THE FAT ACTOR AND THE RUSTIC

CARDINAL WOLSEY was a man

"Of an unbounded stomach," Shakspeare says,
Meaning (in metaphor) for ever puffing
To swell beyond his size and span.
But had he seen a player of our days,
Enacting Falstaff without stuffing,

He would have owned that Wolsey's bulk ideal
Equaled not that within the bounds
This actor's belt surrounds,

Which is, moreover, all alive and real.

This player, when the peace enabled shoals
Of our odd fishes

To visit every clime between the poles,
Swam with the stream, a histrionic kraken:
Although his wishes

Must not in this proceeding be mistaken;
For he went out, professionally bent,

To see how money might be made, not spent.
In this most laudible employ,

He found himself at Lille one afternoon;
And that he might the breeze enjoy,
And catch a peep at the ascending moon,
Out of the town he took a stroll,
Refreshing in the fields his soul

With sight of streams, and trees, and snowy fleeces,
And thoughts of crowded houses, and new pieces.
When we are pleasantly employed time flies:
He counted up his profits, in the skies,

Until the moon began to shine;

On which he gazed awhile, and then

Pulled out his watch, and cried, "Past nine!
Why, zounds, they shut the gates at ten !"
Backward he turned his steps instanter,
Stumping along with might and main;
And though 't is plain

He could n't gallop, trot or canter,

(Those who had seen him would confess it,) he
Marched well for one of such obesity.

Eyeing his watch, and now his forehead mopping,
He puffed and blew along the road,

Afraid of meeting, more afraid of stopping;
When in his path he met a clown

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Returning from the town:

"Tell me," he panted, in a thawing state,
"Dost think I can get in, friend, at the gate?"
"Get in!" replied the hesitating loon,

Measuring with his eye our bulky wight,

Why-yes, sir, I should think you might,-
A load of hay went in this afternoon.'

LOGIC.

AN Eton stripling-training for the law,
A dunce at syntax, but a dab at taw,
One happy Christmas, laid upon the shelf
His cap and gown and stores of learned pelf,
With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome,
To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home.

Returned, and passed the usual how-d' ye-do's,
Inquiries of old friends, and college news.

"Well, Tom, the road? what saw you worth discerning? How's all at college, Tom? what is 't you 're learning?" "Learning?-oh, logic, logic; not the shallow rules Of Lockes and Bacons, antiquated fools!

But wits' and wranglers' logic; for, d'ye see,

I'll prove as clear as A, B, C,

That an eel-pie 's a pigeon; to deny it,

Is to say black 's not black."

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"Well, sir; an eel-pie is a pie of fish."-"Agreed."

Fish-pie may be a jack-pie.'

Come, let's try it?

"Well, well, proceed."

Logic for ever!

"A jack-pie is a John-pie and 't is done!

For every John-pie must be a pie-John." (pigeon.) "Bravo! Bravo!" Sir Peter cries,

This beats my grandmother,

and she was clever.

But now I think on 't, 't would be mighty hard
If merit such as thine met no reward:

To show how much I logic love, in course

I'll make thee master of a chestnut-horse.”

"A horse!" quoth Tom; "blood, pedigree, and paces! Oh, what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races

Tom dreampt all night of boots and leather breeches,
Of hunting cats and leaping rails and ditches;

Rose the next morn an hour before the lark,

And dragged his uncle, fasting, to the park;

Bridle in hand, each vale he scours, of course
To find out something like a chestnut-horse;
But no such animal the meadows cropped;
Till under a large tree Sir Peter stopped,
Caught at a branch and shook it, when down fell

A fine horse-chestnut in its prickly shell.

"There, Tom, take that.” “ Well, sir, and what beside?' 'Why, since you 're hooted, saddle it and ride." "Ride! what, a chestnut, sir?"

"Of course,

For I can prove that chestnut is a horse:
Not from the doubtful, fusty, musty rules
Of Locke and Bacon, antiquated fools!
Nor old Malebranche, blind pilot into knowledge;
But by the laws of wit and Eton college:

As you have proved, and which I don't deny,
That a pie-John's the same as a John-pie,
The matter follows, as a thing of course,
That a horse-chestnut is a chestnut-horse."

ANONYMOUS

APOLOGY FOR THE PIG.

JACOB, I do not love to see thy nose
Turned up in scornful curve at yonder pig:
It would be well, my friend, if we, like him,
Were perfect in our kind. And why despise
The sow-born grunter? He is obstinate,
Thou answerest; ugly; and the filthiest beast
That banquets upon offal. Now, I pray thee
Hear the pig's counsel.

Is he obstinate?

We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words,
By sophist sounds. A democratic beast,
He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek

Their profit and not his.

He hath not learned

That pigs were made for man, born to be brawned
And baconized. As for his ugliness, -

Nay, Jacob, look at him;

Those eyes have taught the lover flattery.

Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that

The wanton hop marries her stately spouse:
And what is beauty but the aptitude

Of parts harmonious: give fancy scope,

And thou wilt find that no imagined change
Can beautify the beast. All would but mar
His pig perfection.

The last charge, he lives
A dirty life. Here I could shelter him
With precedents right reverend and noble,
And show by sanction of authority,
That 't is a very honorable thing

To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest
On better ground the unanswerable defense.
The pig is a philosopher, who knows
No prejudice. Dirt? Jacob, what is dirt?
If matter, why the delicate dish that tempts
The o'ergorged epicure is nothing more.
And there, that breeze

Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile
That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossomed field
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.

SOUTHEY.

THE DUEL.

IN Brentford town, of old renown,
There lived a Mister Bray,
Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,
And so did Mister Clay.

To see her ride from Hammersmith,

By all it was allowed,

Such fair" outside "" was never seen,

An angel on a cloud.

Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,

"You choose to rival me,

And court Miss Bell; but there your court
No thoroughfare shall be.

"Unless you now give up your suit,

You may repent your love;

I, who have shot a pigeon match,
Can shoot a turtle dove.

If you pop aught to Lucy Bell,
I'll pop it into you.”

Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,
"Your threats I do explode;
One who has been a volunteer
Knows how to prime and load.

"And so I say to you, unless
Your passion quiet keeps,
I, who have shot and hit bulls' eyes,
May chance to hit a sheep's ! "

Now gold is oft for silver changed,
And that for copper red;
But these two went away to give
Each other change for lead.

But first they found a friend apiece,
This pleasant thought to give,

That when they both were dead, they'd have
Two seconds yet to live.

To measure out the ground, not long

The seconds next forbore;

And having taken one rash step,

They took a dozen more.

They next prepared each pistol pan,
Against the deadly strife;
By putting in the prime of death,
Against the prime of life.

Now all was ready for the foes;
But when they took their stands,
Fear made them tremble so, they found
They both were shaking hands.

Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,

"Here one of us may fall,

And, like St. Paul's Cathedral, now
Be doomed to have a ball.

"I do confess I did attach Misconduct to your name!