ADDRESS TO A DUCHESS.-T. H. BAYLEY

DEAR Dowager Duchess! though treble my age,
There's a pain in my heart you alone can assuage.
And, poor as I am, when your jointure I see,
Your grace appears one of the graces to me!

For misses not out of their teens I have sighed,
But a pauper must not wed a penniless bride;

And prudence has whisper'd, " Mind what you're about;
Say 'your grace' before dinner, or else go without!"

Your lip is no ruby, no diamond your eye,

But diamonds and rubies in plenty we'll buy;

No pearls are your teeth, yet in pearls you shall shine,
And I'll call you my mother of pearl, when you're mine.

No rose is your cheek, and no lily your neck,

Yet your wig with the lily and rose we will deck;
An attachment like mine well deserves a reward,
Though there's "Captain half-pay unattached" on my card.

That tell-tale, the peerage, your age may betray;
Yet, if people blame, you ne'er heed what they say;
For when your young husband is seen with his bride,
At least they must own you have youth on your side!

Some will say it is strange that a youth should be struck
By a belle so mature,-oh! they envy my luck,
For my choice ten thousand good reasons appear,
Ten thousand! nay more-I've ten thousand a year!

THE JUSTE MILIEU.-ANON.

A BANKER there is in Baltimore,
The shrewdest fellow along the shore;

Who always runs in my head whenever
I hear the praise of the juste Milieu,

So cunning and sharp and wise and clever.
That the Yankee Banker starts to view
As the beau ideal of the juste Milieu.
A dollar note to his shop was brought,
And the Banker look'd absorb'd in thought.
“Is it good or bad ?" the inquirer said:—
The Baltimore Banker shook his head,
As in difficult matters Doctors do.
"Why-bad or good-is hard to say
I guess your dollar note-in its way,
Is what you may call- —a middling one."
You may think 'tis false--you may think 'tis fun,
But I give you my honor the tale is true,
And the moral I leave to the juste Milieu.

THE PHILOSOPHER'S DOMICILE-ANON.

My dwelling is ample,

And I've set an example

For lovers of water to follow ;

If my home you should ask,
I have drained out a cask,

And I dwell in a cooling hollow!
A disciple am I of Diogenes-

O! his tub a most classical lodging is!
'Tis a beautiful alcove for thinking;
'Tis besides a cool alcove for drinking:
Moreover, the parish throughout
You can readily roll it about.
O the birth

For a lover of mirth

To revel in jokes and to lodge in ease,
Is the classical tub of Diogenes!

In politics I'm no adept,

And into my tub when I've crept
They may canvass in vain for my vote.
For besides, after all the great cry and hubbub,
Reform gave no ten-pound franchise to my tub;
So your bill I don't value a groat!

And if that base idol of filth and vulgarity,
•Adorned now-a-days, yclept Popularity,
Should come

To my home,

And my hogshead's bright aperture darken,
Think not to such summons I'd hearken.
No! I'd say to that Ghoul grim and gaunt,
Vile phantom avaunt!

Get thee out of my sight!

For thy clumsy opacity shuts out the light
Of the gay glorious sun

From my classical tun,

Where a hater of cant and a lover of fun
Fain would revel in mirth, and would lodge in ease-
The classical tub of Diogenes!

A COUNT CORNERED.-J. K. PAULDING.

COUNT STROMBOLI, NED AND TOM MATHEWS AND WELCOMEHERE DIX.

An Obscure Lane.-Morning.

(Enter NED and Toм MATHEWS.)

Ned. Somewhere about this spot, Tom, the Count always disappears in a very mysterious manner. I never have been able to trace him beyond the entrance to this narrow dirty lane, yet am I satisfied that he burrows near here.

Tom. Burrows? You think then his lodgings are subterraneous, eh-a sort of rabbit warren? Now my idea was

that he was more of a bird, and built his nest high up in the air.

Ned. There's no telling-Hist! there he is. Quickstand behind this pump.

(They conceal themselves The Count opens the door of a house, and looks cautiously out.)

Count. I believe I may venture-there don't appear to be anybody in sight. (Footsteps are heard and Count draws back. Ned. Guy, he's as careful as a city mosquito in the

autumn.

Count. All clear now-here goes!

(Count comes out and walks towards NED and Toм. Ned. Ah, Count, good morning: you're stirring early in these out-of-the-way parts.

Count. (aside.) Diablé ! Discovered! I'll brazen it out. (Aloud.) Yes, gentlemen, I like to take a walk before breakfast sometimes, and, as I said the other day, I have a fancy for looking into the obscure parts of a city. You can then form a judgment of its morals.

Ned. And what conclusion have you come to, Count, as to the state of our well-regulated city of Boston?

Count. I've seen better places, with worse reputations. (WELCOME-HERE DIX comes to the door of his house, and calls. Dix. Hallo, you there, you Jovanny Vaganty, or what's tarnal queer name? come here a minute.

your

(Count begins to move off. Ned. And do you enter strange houses, Count, to study morals?

Dix. Here, you Jovanny-Jovanny Vaganty, darn yer, can't yer hear, or won't you hear? Are you deef?

Count. 'Pon my soul, gentlemen-(looks at his watch)my omelette will be cold, if I wait here any longer. I ordered my breakfast at half-past nine. (Exit Count. Ned. The Count seems to be in a hurry. Let's try if we can obtain any information from his landlord. (Addresses Dix.) Do you know that gentleman that just turned the corner ?

Dix. Wa-a-l, I should kind o' calkulate that I did, shouldn't

you?

Ned. Does he live at your house?

Dix. You think he does, now, don't you?

Ned. I do; but I should like to know more certainly.

Dix. Now, mister, do you know Jovanny?

Ned. Never you mind. Here-(gives him money)—will that open your mouth?

Dix. Only jest try, won't you?

Ned. Do you know where that gentleman lives? Speak plainly, man.

Dix. Wa-a-l, I shouldn't wonder if I could make a pretty considerable of a sharp guess where he does put up. I have a mighty strong kind of a notion that he's nigh about the hardest man goin' in Bosting to screw money out of. Why, mister, you might jest as well try to make cider out of dried apples.

Ned. What! the Count?

Dix. Man alive! du tell nëow! Cëount! Why, I did cultivate a kind o' suspicion that he played in the orchestry at the Circus. He's jest that sort o' lookin' chap. Cëount, eh? No you don't, mister! You think I'm a green chicken, don't yer?

Ned. His name is certainly Count Stromboli.

Dix.

You don't fool this child, mister. Get ëout. Cëount, eh? Hain't I seen the Marquis Lafayetty? He don't look nothin' like him, I guess.

Ned. What do you call him, then?

Dix. His name is Jovanny Vaganty-that's the talk.

Ned. Giovanni Vagante-how many aliases has he, I wonder?

Dix. Aliases! If he has aliases, I guess I'll turn him straight out o' doors. Pisenous troublesome things is them aliases-gets a man into law-always.

Ned. And he doesn't pay, eh?

Dix. Wa-a-l, I shouldn't be surprised if he had a tarnation tight fist-desp'rate cluss is Jovanny. He's been here most