravated loathing,
That they were only dabbling, paddling,
Twiddling, and fiddle-faddling,
And helping one another to do nothing;
So called the foreman in, and begged to know,
As a great favour, when they meant to go.
"Why," quoth the honest man, scratching his nob, "Not afore master gets another job."
The surgeon stormed and swore, but took the hint, Laid in a double stock of lint,
And to his patients at the "Plough" dispenses, Week after week, new pills and plasters;
Looks very grave on their disasters,
And will not answer for the consequences,
If they presume to use their arms or feet,
Before their cure is quite complete.
"No, no," he mutters, "they shall be
Served as the painters treated me;
And, if my slowness they reproach,
I'll tell them they shall leave the place
The moment there's another race
Run by the patent safety coach."
A LAST FAREWELL.
THOMAS, EARL OF STRAFFORD.
[Written by himself a little before his death, and printed on a broadsheet. London, 1641.]
FAREWELL, Vain world! farewell, my fleeting joys,
Whose drop of music's but an echo's noise;
And all the lustre of your painted light,
But as dull dreams and phantoms of the night.
Empty your pleasures, too, nor can they last
Longer than air-blown bubbles, or a blast.
Farewell, you fading honours, which do blind.
By your false mists the sharpest-sighted mind;
And having raised him to his height of cares,
Tumble him headlong down the slippery stairs.
How shall I praise or prize your glorious ills,
Which are but poison put in golden pills?
Farewell my blustering titles; ne'er come back,
You've swelled my sails until my mastings crack,
And made my vessel reel against the rocks
Of gaping ruin, whose destructive knocks
Hath helpless left me, sinking, here to lie;
The cause? I raised my maintop sails too high.
Farewell, ambition, since we needs must part,
Thou great enchantress of man's greater heart :
Thy gilded titles that do seem so fair,
Are but like meteors hanging in the air :
In whose false splendour, falling thence, is found
No worth, but water-like shed on the ground.
Farewell the glory, from which all the rest
Derive the sweets for which men style them best,
That from one root in several branches spring;
I mean the favour of my gracious king;
This, too, hath led my wandering soul astray,
Like ignis fatuus from its righter way.
Farewell, my
friends-I need not bid you go;
When fortune flies, you freely will do so;
Worship the rising, not the setting sun.
The house is falling. Vermin quickly run.
Bees from the withered flowers do make haste;
The reason? because they have lost their taste.
Farewell, the treasures of my tempting store,
Which of all idols I did least adore;
Haste to some idiot's coffer, and he'll be
Thy slave, as I have master been to thee.
Heaven knows of all the suitors I have had,
I prized the least, as counting none so bad.
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