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or dive to the bottom as nat'ral as a fish. That gave me time to repent and reflect, and the consequence is, I've lived a wet life for above a week, and am almost reconciled to the sameonly I don't take quite kindly yet to the raw dabs and flounders, and so was making my way down to the oyster-beds in the Medway, when your net come and ketch'd me up.'

"But you wouldn't spend your days in the ocean, would you, Bcb?' asked Jack, in a sort of coaxing tone that was meant to be very agreeable. As to hoysters, you may have 'em on dry land, real natives, and ready opened for you, and what's more, pepper'd and vinegar'd, which you can't in the Medway. And in respect to walking, why, me and master would engage to purvide you with a carriage.'

"A wan, you mean,' said the other, with a piercing look at Jack, and then another at me, that made me wince. 'A wanand Bartlemy Fair-but I'll die first !'

"And rising upright on his double tail, before we could lay hands on him, he threw a somerset over the bulwark, and disappeared.

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A DISCHARGE FROM THE BENCH.

"And was that the last of him ?" said the Vice. "It was, gentlemen," replied the President.

"For Bunce,

or Bounce, or Tee-totaller, or Sea-totaller, we never set eyes on him again."

"Well, that's a warning anyhow," said the Vice, again helping himself from the bottle. "I've heard political people talk of swamping the Constitution, but never knew before that it was done with pump water."

"Nor I neither," said the member with the cigar.

"Why, you see," said the President, "Temperance is a very praiseworthy object to a proper extent; but a thing may be carried too far, as Sinbad said to the Old Man of the Sea. No doubt water-drinking is very wholesome while it's indulged in with moderation, but when you come to take it to excess, why you may equally make a beast of yourself, like poor Bob Bunce, and be unable to keep your legs."

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Or public changes, good or ill,

I seldom lead the mooters,

But really Constitution Hill

Should change its name with Shooter's!

A SKETCH ON THE ROAD.

"All have their exits and their entrances."

Ir is a treat to see Prudery get into an omnibus. Of course

she rejects the hand that is It might give her a squeeze. vacant place; but looks out for a seat, if possible, between an innocent little girl and an old woman. In the meantime the omnibus moves on. Prudery totters makes a snatch at Civility's nose-or his neck-or anywhere-and missing her hold rebounds to the other side of the vehicle, and plumps down in a strange gentleman's lap. True modesty would have escaped all these indecorums.

held out to her by male Civility. Neither does she take the first

THE FORGE.

A ROMANCE OF THE IRON AGE.

"Who's here, beside foul weather?"-KING Leab.

"Mine enemy's dog, though he had bit me,

Should have stood that night against my fire."-CORDELIA.

PART I.

LIKE a dead man gone to his shroud,

The sun has sunk in a coppery cloud,

And the wind is rising squally and loud

With many a stormy token,

Playing a wild funereal air,

Through the branches bleak, bereaved, and bare,

To the dead leaves dancing here and there-
In short, if the truth were spoken,

It's an ugly night for anywhere,

But an awful one for the Brocken!

For oh! to stop

On that mountain top,

After the dews of evening drop,

Is always a dreary frolic

Then what must it be when nature groans,
And the very mountain murmurs and moans
As if it writhed with the cholic-

With other strange supernatural tones,
From wood, and water, and echoing stones,
Not to forget unburied bones-

In a region so diabolic !

A place where he whom we call old Scratch,
By help of his Witches-a precious batch-
Gives midnight concerts and sermons,
In a Pulpit and Orchestra built to match,
A plot right worthy of him to hatch,
And well adapted, he knows, to catch
The musical, mystical Germans !

However it's quite

As wild a night

As ever was known on that sinister height
Since the Demon-Dance was morriced-

The earth is dark, and the sky is scowling,

And the blast through the pines is howling and growling As if a thousand wolves were prowling

About in the old BLACK FOREST!

Madly, sadly, the Tempest raves

Through the narrow gullies and hollow caves,

And bursts on the rocks in windy waves,

Like the billows that roar
On a gusty shore

Mourning over the mariners' graves—
Nay, more like a frantic lamentation
From a howling set

Of demons met

To wake a dead relation.

Badly, madly, the vapours fly

Over the dark distracted sky,

At a pace that no pen can paint! Black and vague like the shadows of dreams, Scudding over the moon that seems,

Shorn of half her usual beams,

As pale as if she would faint!

The lightning flashes,

The thunder crashes,

The trees encounter with horrible clashes,
While rolling up from marish and bog,
Rank and rich,

As from Stygian ditch,

Rises a foul sulphureous fog,

Hinting that Satan himself is agog,—
But leaving at once this heroical pitch,
The night is a very bad night in which
You wouldn't turn out a dog.

Yet ONE there is abroad in the storm,
And whenever by chance

The moon gets a glance,

She spies the Traveller's lonely form,
Walking, leaping, striding along,

As none can do but the super-strong;

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