of such moments as follow the delirium of the drunkard. Their dead faces shall express what their spirits were, and are to be, by a lingering smile of memory and hope. Ahem! Dry work, this speechifying; especially to an unpractised orator. I never conceived, till now, what toil the temperance lecturers undergo for my sake. Hereafter, they shall have the business to themselves. Do, some kind Christian, pump a stroke or two, just to wet my whistle. Thank you, sir! My dear hearers, when the world shall have been regenerated, by my instrumentality, you will collect your useless vats and liquor casks into one great pile, and make a bonfire, in honor of the Town Pump. And, when I shall have decayed, like my predecessors, then, if you revere my memory, let a marble fountain, richly sculptured, take my place upon the spot. Such monuments should be erected everywhere, and inscribed with the names of the distinguished champions of my cause. Now listen; for something very important is to come next. There are two or three honest friends of mine-and true friends, I know they are-who, nevertheless by their fiery pugnacity in my behalf, do put me in fearful hazard of a broken nose, or even a total overthrow upon the pavement, and the loss of the treasure which I guard. I pray you, gentlemen, let this fault be amended. Is it decent, think you, to get tipsy with zeal for temperance, and take up the honorable cause of the Town Pump, in the style of a toper, fighting for his brandy bottle? Or, can the excellent qualities of cold water be no otherwise exemplified, than by plunging, slap dash into hot water, and wofully scalding yourselves and other people? Trust me, they may. In the moral warfare, which you are to wage--and, indeed, in the whole conduct of your lives-you cannot choose a better example than myself, who have never permitted the dust and sultry atmosphere, the turbulence and manifold disquietudes of the world around me, to reach that deep, calm well of purity, which may be called my soul. And whenever I pour out that soul, it is to cool earth's fever, or cleanse its stains. One o'clock! Nay, then, if the dinner bell begins to speak, I may as well hold my peace. Here comes a pretty young girl of my acquaintance, with a large stone pitcher for me to fill. May she draw a husband, while drawing the water, as Rachel did of old. Hold out your pitcher, my dear! There it is, full to the brim; so now run home, peeping at your sweet image in the pitcher, as you go; and forget not, in a glass of my own liquor, to drink-"Success to the Town Pump!" JOHN BULL AND THE PHIAL-ANON. JOHN BULL was sick, and taking whey, And mend his shattered constitution, Exclaimed-" take this-you've no idea What good 'twill do; a single trial Just to inquire your nostrum's nature ?" "Throw every prejudice aside, Nay, start not thus with looks of terror; I have reformed and changed my state, Have vanished in this precious medley; You and your ratsbane coadjutors Trial, indeed! I'll try to throttle Your poisoned throats, and break your bottle, He must return to the elixir, That's labelled with the word 'Reform.'" THE LAND VERSUS THE SEA.-ANON. OH! give me to tread the steadfast Earth, 1 For surely a rood of land is worth The pleasure that lies in the deep, deep sea, The tiller I leave where the fierce winds blow, The only bark that I wish to know, Is the bark of my faithful hound: For the pleasure that lies in the deep, deep sea, A summer-day's cruise 'neath a squalless sky As swiftly past Cape and headland we fly, On our sea-gull's snowy wing; Yet the pleasure that lies in the deep, deep sea, Though to woo the sea may be full of bliss, Then the night-capped waves grow wild in their glce, And the tribute he offers his mistress, the sea, It seemeth of little avail: Ah! the pleasure that lies in the deep, deep sea, Lieth all too deep for me. The perfumed Earth for a bride I take, And our nuptial couch of flowers Shall be placed by the brink of some reedy lake, For the pleasure that lies in the deep, deep sea, There the music tones of each brooklet and bird, And the wind through the old woods sweeping, While our tryste we are fondly keeping: Then give me to tread the steadfast Earth, For surely a rood of land is worth The pleasure that lies in the deep, deep sea, THE ART OF PUFFING.-R. B. SHERIDAN. PUFF, DANGLE AND SNEER. Puff. My dear Dangle, how is it with you? Dang. Mr. Sneer, give me leave to introduce Mr. Puff to you. Puff. Mr. Sneer is this? Sir, he is a gentleman whom I have long panted for the honor of knowing-a gentleman whose critical talents and transcendent judgment Dang. Nay, don't be modest, Sneer: my friend Puff only talks to you in the style of his profession. Sneer. His profession! Puff. Yes, sir; I make no secret of the trade I followamong friends and brother authors. Dangle knows I love to be frank on the subject, and to advertise myself vivà voce. I am, sir, a practitioner in panegyric; or, to speak more plainly, a professor of the art of puffing, at your service, or anybody else's. Sneer. Sir, you are very obliging! I believe, Mr. Puff, I have often admired your talents in the daily prints. |