That they our heavenly joy should share

Who vex us here below.

The few are those who have been kind
To husbands such as we;

They knew our fads, and didn't mind,"
Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

"But what of those who scold at us
When we would read in bed?
Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss
If we buy books instead?

And what of those who've dusted not

Our motley pride and boast,
Shall they profane that sacred spot?"
Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

"Oh, no! they tread that other path,
Which leads where torments roll,

And worms, yes, bookworms, vent their wrath
Upon the guilty soul.

Untouched of bibliomaniac grace,

That saveth such as we,

They wallow in that dreadful place,"
Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

"To my dear wife will I recite

What things I've heard you say;
She'll let me read the books by night,
She's let me buy by day.

For we together by and by

Would join that heavenly host;

She's earned a rest as well as I,"

Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

THE VICAR

Some years ago, ere Time and Taste
Had turned our parish topsy-turvy,
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,
And roads as little known as scurvy,
The man who lost his way between
St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket,

Eugene Field

Was always shown across the green,

And guided to the Parson's wicket.

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle,

Led the lorn traveller up the path,

Through clean-clipp'd rows of box and myrtle: And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, Upon the parlor steps collected,

Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say,

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Our master knows you; you're expected!"

Up rose the Reverend Doctor Brown,

Up rose the doctor's " winsome marrow; The lady lay her knitting down,

Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow; Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,

Pundit or papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed,

And welcome for himself, and dinner.

If, when he reach'd his journey's end,
And warm'd himself in court or college,
He had not gain'd an honest friend,

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge:
If he departed as he came,

With no new light on love or liquor, Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar.

His talk was like a stream which runs
With rapid change from rocks to roses;
It slipp'd from politics to puns:

It pass'd from Mahomet to Moses:
Beginning with the laws which keep

The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep

For dressing eels, or shoeing horses.

He was a shrewd and sound divine,
Of loud Dissent the mortal terror;
And when, by dint of page and line,

He 'stablish'd Truth, or startled Error,

The Baptist found him far too deep;

The Deist sigh'd with saving sorrow;

And the lean Levite went to sleep,

And dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow.

His sermon never said or show'd

That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious,

Without refreshment on the road

From Jerome, or from Athanasius;

And sure a righteous zeal inspired

The hand and head that penn'd and plann'd them,

For all who understood, admired,

And some who did not understand them.

He wrote, too, in a quiet way,

Small treatises and smaller verses;

And sage remarks on chalk and clay,
And hints to noble lords- and nurses;
True histories of last year's ghost,
Lines to a ringlet or a turban;
And trifles for the Morning Post,
And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.

He did not think all mischief fair,
Although he had a knack of joking;
He did not make himself a bear,
Although he had a taste for smoking;
And when religious sects ran mad,
He held, in spite of all his learning,
That if a man's belief is bad,

It will not be improved by burning.

And he was kind, and loved to sit

In the low hut or garnish'd cottage,
And praise the farmer's homely wit,
And share the widow's homelier pottage:
At his approach complaint grew mild,

And when his hand unbarr'd the shutter,
The clammy lips of fever smiled

The welcome which they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me

Of Julius Cæsar, or of Venus:

From him I learn'd the rule of three,

Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quæ genus;
I used to singe his powdered wig,

To steal the staff he put such trust in;
And make the puppy dance a jig
When he began to quote Augustine.

Alack the change! in vain I look

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled;
The level lawn, the trickling brook,

The trees I climb'd, the beds I rifled:
The church is larger than before:

You reach it by a carriage entry:
It holds three hundred people more:
And pews are fitted up for gentry.

Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hear
The doctrine of a gentle Johnian,
Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear,
Whose phrase is very Ciceronian.
Where is the old man laid?-look down,
And construe on the slab before you,

Hic jacet GVLIELMVS BROWN,

Vir nullâ non donandus lauru.

Winthrop Mackworth Praed

MY OTHER CHINEE COOK

Yes, I got another Johnny; but he was to Number One
As a Satyr to Hyperion, as a rushlight to the sun;

He was lazy, he was cheeky, he was dirty, he was sly,
But he had a single virtue, and its name was rabbit-pie."

We had fixed one day to sack him, and agreed to moot the point,

When my lad should bring our usual regale of cindered

joint,

But instead of cindered joint we saw and smelt, my wife

and I,

Such a lovely, such a beautiful, oh! such a rabbit-pie!

There was quite a new expression on his lemon-colored face,

And the unexpected odor won him temporary grace,

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For we tacitly postponed the sacking point till by and by, And we tacitly said nothing save the one word rabbitpie."

I had learned that pleasant mystery should simply be endured,

And forebore to ask of Johnny where the rabbits were procured!

I had learned from Number One to stand aloof from how and why,

And I threw myself upon the simple fact of rabbit-pie.

And when the pie was opened, what a picture did we see !

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They lay in beauty side by side, they filled our home with glee!"

How excellent, how succulent, back, neck, and leg and thigh;

What a noble gift is manhood! what a trust is rabbit-pie!

For a week the thing continued, rabbit-pie from day to day; Though where he got the rabbits John would ne'er vouchsafe to say;

But we never seemed to tire of them, and daily could descry

Subtle shades of new delight in each successive rabbit-pie.

Sunday came; by rabbit reckoning, the seventh day of the week;

We had dined; we sat in silence, both our hearts (?) too full to speak;

When in walks Cousin George, and, with a sniff, says he, Oh, my!

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What a savory suggestion! what a smell of rabbit-pie!"

"Oh, why so late, George?" says my wife, "the rabbit-pie

is gone;

But you must have one for tea, though. Ring the bell, my dear, for John.

So I rang the bell for John, to whom my wife did signify, “Let us have an early tea, John, and another rabbit-pie.”