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 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— BIDDY FUDGE. Nota Bene.-I'm sure you will hear with delight, THE LITERARY LADY. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. WHAT motley cares Corilla's mind perplex, A lettered gossip and a household wit; A checkered wreck of notable and wise, Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass, Unfinished here an epigram is laid, And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid. There new-born plays foretaste the town's applause, 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. That soberly casts up a bill for coals; Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks, 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, 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, And, thy courts and "long-drawn aisles" among, And then a vision pass'd Across my mental eye; And silver shrines, and shaven crowns, * A noted ruin, much frequented by pleasure-parties. Then came the Abbot, with miter and ring, And a monk with a book, and a monk with a bell, 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, They'd a "movable Do," Not a fix'd one as now-and of course never knew 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- And there was an ugly hole in the wall- 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— That maiden's eye, which was made to wink, 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! Well, I can't understand How any man's hand Could wall up that hole in a Christian land! Would recoil from the work, And though, when his ladies run after the fellows, he 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! If ever on polluted walls Heaven's right arm in vengeance falls,— The black abodes of sin and shame, That justice, in its own good time, Shall visit, for so foul a crime, And blast thee, Netley, in thy pride! Lo where it comes!-the tempest lowers,- 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, There they lie on the greensward strown- Shaven crown Bombazeen gown, Miter, and crozier, and all are flown! And yet, fair Netley, as I gaze Upon that gray and moldering wall, They "come like shadows, so depart" Sublime in ruin !-grand in woe! Lone refuge of the owl and bat; No sound-good gracious!-what was that? The parting groan Of her who died forlorn and alone, Embedded in mortar, and bricks, and stone?— On my listening ear It comes-again-near and more near— I tread the floor, By abbots and abbesses trodden before, 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.” |