to make a distinction between the man who really possesses the approbation of his own mind, and he who is bolstered up with self-conceit. The man who blindly respects himself, and takes no pains to inquire wherefore he does so, is quite as despicable a being as he who is inflated by the breath of others. Many act upon the old adage, that "unless a man respects himself nobody will respect him," and consequently they assume airs of importance, and a tone of superiority which take mightily with the multitude, and with strangers, but which become only a dead weight about the neck of the impostor, to sink him lower than he really deserves, when his pretensions are weighed in the balance of sound criticism, and their emptiness is fairly exposed.

There is not a more pitiable being on earth than a proud man whom no one respects. In denying him the homage which he claims, the world is prone to err on the other extreme, and withhold from him the praise which justly belongs to him.

On the other hand, the vain man becomes so much accustomed to being carried on the wings of others, that he loses the use of his limbs, and forgets how to walk erect. So long as he is kept above ground he does well enough, but as soon as he is set down he finds it impossible to recover himself; he falls to the earth, and his chaffy reputation is burst asunder and leaves him as hastily as a bag of feathers, cast out to be distributed on a sharp north-east wind.

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT PEDLER.

CANTO I.

It is an ancient pedler-man,

That pedleth pottes of tinne;

And he stoppeth Deacon Edmund Stokes,
As the meeting did beginne.

"Now wherefore dost thou stoppe me here?
Thou man of muckle sinne!

"The meeting-house is open wide,
And the minister is there.
So lette me goe, I must make haste,
Or I shall lose the prayer."

He holds him by the button faste,

"Do n't give me the slippe!" quoth he.
Whereat the Deacon hitte him a cuffe,

And said, "You rogue, get out with your stuffe-
Is this the time for a spree ?"

Quoth the pedler, "Deacon that is n't faire,

Don't aggravate your choler,

You talk so gravelie about a prayer,

But you're thinking of a dollar."

And the pedler bolde still kept faste holde,
And close to the fence did hie him,

And bothe were sitting on a raile,
While hee beganne to telle his tale,
And the Deacon's heart for fear did quaile,
Lest somebodie should spie him.

"The coaste was clear'd, and off I steer'd,
Merrilie I did trotte

O'er Roxburry Neck and Dedham roade,
Light paire of heeles I wotte.

The sunne rose out of Boston Baye
Fulle halfe an houre too soone;
For I stole awaye before 't was daye,
At the setting of the moone.".

And here the Deacon scratched his heade,
He heard the loud psalm tune.

The parson in the pulpitte stands,

Grave as an owle is hee;

Nodding their heades in silence sitte
The ghostlie companie.

And some admire his reverend wigge,
And some his divinitie.

Olde Deacon Ned, he scratch'd his heade,
With many a gape and stare,

While thus went on with his long yarne,
That pedler of tinne-ware.

"At lengthe did crosse an old black horse,
Out of the fielde he came,

His taile was cropp'd, and his nose was blue,
Just like the one I swopp'd with you,
And Dobbin was his name.

He trotted straight up to my side,
And rounde and rounde I eyed him;

I felt a bitte of an antic fitte,

And soe I jump'd astride him."

66 Dogges take thee; ancient pedler-man! My wittes are at a losse.

Why squint'st thou soe!" "Why Deacon, you knowe I STOLE THE OLDE BLACK HORSE!"

CANTO II.

And I grew daft that jollie time,
And presently I grew dafter.
A jollie time! a jollie time!
I'd nearlie split with laughter,
When looking backwards I behelde
A something coming after.

At firste it seem'd a little dogge,

And then it seem'd a cowe,

And it grewe and grewe, till it look'd just like A constable, I swowe!

Ah me! I growl'd within my gummes
As that magic shape drew neare,

"Is that old Catchpole now that comes,
To twitche me by the eare?

Is it hee that bawles with leathern lungs
Like a Milk-streete auctioneere?"

And hee cried, "He! ho! wherever you goe,
Close at your heeles I'll followe!"
Gramercy! then I off did scoure,
Swearing in less than halfe an houre
To distance him alle hollowe.-

Like one that scrambles down the streete,
His heeles in quick time clapping,
And faster and faster pulls aheade
The winde his coate taile flapping;
Because he heares a greate madde dogge
Behind him snarling and snapping.

Flie Dobbin, flie! more highe! more highe
And over the mountains fetch me,
For not so slowe doth the constable goe,
But yette he's a chance to catch me.

The western skie was all aflame,
The daye was well nighe done.
The constable almost gave it uppe,
And thought himselfe outrunne,
When Dobbin stumbled suddenlie,
And I felle with a terrible stunne!

All in a swounde I laye on the grounde,
Yet Dobbin aheade did goe,
And galloping by did the constable flie
Like the whizz of my crossbowe !

How long in that same swounde I laye,

I really can't declare,

For I'm not us'd to fainting fittes,

But I heard as soone as I came to my wittes, Two voices in the aire.

"Egad!" quoth one, "'t will be rare funne, Suche a rogue to come acrosse !

Into what slye hole can the rascall have stole, That stole the olde blacke horse?"

The other hadde a squeaking voice,

Yet he swore woundilie too,

Quoth hee, "The knave hath mischiefe done, And mischiefe more will doe."

CANTO III.

Deacon.

But telle me, telle me, beginne againe,
For my braines in wonder are stewing;
Sticke to the truthe, and telle me plaine,
What was the constable doing?

Pedler.

Stille as a mouse I lurking laye,
But juste as I thought him past,

His great white eye all roguishlie
Righte in my face he caste.

And he cried, "Oho! my ladde, just soe

Shoulde a knave get serv'd for his sinnes!

See! neighbor, see! how prettilie

He's batter'd his pate and shinnes!"

A scolding wife and a squalling bratte
Are things to make men flie;

A rattlesnake or a stoute wilde-catte
I'd rather not come nighe.

But a scarecrow worse than this or that,
Is the squinte of a catchpole's eye!

It rais'd my haire, it singed my cheeke,
Like a dogge-daye sunne in spring,
And I reallie felt some awkward feares
Of dangling in a string.

And quicke as a maggot I started uppe,
And over the fence I flew,
Swiftlie, swiftlie, hard at my heeles
Did both of these menne pursue.

I dodg'd them here, I dodg'd them there,
I dodg'd them all arounde,

And snarl'd and scowl'd and grumbled and growl'd
Like a madde bulle in a pounde.

I slipp'd like a snake, through brier and brake,
And ledde them a galloping heate;

And over the wheate, and over the rye,
And round the stumpes, but 't was all my eye,
I knew I should soon be beate.

Alone, alone! all all alone

I ran with armes akimbo,

But two to one is a terrible oddes,

And when I had ledde them a hundred roddes I-founde myselfe in limbo!

CANTO IV.

I felte him, horrid constable !
I felte his skinny hande;
Slap on my shoulder-blade it felle,
And broughte me to a stande.

I felte him with his great white eye,
And his horny clinchers browne,
The strappling loone was sixe feete highe,

Or I could have knock'd him downe.

He had a monstrous copper nose,
All fiery at the tippe;

Upon my word it seeme'd as bigge

As the figure-heade of a shippe.
"T was hook'd, as ofte greate noses are,
Like the new moone, but redder farre,
And he puff'd a huge long-nine cigarre
Within his nether lippe.

The constable soe beautiful

Cried "Stande a little stiller !"
And a thousand thousand funnie jokes,-
It's my opinion, Deacon Stokes,

They were stolen from Joseph Miller.

I look'd upon his greate redde nose,
And grinn'd like a Cheshire catte.
And we kept joking, cutte and thruste,
But I rather thinke he gotte the worste,
For I gave him titte for tatte.

Quoth he, "Your fate would cause to yearne
My bowels-if I hadde' em,

For I shall grippe you faste untille

You reache that house near Bunker's Hille,
Where you shall pound MacAdam."

Quoth I, in spite of certaine feares,
"Old Catchpole, that's a whopper!
I'm readie, by Jove! to bette my eares
Againste a Bungtowne copper."

The hills were brighte in the sweete moone-lighte;
How I long'd to scamper o'er them!
But my two friendes at fingers' ends,

Did marche me close before them,

To the taverne-house where Daniel Dobbs
Sells breade and cheese and does odde jobbs,
As a justice of the Quorum.

Is that his signe-poste all out of jointe,
That creaking swings in the aire?

Is this his doore all gnaw'd by the rattes ?
Are these his windowes fulle of olde hattes ?
Is that his ladye fair?

Her cheeks were redde, her chinne was blue,
Her lockes were yellowe as gold,

Her neck was thicke and her nose askewe;
I'd have kiss'd the wenche, but that would n't do
Because she was saucie and bolde.

The taverne-man alongside came,
Quoth he, "Take my advice,

And the job shall be done for the sonne of a gunne,
Ere you wette your whistle twice."

I shudder'd and look'd sideways uppe,
Says I," Give me a good stiffe cuppe
Of stingoe now to sippe.

Small beere is thin, and 'tis chilly to-nighte,
Cold water makes my face looke white,
And gives me a pain in the hippe."

Then just as the doore was standing ajarre,
I peep'd and saw the man at the barre
Mixing a mugge of flippe.

Quoth the taverne-man, "This rogue is nowe
Five dollars on my score.

I chalk'd it uppe three months agoe

Behinde the kitchen doore."

""Tis a monstrous lie, you knave," said I,
"I never was here before."

And the bolte of that doore, it sounded sore
Like a 'tarnal dungeon bitter.

Oh howe I wish'd to be walking abroade!
But the constable he kept watch and warde,
And I satte in a terrible twitter.

That taverne-man went uppe the staires,
And to his cocke-lofte hied,

Slylie as he went oute the doore,
The catchpole wink'd and cry'd,

"This pedler rogue shall pay the bille
And a swigge of punche beside."