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Was singing an election ballad,

Penned by the ingenious Doctor Mallard, (That orthodox and learned writer,

Who bids so fairly for a miter ;)

When Gull, who heard this song or sonnet,
With Mr. Gudgeon's comments on it;
This Gull, whose very name denoted
The character for whom he voted,
Flourished his knuckles in derision,
And, with much promptness of decision,
Began to pommel and belabor

The short ribs of his peaceful neighbor;
But first with tweaks assailed his nose,
And interspersed said tweaks with blows.
Gudgeon explained, and Gull recourse had
To other tweaks like tweak aforesaid.
Heaven knows a milder, gentler creature
Never was seen in human nature
Than the forbearing and well-judging,
Discreet and gentle John-a-Gudgeon!
And, gentlemen, there's no man's face is
Better received at all your races,
Wells, mouths and water-drinking places;
Was alderman, and mayor elect,
Once had the honor to be pricked
For sheriff, which important station
He gained without solicitation.
No doubt his lordship recognizes
The coat he had on at assizes,

A velveret, genteel and neat,

With tabby lined and frogs complete,

Made for Squire Gudgeon's wedding ball,
When first he came to Webfoot Hall,

An ancient seat in the Isle of Ely,

Where all the Gudgeons live genteelly;

Which coat so trimmed, so frogged, said Gull Did spoil, besmear, snd disannul

With the most villainous libations

Of the most vile of vile potations;

For proof we'll call Gull's worthy friend,

Who keeps a school at Toadland's end;
One Simon Trout, a pious pastor,

And Dr. Tench, who spread the plaster;
And Farmer Chubb, an honest yeoman,
Who speaks the truth and cares for no man;
But above all, to prove our case,
We'll show you Mr. Gudgeon's face,
Where every injured feature pleads
'Gainst John-a-Gull's atrocious deeds;

What facts, what species of excuse,
My brother Bore'um will produce,

What case he'll make, and how maintain
His plea of son assault demesne,

Wise as he looks, you may rely on't,

He knows no more than his own client.
'Tis for you, gentlemen, to say

What damage John-a-Gull shall pay;

'Tis in your wisdom, gentlemen, to pull

So wide the purse-strings of this factious Gull,

That he no more may triumph and parade

The streets of Cambridge in a blue cockade," &c. &c.

Here follows a grand and solemn peroration, such as may often be heard in a court of justice, and read in the "Times."

Then comes a most graphic and dramatic examination of witnesses. Simon Trout, dissenting minister and schoolmaster, is examined by Mr. Bother'um, and cross-examined by Mr. Bore'um. At first Mr. Trout will speak according to hearsay, what Chubb told him, and Tench; there is no keeping him to what he himself heard and saw, and Bother'um and Bore'um wrangle over him accordingly. At last, in the middle of much rambling, he swears point blank to the assault committed by Gull, and then Bother'um, feeling him to be a dangerous witness, says:—

Both. Come, Sir, we won't detain you. Gull,

You're sure, smote Gudgeon on the skull ?

Trout. He did.

Bore. Stay, Mr. What-dy'e-call'em,

You say you saw Gull bruise and maul him?

Trout. Yes.

Bore. And you never go to dinners

To feast with publicans and sinners!

What was the bludgeon pretty thick?

Trout. I can not say I saw the stick.

Bore. Stay, Sir, I think that you're a teacher!

and so forth; and, in a dextrous cross-examination, he extorts the admission that there had been some provocation, and that it merged into a regular fight. Then we have the medical witness, Dr. Tench, surgeon and apothecary, admirably technical, translating the commonest word into Latin :

"The fauces in a sad condition,
Between the nares no partition,"

(The result of the two tweaks)

"But both so joined into conjunction,

The olfactories declined their function;

Some teeth were broke, and some were lost,

The incisores suffered most;

Much mischief done to the molares

And what a very strange affair is,

Not the least symptom could I see
Of dentes sapientiæ."

The Doctor is dismissed, and Farmer Chubb appears, at first a stolid, stupid witness, from whom it is difficult to extort a word, and who has a mind to break away :

"My lord, I wishes to be going,

For 'tis a charming time for sowing."

(Lent assizes, I presume!)

Both. Stay, Mr. Chubb; speak out, Sir, do!
Did Gull beat Gudgeon? Is that true?
Chubb. Beat him! He beat him black and blue.
I never see'd a prettier fight,

So full of malice like, and spite.

Bore. A fight! Ho! ho! the truth's come out,
A fair set-to-a boxing bout?

Both. And this you positively swear?

Chubb. Ay, sure; why Simon Trout was there.

And then it appears that the schoolmaster had done all he could to promote the affray, and had endeavored to persuade Chubb to act as bottle-holder to one of the parties. Chubb is dismissed, and Bore'um makes a most characteristic defense-cites half-adozen books-upon which Bother'um cites somewhere about a score; they hurl argument against argument, case against case, and get into a prodigious fury. Bore'um vows

"If all that I've advanced this day
Be not good law, my lord, and sound
As e'er was broached on legal ground,

Soon as to chambers I return

All my black-letter books I'll burn."

"Hold, hold," (quoth Bother'um) "'twould be cruel

To turn your fixtures into fuel,

Those precious tomes with cobwebs spread,

Which sleep so peaceful o'er your head;

Ere yet that sentence is decreed 'em,

Do read 'em, Master Bore'um, read 'em!"

After which piece of malice both parties suddenly cool down.

Both lovingly agreed at once to draw

A special case, and save the point in law,
That so the battle, neither lost or won,
Continued, ended, and again begun,
Might still survive, and other suits succeed
For future heroes of the gown to lead,

And future bards in loftier verse to plead.

Although I am copying from the sixth edition, this pleasant poem is now so scarce, that after a long search in London, I fairly gave up all hopes of succeeding, and only obtained the volume at Bath, the birth-place of the author, who was the son of Christopher Anstey, the well-known writer of the Bath Guide.

The law of this book is said to be excellent. It is recorded of I know not what great legal luminary, that the only poem he ever read in the course of his life was "The Pleader's Guide," and that he had the triumph and satisfaction of discovering a flaw therein.

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THE representatives of the Anglo-Saxon race across the Atlantic-our cousins I do not know how many degrees removedhave in no way better proved their kindred than by the growing pith and substance of their literature. Of such prose writers as Channing, Norton, Prescott, Ware, Cooper, and Washington Irving, together with the many who, where there are such leaders, are sure to press close upon their footsteps, any country might be proud. But one want they had; and although not particularly fond of pleading guilty to deficiencies of any sort, they confessed it themselves the want of a great poet. Of elegant versifiers there was no lack. I doubt if, for the fifty years that preceded the first French revolution, England herself had been better off in the way of smooth and polished rhyme. But they are an ambitious race, these transatlantic kinsmen of ours, commonly called Americans; they like to have the best that can be obtained in every department, and they do not dislike to vaunt of their possessions; and now that their great literary want is supplied in the person of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, they may glorify themselves to their heart's content, certain that every lover of poetry, whether born under the red-cross banner of Queen Victoria, or the stripes and stars of the States, will join the general All Hail!

I do not know a more enviable reputation than Professor Longfellow has won for himself in this country-won too with a rapidity seldom experienced by our own native poets. The terseness of diction and force of thought delight the old; the grace and melody enchant the young; the unaffected and all-pervading piety satisfy the serious; and a certain slight touch of mysticism carries

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