8.-LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN.

GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER.

[See page 358.]

WHO has e'er been in London, that over-grown place,
Has seen "Lodgings to Let" stare him full in the face.
Some are good and let dearly; while some, 'tis well known,
Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.

Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely,
Hired lodgings that took single gentlemen only;
But Will was so fat, he appear'd like a tun,
Or like two single gentlemen roll'd into one.

He enter'd his rooms, and to bed he retreated;

But all the night long he felt fever'd and heated;
And, though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep,

He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep.

Next night 'twas the same! and the next! and the next!
He perspired like an ox; he was nervous and vex'd;
Week past after week, till by weekly succession,
His weakly condition was past all expression.

In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him;
For his skin, "like a lady's loose gown," hung about him.
He sent for a doctor, and cried, like a ninny,

"I have lost many pounds-make me well, there's a guinea."

The doctor look'd wise:-" A slow fever," he said;

Prescribed sudorifics, and going to bed.

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Sudorifics in bed," exclaimed Will," are humbugs!"
I've enough of them there, without paying for drugs!"

Will kick'd out the doctor :-but when ill indeed,
E'en dismissing the doctor don't always succeed;
So, calling his host, he said, "Sir, do you know,
I'm the fat single gentleman, six months ago?

"Look ye, landlord, I think," argued Will with a grin,
That with honest intentions you first took me in:

But from the first night-and to say it I'm bold-
I've been so very hot, that I'm sure I caught cold!"

Quoth the landlord, "Till now, I ne'er had a dispute;
I've let lodgings ten years, I'm a baker to boot;
In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven;
And your bed is immediately-over my oven."

"The oven!" says Will;-says the host, "Why this passion?
In that excellent bed died three people of fashion.
Why so crusty, good sir ?"-" Zounds!" cried Will, in a taking,
"Who wouldn't be crusty, with half a year's baking ?"

Will paid for his rooms: cried the host, with a sneer,
"Well, I see you've been going away half a year."

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Friend, we can't well agree; yet no quarrel," Will said: "But I'd rather not perish, while you make your bread."

9.-RABELAIS AND THE LAMPREYS.

HORACE SMITH.

[Horace Smith was the younger of the two brothers, James and Horace Smith, born respectively 1775 and 1779. Their first effusions were contributed to the "Pic Nic," a periodical established in 1802, and some of their best things appeared in the "New Monthly Magazine," under its first editorship, that of Thomas Campbell. In 1812 the work appeared with which their names will always be associated. The committee of Drury Late Theatre offered a prize for the best address to be spoken at the opening of that edifice; they failed to obtain one to their taste. Lord Byron was therefore applied to, and he supplied the one which was spoken. The Smiths then brought out their work, which purported to be "The Rejected Addresses," in which the various styles of the then popular writers were imitated with marvellous fidelity. Twenty-two editions were subsequently sold. James appears to have written no longer, but Horace became a hard-working and successful literary labourer. His "Brambletye House" almost equals in merit many of Scott's novels. He died in 1849, surviving his brother ten years.]

WHEN the eccentric Rabelais was physician
To Cardinal Lorraine, he sat at dinner
Beside that gormandizing sinner;

Not like the medical magician

Who whisked from Sancho Panza's fauces
The evanescent meat and sauces,

But to protect his sacred master
Against such diet as obstructs

The action of the epigastre,
O'erloads the biliary ducts,
The peristaltic motion crosses,
And puzzles the digestive process.

The Cardinal, one hungry day,

First having with his eyes consumed
Some lampreys that before him fumed,

Had plunged his fork into the prey,
When Rabelais gravely shook his head,
Tapp'd on his plate three times and said-
"Pah! hard digestion! hard digestion !"
And his bile-dreading eminence,
Though sorely tempted, had the sense
To send it off without a question.

"Hi! hallo! bring the lampreys here!"
Cried Rabelais, as the dish he snatch'd;
And gobbling up the dainty cheer,

The whole was instantly dispatched.
Redden'd with vain attempts at stifling
At once his wrath and appetite,
His patron cried, "Your conduct's rude-
This is no subject, sir, for trifling;
How dare you designate this food
As indigestible and crude,

Then swallow it before my sight ?"
Quoth Rabelais, "It may be shown
That I don't merit this rebuff:
I tapp'd the plate, and that, you'll own,
Is indigestible enough;

But as to this unlucky fish,

With you so strangely out of favour,

Not only 'tis a wholesome dish,

But one of most delicious flavour."

10. MY OLD HAT.

ANONYMOUS.

I HAD a hat-it was not all a hat,

Part of the brim was gone-yet still I wore
It on, and people wondered as I passed.
Some turned to gaze-others just cast an eye
And soon withdrew it, as 'twere in contempt.
But still my hat, although so fashionless
In complement extern, had that within
Surpassing show-my head continued warm:
Being sheltered from the weather, spite of all
The want (as has been said before) of brim.

A change came o'er the colour of my hat.

That which was black grew brown-and then men stared
With both their eyes (they stared with one before).

The wonder now was two-fold; and it seemed
Strange that a thing so torn and old should still
Be worn by one who might -but let that pass!
I had my reasons, which might be revealed
But for some counter reasons, far more strong,
Which tied my tongue to silence. Time passed on.
Green spring, and flowery summer, autumn brown
And frosty winter came,-and went and came;
And still, through all the seasons of two years,
In park and city, yea, at parties-balls-

The hat was worn and borne. Then folks grew wild

With curiosity, and whispers rose,

And questions passed about-how one so trim

In coats, boots, ties, gloves, trousers, could insconce
His caput in a covering so vile.

A change came o'er the nature of

my

hat.

Grease-spots appeared-but still in silence, on
I wore it-and then family and friends
Glared madly at each other. There was one
Who said-but, hold-no matter what was said;
A time may come when I-away, away-
Not till the season's ripe can I reveal

Thoughts that do lie too deep for common minds-
Till then the world shall not pluck out the heart
Of this my mystery. When I will, I will!
The hat was now greasy, and old, and torn,
But torn, old, greasy, still I worn it on.

A change came o'er the business of this hat.
Women, and men and children, scowled on me-
My company was shunned-I was alone!
None would associate with such a hat-

Friendship itself proved faithless for a hat.
She that I loved, within whose gentle breast
I treasured up my heart, looked cold as death-
Love's fires went out-extinguished by a hat.
Of those who knew me best, some turned aside,
And scudded down dark lanes; one man did place
His finger on his nose's side, and jeered;
Others in horrid mockery laughed outright;
Yea, dogs, deceived by instinct's dubious ray,
Fixing their swart glare on my ragged hat,
Mistook me for a beggar, and they barked,
Thus women, men, friends, strangers, lover, dogs,
One thought pervaded all-it was my hat.

A change, it was the last, came o'er this hat,
For lo! at length the circling months went round:
The period was accomplished-and one day
This tattered, brown, old greasy coverture
(Time had endeared its vileness) was transferred
To the possession of a wandering son

Of Israel's fated race-and friends once more
Greeted my digits with the wonted squeeze:

Once more I went my way, along, along,

And plucked no wondering gaze: the hand of scorn

With its annoying finger, men and dogs

Once more grew pointless, jokeless, laughless, growlless

And at last, not least of rescued blessings, love!

Love smiled on me again, when I assumed

A bran new chapeau of the Melton build;

And then the laugh was mine, for then out came
The secret of its strangeness-'twas a bet,-
A friend had laid me fifty pounds to ten,
Three years I would not wear it-and I did!

11.-THE RIVAL BROOM MAKERS.

DR. JOHN WOLCOT.

[Better known as "Peter Pindar." An unscrupulous satirist and an unpatriotic man; redeemed only by his wit. He failed both as a divine and a physician. Boru 1738; died 1819.]

A THIEVING fellow, naturally sly,

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Cheaper than all the world," his wares would cry,
And on a jackass's back such bargains brought 'em;
"All siz'd and sorted town-made brooms,

For sweeping stables, gardens, hearths, or rooms,"
So cheap! as quite astonish'd all who bought 'em!
Thus, for a while, he drove a roaring trade,

And wisely thought a pretty purse to have made,
When on a dismal day, at every door,
Where oft he sold his dog-cheap goods before,
With freezing looks, his customers all told him,
Another broom-monger they'd found,

That travelled far and wide the country round,
And in all sorts and sizes, under-sold him.

Scratching his wig he left 'em, musing deep,
With knitted brows-up to his ears in thought,
To guess, where in the deuce could brooms be bought,
That any mortal man could sell so cheap.
When lo! as through the street he slowly passes,
A voice as clear as raven's, owl's, or ass's,

And just as musical, rung in his ears, like thunder

(Half-splitting his thick head, and wig cramm'd full of wonder),

With roaring out " Cheap brooms!" O'erjoyed he meets

His brother brush, and thus the rascal greets :

"How, how the devil, brother rogue, do I

Hear my old friends sing out a general cry

That I'm a knave! then growl like bears, and tell me

That you do more

Than all the world could ever do before,

And, in this self-same broom-trade, undersell me?
I always thought I sold 'em cheap enough,
And well I might—for why?

("Twixt you and I),

I own, I now and then have stole the stuff!"

"Ah!" (quoth his brother thief, a dog far deeper)

I

"I see, my boy, you haven't half learnt your trade:

go a cheaper way to work than that.” "A cheaper!"

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Why, ay-I always steal mine ready made.'