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I only remember that BOB, as I caught him,

With cruel facetiousness said-" Curse the Kiddy, A staunch Revolutionist always I've thought him,

But now I find out he's a Counter one, BIDDY!"

Only think, my dear creature, if this should be known
To that saucy satirical thing, Miss MALONE!

What a story 't will be at Shandangen forever!

What laughs and what quizzing she 'll have with the men! It will spread through the country-and never, oh never Can BIDDY be seen at Kilrandy again!

Farewell—I shall do something desperate, I fear—
And ah! if my fate ever reaches your ear,
One tear of compassion my DOLL will not grudge
To her poor-broken-hearted-young friend,

BIDDY FUDGE.

Nota Bene.-I'm sure you will hear with delight,
That we 're going, all three, to see BRUNET to-night.
A laugh will revive me-and kind Mr. Cox
(Do you know him?) has got us the Governor's box.

THE LITERARY LADY.

RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.

WHAT motley cares Corilla's mind perplex,
Whom maids and metaphors conspire to vex!
In studious dishabille behold her sit,

A lettered gossip and a household wit;
At once invoking, though for different views,
Her gods, her cook, her milliner and muse.
Round her strewed room a frippery chaos lies,

A checkered wreck of notable and wise,

Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass,
Oppress the toilet and obscure the glass;

Unfinished here an epigram is laid,

And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid.

There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause,
There dormant patterns pine for future gauze.

A moral essay now is all her care,

A satire next, and then a bill of fare.

A scene she now projects, and now a dish;

Here Act the First, and here, Remove with Fish.
Now, while this eye in a fine frenzy rolls,

That soberly casts up a bill for coals;

Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks,
And tears, and threads, and bowls, and thimbles mix.

NETLEY ABBEY.*

I SAW thee, Netley, as the sun

Across the western wave

Was sinking slow,

And a golden glow

To thy roofless towers he gave;

And the ivy sheen

With its mantle of green

That wrapt thy walls around,
Shone lovelily bright

In that glorious light,

And I felt 't was holy ground.

R. HARRIS BARHAM

Then I thought of the ancient time

The days of thy monks of old,

When to matin, and vesper, and compline chime,
The loud Hosanna roll'd,

And, thy courts and "long-drawn aisles" among,
Swell'd the full tide of sacred song.

And then a vision pass'd

Across my mental eye;

And silver shrines, and shaven crowns,
And delicate ladies, in bombazeen gowns,
And long white vails, went by;
Stiff, and staid, and solemn, and sad,-
-But one, methought, wink'd at the Gardener-lad !

* A noted ruin, much frequented by pleasure-parties.

Then came the Abbot, with miter and ring,
And pastoral staff, and all that sort of thing,

And a monk with a book, and a monk with a bell,
And "dear linen souls,"

In clean linen stoles,

Swinging their censers, and making a smell.And see where the Choir-master walks in the rear With front severe

And brow austere,

Now and then pinching a little boy's ear

When he chants the responses too late or too soon,
Or his Do, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, La's not quite in tune.
(Then you know

They'd a

"movable Do,"

Not a fix'd one as now-and of course never knew
How to set up a musical Hullah-baloo.)

It was, in sooth, a comely sight,

And I welcom'd the vision with pure delight.

But then "

a change came o'er"

My spirit-a change of fear-
That gorgeous scene I beheld no more,
But deep beneath the basement floor
A dungeon dark and drear!

And there was an ugly hole in the wall-
For an oven too big,-for a cellar too small!

And mortar and bricks

All ready to fix,

And I said, “Here's a Nun has been playing some tricks !——

That horrible hole!-it seems to say,

'I'm a grave that gapes for a living prey!'"

And my heart grew sick, and my brow grew sad—
And I thought of that wink at the Gardener-lad.
Ah me! ah me!-'tis sad to think

That maiden's eye, which was made to wink,
Should here be compelled to grow blear and blink,
Or be closed for aye

In this kind of way,

Shut out forever from wholesome day,

Wall'd up in a hole with never a chink,

No light,—no air,—no victuals,—no drink !—

And that maiden's lip,

Which was made to sip,

Should here grow wither'd and dry as a chip!
―That wandering glance and furtive kiss,
Exceedingly naughty, and wrong, I wis,
Should yet be considered so much amiss
As to call for a sentence severe as this!-
And I said to myself, as I heard with a sigh
The poor lone victim's stifled cry,

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Well, I can't understand

How any man's hand

Could wall up that hole in a Christian land!
Why, a Mussulman Turk

Would recoil from the work,

And though, when his ladies run after the fellows, he
Stands not on trifles, if madden'd by jealousy,
Its objects, I'm sure, would declare, could they speak,
In their Georgian, Circassian, or Turkish, or Greek,
When all's said and done, far better it was for us,
Tied back to back

And sewn up in a sack,

To be pitch'd neck-and-heels from a boat in the Bosphorus!' -Oh! a saint 't would vex

To think that the sex

Should be no better treated than Combe's double X!
Sure some one might run to the Abbess, and tell her
A much better method of stocking her cellar."

If ever on polluted walls

Heaven's right arm in vengeance falls,—
If e'er its justice wraps in flame

The black abodes of sin and shame,

That justice, in its own good time,

Shall visit, for so foul a crime,
Ope desolation's floodgate wide,

And blast thee, Netley, in thy pride!

Lo where it comes!-the tempest lowers,-
It bursts on thy devoted towers;

Ruthless Tudor's bloated form

Rides on the blast, and guides the storm;

I hear the sacrilegious cry,

"Down with the nests, and the rooks will fly!"

Down! down they come-a fearful fall—

Arch, and pillar, and roof-tree, and all,
Stained pane, and sculptured stone,

There they lie on the greensward strown-
Moldering walls remain alone!

Shaven crown

Bombazeen gown,

Miter, and crozier, and all are flown!

And yet, fair Netley, as I gaze

Upon that gray and moldering wall,
The glories of thy palmy days
Its very stones recall!—

They "come like shadows, so depart"
I see thee as thou wert-and art—

Sublime in ruin !-grand in woe!

Lone refuge of the owl and bat;
No voice awakes thine echoes now!

No sound-good gracious!-what was that?
Was it the moan,

The parting groan

Of her who died forlorn and alone,

Embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone?—
Full and clear

On my listening ear

It comes-again-near and more near—
Why zooks! it's the popping of Ginger Beer
-I rush to the door-

I tread the floor,

By abbots and abbesses trodden before,
In the good old chivalric days of yore,
And what see I there?-

In a rush-bottom'd chair

A hag surrounded by crockery-ware, Vending, in cups, to the credulous throng A nasty decoction miscall'd Souchong,-And a squeaking fiddle and "wry-necked fife" Are screeching away, for the life!-for the life! Danced to by "All the World and his Wife.”

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