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I have read in Greek a story, how some grave Atheniau

hoaryQuestioned by a chattering koreus, who his nose did

gently seize, Asking—"how or in what fashion he should shave

him"-said with passion And with accent unmistakable" in silence if you

please".

As my hair was getting longer, the resolve at last grew

stronger And I entered in desponding mood an operator's door ; Prepared for the infliction on my brain without re

striction Of the everlasting irksome gabble heard so oft before.

Astonished beyond measure at experiencing a pleasure ; I listened to his scissors' click ;-he spoke not till at last My surprise was undiminished, when he told me he had

finished ; And I own upon that little man I really looked aghast ! In memoriam inditing, these few lines I now am writing On the conduct of a coiffeur hitherto unknown to fame; At times he was loquacious—but this tale is quite

veracious; I shall never meet his fellow !

-Alfred Dawson was his

name.

TAKE AWAY THE LADY.
“Good madonna give me leave to prove you a fool.”

TWELFTH NIGHT. Act 1. S. v.
You were going to call him a fuol !
So your pettishness said, to his head.

No need, he knew it ! indeed
While thinking of you, it was true.
Now a bumper he's filling to quaff

To your

health with a slight mocking laugh. Women can be so curiously cruel ! Now the fire

you

kindled consumes
In
your

bosom the fuel.
Your lover will easily find,

Elsewhere, others as fair
And perhaps rather more to his mind.
I have just now been reading old Browning :

Weariness drowning
In the depths of an

old easy

chair; In my book crowded lair, Where the dust covered busts on me stare.

a

a

Would you

think Robert Browning a fool ?
When he wrote with such bliss
Of the moth's and bee's kiss ?

Earnest lovers a pair
In a gondola gliding

To a dim water stair;

Where a bravo is hiding !
Soon, a crimson pool, wells from the breast

To her's lately prest.
While he struggles in vain,

Her hair's beauteous tress,
To remove from the stain :
As he dies with his last caress.

So triflingly cool!
A mental superior, you remotely inferior

Hesitate not to designate fool !
Deficient indeed not to know it:

Can you knowledge receive ?
If so, try and believe that most people perceive
Some ichor divine in a poet.

Listen
Loving beauty in every form

Eyes glisten;
Thought eager, soul warm;
The sum of his greatest desire
Is to worship, to love and admire.

Anacreon, Ovid, Catullus
Would belong to the schools

Of your very old fools !
Whose ideas were by no means facetious !

Yet we turn o'er their pages to lull us ;
Dreaming dreams in the sweet summer air
In the shelter away from the glare.

Of Eros the darts Had long tortured their hearts Ere they gave out their love-lays so specious.

And many a loved classic lady, a
Pride did discover, in teasing her lover
Ere Sappho fell down from Leucadia.
From that ancient myth-

As we read it to-day-
Time perhaps may have eaten the pith

Half away.

Who knows but that Sappho used Phaon
At first his strong feelings to play on !
And thought it a joke to be gay on.

If a lover be zealous,
What fun, make him jealous !
Or, vow kind, cling and please ;
Then torture and tease;

Keep cool !
Till you see him depart

With scorn in his heart.
When he has gone, your weeds you put on;
In your lonely grief, Pride the only relief !

Then, my sweet one, pray which is the fool ! Good madonna dear, which is the fool ?

ICONOGRAPHY OF WELLS CATHEDRAL. BY CHARLES ROBERT COCKERELL, R. A., LONDON & OXFORD 1857.

R. C. VERSUS R. A.

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Cock-a-rell on ze Cathedral Church at Vells
About ze figures some strange sto tells;
Vy zey vere set up one beside ze ozère
How zis an uncles had and zat a mozère :
How ze crusader zère as some suppose
Vas not Dean Svift but Robert de Courthose.
Zis book one day our dear friend Planché got
Into his learned fist, and likes a shot
By force of reasonings smash him on ze spot.

Ah! Monsieur Cock-a-rell,
If truze be in a vell
It is not in your Vells ;
And if ze volume sells,

As per-haps it may,

Cést toujours vrai
Zat doubtlessly it sells
To zose who for it pay;
Mais tout le monde ne sait
Que le Professeur d'architecture R. A.

A été
Par le Rouge Croix

en verité,
Planchéié.

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"Bleth uth, whoth thith !” Ford. The lady's trial.

“ He lisped in numbers.”—LIFE OF POPE. Thailing on the bwimming wivaw,

Widing on ith wippling wavth, Where thweet honeythuckle bweatheth,

And gween gwaththy lawnth it lavth;

Weclined on cuthionth thoft, and thteawing

Evewy way ekthept the wight, Beauteouth, wich Mith Tharah Thimpthon Enthwalth my

thoul with chawmth tho bwight !

Ath a blue thtocking thhe boathteth

Thhe hath witten whymeth in weamth; And the Hewaldth pageth witneth

Thome of her thelethtial dweamth. Thchitht thhe talkth of and magnethian,

Vewy puththling wordth they theem; But while I thip Bathth or Allthopp,

Thhe dwinkth the pure Cathtalian thtweam.

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“Woll on! woll on! thweet thilvewy waterth !"

(Thuth apothtwophitheth thhe) Thwiftly woll, thou wethtleth wiyaw!

Huwwying to the dithtant thea: Gwand, tewific, woawing othean !

Thtawmy, dweadful, fuwiouth thea !
Thtill the thame and evwelathting,

Thimilaw to etwawnity."
On the thunny thtweam thlow thailing,

Thuth Mith Tharah Thimpthon thpoke;
Thhe theathed, and thoon thome laththeth thinging

And fiddelth the thoft thilenth bwoke. On a thudden—" Whaw the dickenth

Be you thteawing ?”—thome one thwoa: We capthithed, and gwathiouth goodneth

Alone knowth how we gained the thoa !

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