His lowering looks soon darken'd to a stern
And fell expression that confirm'd his speech;
And thus we sate in silence, each in turn

Eyeing his comrade with misgiving-each
Holding dark counsel with his thoughts, to learn
How he might save himself-and overreach
His friends. So lawless in its operation

Is that remorseless law-Self-preservation.
Heavy and slowly dragg'd the dreary day;
Our bosoms rankling with a fiercer ire,
As the light ominously died away,

And thirst, and cold, and hunger grew more dire
I hoped some rain or dew-drops might allay
Our raging thirst's insatiable fire;

But in those altitudes, dear Nokes, there's neither Rain-drops nor dew to damp the parching other. What horrid thoughts of violence and crime

Haunted my comrades in the dead of night,
I know not; but the Devil at one time

Urged me to grapple Green with all my might,
And throw him out; but Hal was in his prime,
And, waking, might on me bestow the flight
I meant for him. Guy was awake, poor elf!
So Satan whispered me-throw out thyself!
These temptings I resisted, Heaven be praised!
And bore my torments till the break of morn,
When Harry, as his heavy eyes he raised,

And mark'd our looks, grim, haggard, and forlorn, Cried-" Gentlemen, you surely must be crazed

To think these pangs much longer can be borne.
We'll wait till sunset, then draw lots, to know
Which of the party overboard must go.
"But it were well (the hint I venture here
Is offer'd to your joint consideration),

If one of you would kindly volunteer
To act the Curtius on this sad occasion,
By leaping in the gulf-a fate, 'tis clear,
Better than vi et armis jactitation,
And as you 're oldest, Guy, I tell you plump,
'Tis yours to make the sacrificial jump."
"Mine!" cried the pedagogue, with angry sneer;
In your own idle vein to give reply,

I might maintain that, as I'm tallest here,
And we are doom'd to die by inches-I
Must perish last-besides, your loose career
Has prematurely destined you to die.
Against all suicide I make disclaimer,

Quocunque trahant fata nos sequamur.
Moreover, I've a nephew, full of glee,
Yet fonder still of learning than of frolics,
For all his Latin who depends on me,
And has begun translating his Bucolics :

On his account I wish my life to be

A little lengthen'd-not of course too prolix ;At thought of leaving him my very gorge aches, At least before he gets into his Georgics.

"Well then," said Green, " you, Stokes! will not pretend
That you have niece or nephew-what say you?
Will you jump overboard to save a friend?"

"I would," said I, "but I 've a cousin who
Is giddy-young-wants watching, or he 'll spend
His cash too fast. Oh, Harry! if you knew
My cousin Tom, I ne'er had been expected
To leave him cousinless and unprotected."

"As for myself. I own," said Green, and smiled,
"That I am free from every social clog,
Have neither kith nor kindred, chick nor child,
But I've a poodle puppy- such a dog!
He, too, depends on me-is young and wild,
And from his home might wander in a fog:-
You're Christians, gentlemen! have hearts-confess
You wouldn't leave that poodle masterless."

The voluntary principle, we saw,

Had no supporters in our coterie,

-

So we resolved, at sunset, lots to draw,
And sacrifice one victim of the three.
Thus sat we grim and silent, cold and raw,
Two destined murderers, and one murderce;
Eyeing each other, all that day of fate,
With scowls most savage, fell, and desperate.
As the watch'd sun went down-(it was the last
Sunset that one of us was doom'd to view)—
An ominous and baleful glare it cast

On our most ghastly and sepulchral crew:
Our senses swam-our hearts beat loud and fast,
And more convulsively our gasps we drew,
Clenching our teeth, and holding in our breath,
As Green prepared the paper lots of death.
There was a leering devil in his eye,

A look of cruelty and craft combined,
Which satisfied me that some treachery
Lurk'd in his bosom. My misgiving mind
Whisper'd that if he drew the lot to die,

Some fraudulent evasion he would find,
Or might, in desperation's last resource,
Throw overboard myself or Guy by force.
Resolved to see fair play, and sell my life
As dearly as I could, if thus defied,
I kept my hand upon a large clasp knife
In my coat pocket, while I gave, aside,
A friendly wink to Guy, in whom the strife
Of hope and fear was potent, as he cried,

"My pangs can't last; one plunge and I shall lose 'em, In space profound-profundo-profudi - profusum.”

"The hour is come!" croak'd Green, and well we knew What was to follow that appalling text. "The hour is come!"-Adzooks! that's very true, 'Tis twelve-the Packet sails at one-I'm vex'd To break off here, dear Nokes!-in haste adieu ! Allow me to refer you to my next, Which will contain a full and true relation Of what next happen'd in our aërostation.

H.

MORALITIES FOR FAMILIES.

BY DOUGLAS JERROLD.

No. I. THE WINE-CELLAR.

His

STEPHEN CURLEW was a thrifty goldsmith in the reign of the second Charles. His shop was a mine of metal: he worked for the court, although, we fear, his name is not to be found in any record in the State-Paper Office. Stephen was a bachelor, and, what is strange, he never felt, that is, he never complained of, his loneliness. chased ewers, his embossed goblets, his gold in bars, were to him wife and children. Midas was his only kinsman. He would creep among his treasures, like an old gray rat, and rub his hands, and smile, as if communing with the wealth about him. He had so long hugged gold to his heart, that it beat for nothing else. Stephen was a practical philosopher; for he would meekly take the order-nay, consult the caprice of the veriest popinjay with the humility of a pauper, when, at a word, he might have outblazoned lords and earls. If this be not real philosophy, thought Stephen, as he walked slip-shod at the heels of his customers, what is?

Stephen was a man of temperance: he was content to see venison carved on his hunting-cups; he cared not to have it in his larder. His eyes would melt at clustering grapes chased on banquet goblets; but no drop of the living juice passed the goldsmith's lips. Stephen only gave audience to Bacchus when introduced by Plutus. Such was the frugality of Stephen to his sixty-fifth year; and then, or his name had not been eternized in this our page, temptation fell upon him.

It was eight o'clock, on a raw spring evening, and Stephen sat alone in his back room. There was no more fire upon the hearth than might have lain in a tinder-box, but Stephen held his parchment hands above it, and would not be cold. A small silver lamp, with a short wick-for the keen observation of Stephen had taught him the scientific truth, that the less the wick, the less the expenditure of oil-glowed, a yellow speck in the darkness. On the table lay a book, a treatise on precious stones; and on Stephen's knee, "Hermes, the True Philosopher." Stephen was startled from a waking dream by a loud and hasty knocking at the door. Mike, the boy, was out, but it could not be he. Stephen took up the lamp, and was creeping to the door, when his eye caught the silver, and he again placed it upon the table, and felt his way through the shop. Unbolting the five bolts of the door, but keeping fast the chain, Stephen demanded "who was there?"

"I bear a commission from Sir William Brouncker, and I'm in haste."

Stay you a minute-but a minute ;" and Stephen hurried back for the lamp, then hastily returned, opened the door, and the visitor passed the threshold.

"Tis not Charles," cried Stephen, alarmed at his mistake, for he believed he had heard the voice of Sir William's man.

No matter for that, Stephen; you work for men, and not for Christian names. Come, I have a job for you;" and the visitor, with the easy, assured air of a gallant, lounged into the back parlour, followed by the tremulous Stephen.

"Sir William-"began the goldsmith.

"He bade me use his name; the work I'd have you do is for myself" Fear not; here's money in advance," and the stranger plucked from his pocket a purse, which, in its ample length, lay like a bloated snake upon the table.

Stephen smiled, and said, "Your business, Sir ?"

"See here," and the stranger moved the lamp immediately between them, when, for the first time, Stephen clearly saw the countenance of his customer. His face was red as brick, and his eyes looked deep as the sea, and glowed with good humour. His mouth was large and frank; and his voice came as from the well of truth. His hair fell in curls behind his ears, and his moustache, black as coal, made a perfect crescent on his lip, the points upwards. Other men may be merely good fellows, the stranger seemed the best. "See here," he repeated, and produced a drawing on a small piece of paper, "can you cut me this in a seal ring?"

"Humph!" and Stephen put on his spectacles, "the subject is""Bacchus squeezing grape-juice into the cup of Death," said the stranger.

"An odd conceit," cried the goldsmith.

"We all have our whims, or woe to the sellers," said the customer. Well, can it be done?"

66

Surely, Sir, surely. On what shall it be cut ?"

“An emerald, nothing less. It is the drinker's stone. In a week, Master Curlew ?"

"This day week, Sir, if I live in health."

The day came, Stephen was a tradesman of his word, and the stran ger sat in the back parlour, looking curiously into the ring.

"Per Bacco! Rarely done. Why, Master Curlew, thou hast caught the very chops of glorious Liber, his swimming eyes, and blessed mouth. Ha ha! thou hast put thy heart into the work, Master Curlew; and how cunningly hast thou all but hid the dart of Death behind the thyrsus of the god. How his life-giving hand clutches the pulpy cluster, and with what a gush comes down the purple rain, plashing into rubies in the cup of Mors!"

"It was my wish to satisfy, most noble Sir," said Stephen, meekly, somewhat confounded by the loud praises of the speaker.

"May you never be choked with a grape-stone, Master Curlew, for this goodly work. Ha!" and the speaker looked archly at the withered goldsmith;" it hath cost thee many a headache ere thou couldst do this."

"If I may say it, I have laboured hard at the craft-have been a thrifty, sober man," said Stephen.

"Sober! Ha! ha ha!" shouted the speaker, and his face glowed redder, and his eyes melted; "sober! Why, thou wast begot in a wine cask, and suckled by a bottle, or thou hadst never done this. By the thigh of Jupiter! he who touched this," and the stranger held up the ring to his eye, and laughed again, "he who touched this, hath never known water. Tut! man were I to pink thee with a sword, thou❜dst bleed wine!"

"I," cried Stephen, "I bleed;" and he glanced fearfully towards the door, and then at the stranger, who continued to look at the ring.

"The skin of the sorriest goat shall sometimes hold the choicest liquor," said the stranger, looking into the dry face of the goldsmith. "Come, confess, art thou not a sly roisterer? Or art thou a hermit over thy drops, and dost count flasks alone? Ay! ay! well, to thy cellar, man; and, yes, thine arms are long enough,-bring up ten bottles of thy choicest Malaga."

"I!—my cellar!-Malaga!" stammered Stephen.

"Surely thou hast a cellar?" and the stranger put his hat upon the table with the air of a man set in for a carouse.

"For forty years, but it hath never known wine," cried the goldsmith. "I-I have never known wine." The stranger said nothing; but turning full upon Stephen, and placing his hands upon his knees, he blew out his flushing cheeks like a bagpipe, and sat with his eyes blazing upon the heretic. "No, never!" gasped Stephen, terrified, for a sense of his wickedness began to possess him.

"And dost thou repent ?" asked the stranger, with a touch of mercy towards the sinner.

"I-humph! I'm a poor man," cried Curlew; "yes, though I'm a goldsmith, and seem rich, I-I'm poor! poor!"

"Well, 'tis lucky I come provided;" and the stranger placed upon the table a couple of flasks. Whether he took them from under his cloak, or evoked them through the floor, Stephen knew not; but he started at them as they stood rebukingly upon his table, as if they had been two sheeted ghosts. Come, glasses," cried the giver of the wine. "Glasses!" echoed Stephen, "in my house!"

"Right, glasses! No-cups, and let them be gold ones,"-and the bacchanal, for it was plain he was such, waved his arm with an authority which Stephen attempted not to dispute, but rose, and hobbled into the shop, and returned with two cups, just as the first cork was drawn. "Come, there's sunlight in that, eh?" cried the stranger, as he poured the wine into the vessels. "So, thou hast never drunk wine? Well, here's to the baptism of thy heart." And the stranger emptied the cup, and his lips smacked like a whip.

And Stephen Curlew tasted the wine, and looked around, below, above; and the oaken wainscoat did not split in twain, nor did the floor yawn, nor the ceiling gape. Stephen tasted a second time; thrice did he drink, and he licked his mouth as a cat licks the cream from her whiskers, and putting his left hand upon his stomach, softly sighed. "Ha ha! another cup? I know thou wilt,"-and Stephen took another, and another; and the two flasks were in brief time emptied. They were, however, speedily followed by two more, placed by the stranger on the table, Stephen opening his eyes and mouth at their mysterious appearance. The contents of these were duly swallowed, and lo! another two stood before the goldsmith, or, as he then thought,

four.

"There never was such a Bacchus," cried Stephen's customer, eyeing the ring. "Why, a man may see his stomach fairly heave, and his cheek ripen with wine; yet, till this night, thou hadst never tasted the juice? What-what could have taught thee to carve the god so capitally ?"

"Instinct-instinct," called out the goldsmith, his lips turned to clay by too much wine.

"And yet," said the stranger, "I care not so much for-How old art thou, Stephen ?"