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Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale, And quaintly wondering if magic shifts Could o'er a common pumpkin so prevail, To turn it to a coach,—what pretty gifts Might come of cabbages, and curly kale: Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail, Nor turn’d, till home had turn'd a corner, quite

Gone out of sight!

At last, conceive her, rising from the ground,
Weary of sitting on her russet clothing;

And looking round

Where rest was to be found,
There was no house--no villa there—no nothing!

No house!
The change was quite amazing ;
It made her senses stagger for a minute,
The riddle's explication seem’d to harden ;
But soon her superannuated nous
Explained the horrid mystery ;—and raising
Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it,

On which she meant to sup,-
Well! this is Fairy Work ! I'll bet a farden,
Little Prince Silverwings has ketch'd me up,
And set me down in some one else's garden !”



“ The rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle."


One day, it was before a civic dinner,

Two London Aldermen, no matter which, Cordwainer, Girdler, Patten-maker, Skinner

But both were florid, corpulent, and rich, And both right fond of festive demolition,

Set forth upon a secret expedition. Yet not, as might be fancied from the token,

To Pudding Lane, Pie Corner, or the Street

Or drink, as Milk, or Vintry, or Portsoken,
But eastward to that more aquatic quarter,

Where folks take water,
Or bound on voyages, secure a berth
For Antwerp or Ostend, Dundee or Perth,
Calais, Boulogne, or any Port on earth !

Jostled and jostling, through the mud,

Peculiar to the Town of Lud, VOL. II.


Down narrow streets and crooked lanes they dived,

Past many a gusty avenue, through which

Came yellow fog, and smell of pitch, From barge, and boat, and dusky wharf derived; With darker fumes, brought eddying by the

From loco-smoko-motive craft; .
Mingling with scents of butter, cheese, and

Tea, coffee, sugar, pickles, rosin, wax,

Hides, tallow, Russia-matting, hemp and flax, Salt-cod, red-herrings, sprats, and kipper'd salmons,

Nuts, oranges, and lemons, Each pungent spice, and aromatic gum, Gas, pepper, soaplees, brandy, gin, and rum ; Alamode-beef and greens—the London soil — Glue, coal, tobacco, turpentine, and oil, Bark, assafoetida, squills, vitriol, hops, In short, all whiffs, and sniffs, and puffs, and snuffs, From metals, minerals, and dyewood stuffs, Fruits, victual, drink, solidities, or slops— [shops, In flasks, casks, bales, trucks, wagons, taverns, Boats, lighters, cellars, wharfs, and warehouse-tops, That, as we walk upon the river's ridge,

Assault the nose—below the bridge.

A walk, however, as tradition tells,
That once a poor blind Tobit used to choose,
Because, incapable of other views,

He met with “ such a sight of smells.”

But on, and on, and on,
In spite of all unsavoury shocks,

Progress the stout Sir Peter and Sir John,
Steadily'steering ship-like for the docks—
And now they reach a place the Muse, unwill-

ing, Recalls for female slang and vulgar doing,

The famous Gate of Billing

That does not lead to cooing—
And now they pass that House that is so ugly
A Customer to people looking smuggly—-
And now along that fatal Hill they pass
Where centuries ago an Oxford bled,
And proved—too late to save his life, alas !

That he was “off his head.”

At last before a lofty brick-built pile
Sir Peter stopp'd, and with mysterious smile
Tingled a bell that served to bring
The wire-drawn genius of the ring,
A species of commercial Samuel Weller-
To whom Sir Peter, tipping him a wink,

And something else to drink,
“Shew us the cellar.”

Obsequious bow'd the man, and led the way Down sundry flights of stairs, where windows

small, Dappled with mud, let in a dingy rayA dirty tax, if they were tax'd at all.

At length they came into a cellar damp,
With venerable cobwebs fringed around,

A cellar of that stamp
Which often harbours vintages renown'd,
The feudal Hock, or Burgundy the courtly,

With sherry, brown or golden,

Or port, so olden,
Bereft of body 'tis no longer portly-
But old or otherwise—to be veracious-
That cobwebb’d cellar, damp, and dim, and spa-

Held nothing crusty—but crustaceous.

Prone on the chilly floor,
Five splendid turtles—such a five!
Natives of some West Indian shore

Were flapping all alive,
Late landed from the Jolly Planter's yawl-

A sight whereon the dignitaries fix’d

Their eager eyes, with ecstasy unmix'd,
Like fathers that behold their infants crawl,
Enjoying every little kick and sprawl.
Nay-far from fatherly the thoughts they bred,
Poor loggerheads from far Ascension ferried!
The aldermen too plainly wish'd them dead

And Aldermanbury'd!
“ There !” cried Sir Peter, with an air
Triumphant as an ancient victor's,
And pointing to the creatures rich and rare,

“ There's picters !"

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