How she obtain'd the secret none can tell, She urged our flight ere yet it was too late, In her right hand our fairy guide conceal'd Through which in silent fearfulness we fled. How we should ever re-descend to earth, We hadn't, one of us, the smallest notion; Threw out an aerolite, which struck the girth Of our silk globe, and caused a strange commotion- All thoughts of life I now resign'd, well knowing We must be dash'd to atoms on the spot. While this sad prospect set my brains all glowing, Whiz! dash! smash! crash! beneath the waves we shot, And down we sank till rising breathless, scared, I oped my peepers and around me stared, A brig I saw upon our starboard bow, The Jane of Boston, Captain Samuel Ford, Lower'd a boat and took us all on board. It seems that we had plunged in our descent Which saved our bones and lives; so now we bent H. JOHN WIGGINS was a cobler bold, A blithsome youth to boot, Whose works, though prized by all his friends, Were trodden under foot. His jokes who could resist 'em? He made a pair of breaches. For Peggy Skeggs John Wiggins sighed, Single her state-so was her eye- He never had succeeded once He dwelt below, no wonder she For though he'd leave to make her shoes, I only hope you'll grant that still "I have the length of both your feet, Hor. Serm., lib. i. sat. 3. I've not been able yet to take, Right measures for your heart: But those which tie your shoes. "In pity cast an eye on me, To ask for both were vain; But since I've got no boots to mend, "Tis bootless to complain. My customers and appetite Are gone beyond recall, And I, alack! to other hands Must soon resign my awl. "Nor think my awl is all my eye, That thought would make me rave, For if without it I shall ne'er More soles be asked to save. "Alas! alas! although you own, I sport a decent leg, Oh let it not be said that I Can't move a single peg." He wept: the maid at length replied, 66 Ah! Wig, don't take on so, Or I shall sink beneath the weight "Come, let us have a glass, o'er which I'll pledge myself as thine, Unlike those temperance fools, who cast "Then hie thee home, and with an end Now long live Wiggins, and Miss Skegs, And may I present be the day * Quiz. JACK ABBOTT'S BREAKFAST. "WHAT a breakfast I shall eat!" thought Jack Abbott, as he turned into Middle Temple Lane, towards the chambers of his old friend and tutor Goodall. "How I shall swill the tea! how cram down the rolls (especially the inside bits)! how apologize for one cup more!' but Goodall is an excellent old fellow-he won't mind. To be sure I'm rather late. The rolls, I'm afraid, will be cold, or double baked; but anything will be delicious-if I met a baker, I could eat his basket." Jack Abbott was a good-hearted, careless fellow, who had walked that morning from Hendon, to breakfast with his old friend by appointment, and afterwards consult his late father's lawyer. He was the son of a clergyman more dignified by rank than by solemnity of manners, but an excellent person too, who had some remorse in leaving a family of sons with little provision, but comforted himself with reflecting that he had gifted them with good constitutions and cheerful natures, and that they would "find their legs somehow," as indeed they all did; for very good legs they were, whether to dance away care with, or make love with, or walk seven miles to breakfast with, as Jack had doue that morning; and so they all got on accordingly, and clubbed up a comfortable maintenance for the prebendary's widow, who, sanguine and loving as her husband, almost wept out of a fondness of delight, whenever she thought either of their legs or their affection. As to Jack himself, he was the youngest, and at present the least successful, of the brotherhood, having just entered upon a small tutorship in no very rich family; but his spirits were the greatest in the family (which is saying much), and if he was destined never to prosper so much as any of them in the ordinary sense, he had a relish of every little pleasure that presented itself, and a genius for neutralizing the disagreeable, which at least equalized his fate with theirs. Well, Jack Abbott has arrived at the door of his friend's rooms; he knocks, and it is opened by Goodall himself, a thin grizzled personage, in an old greatcoat instead of a gown, with lanthorn-jaws, shaggy eyebrows, and a most bland and benevolent expression of countenance. Like many who inhabit Inns of Court, he was not a lawyer. He had been a tutor all his life; and as he led only a book-existence, he retained the great blessing of it-a belief in the best things which he believed when young. The natural sweetness of his disposition had even gifted him with a politeness of manners which many a better-bred man might have envied; and though he was a scholar more literal than profound, and in truth had not much sounded the depths of anything but his tea-caddy-yet an irrepressible respect for him accompanied the smiling of his friends; and mere worldly men made no grosser mistake, than in supposing they had a right to scorn him with their uneasy satisfactions and misbelieving success. In a word, he was a sort of better-bred Dominie Sampson-a Goldsmith, with the genius taken out of him but the goodness left-an angel of the dusty heaven of bookstalls and the British Museum. Unfortunately for the hero of our story, this angel of sixty-five, unshaved and with stockings down at heel, had a memory which could not recollect what had been told him six hours before, much less six days; and accordingly he had finished his breakfast, and given his cat the remaining drop of milk long before his (in every sense of the word) late pupil presented himself within his threshold. Furthermore, besides being a lanthorn-jawed cherub, he was very short-sighted, and his ears were none of the quickest; so in answer to Jack's "Well-eh-how d'ye do, my dear Sir?-I'm afraid I'm very late," he stood holding the door open with one hand, shading his winking eyes with the other, in order to concentrate their powers of investigation, and in the blandest tones of unawareness saying— “Ah, dear me—I'm very-I beg pardon-I really-pray who is it I have the pleasure of speaking to?" 66 What, don't you recollect me, my dear Sir? Jack Abbott? I met you, you know, the other day, and was to come and "Oh! Mr. Abbott, is it? What-ah-Mr. James Abbott, no doubt-or Robert. My dear Mr. Abbott, to think I should not see you!" "Yes, my dear Sir; and you don't see now that it is Jack, and not James Jack, your last pupil, who plagued you so in the Terence." "Not at all, Sir, not at all; no Abbott ever plagued me-far too good and kind people, Sir. Come in pray, come in and sit down, and let's hear all about the good lady your mother, and how you all get on, Mr. James." "Jack, my dear Sir, Jack; but it doesn't signify. An Abbot is an Abbot, you know; that is, if he is but fat enough.' Goodall (very gravely, not seeing the joke) "Surely you are quite fat enough, my dear Sir, and in excellent health. And how is the good lady your mother?" "Capitally well, Sir (looking at the breakfast-table). I'm quite rejoiced to see that the breakfast-cloth is not removed; for I'm horribly late, and fear I must have put you out; but don't you take any trouble, my good Sir. The kettle, I see, is still singing on the hob. I'll cut myself a piece of bread and butter immediately, and you'll let me scramble beside you as I used to do, and look at a book, and talk with my mouth full.” Goodall. " Ay, ay; what you have come to breakfast, have you, my kind boy? that is very good of you, very good indeed. Let me seelet me see my laundress has never been here this morning, but you won't mind my serving you myself—I have everything at hand." Abbott (sighing with a smile). "He has forgotten all about the invitation! Thank ye, my dear Sir, thank ye-I would apologize, only I know you wouldn't like it; and to say the truth, I'm very hungryhungry as a hunter-I've come all the way from Hendon." "Bless me! have you indeed? and from Wendover too! Why, that is a very long way, isn't it ?" "Hendon, Sir, not Wendover-Hendon." “Oh, Endor-ah-dear me (smiling) I didn't know there was an Endor in England. I hope there is-he! he!- -no witch there, Mr. Abbott, unless she be some very charming young lady with a fortune." "Nay, Sir, I think you can go nowhere in England, and not meet with charming young ladies." "Very true, Sir, very true-England-what does the poet say? something about manly hearts to guard the fair.'-You have no sisters, I think, Mr. Abbott?" "No; but plenty of female cousins." "Ah! very charming young ladies, I've no doubt, Sir-Well, Sir, there's your cup and saucer, and here's some fresh tea, and-" "I beg pardon," interrupted Jack, who, in a fury of hunger and thirst, was pouring out what tea he could find in the pot, and anxiously looking for the bread, "I can do very well with this-at any rate to begin with." "Just so, Sir," balmily returned Goodall. "Well, Sir, but I'm sorry to see eh, I really fear-certainly the cat-eh-what are we to do for milk? I'm afraid I must make you wait till I step out for some; for this laundress, when once she "Don't stir, I beg you," ejaculated our hero; "don't think of it, my dear Sir. I can do very well without milk-I can indeed—I often do without milk." This was said out of an intensity of a sense to the contrary; but Jack was anxious to make the old gentleman easy. Well," quoth Goodall, I have met with such instances, to be sure; and very lucky it is, Mr.-a-John-James-James I should say that you do not care for milk; though I confess, for my part, I cannot do without it. But bless me! heyday! well, if the sugar-basin, dear me, is not empty. Bless my soul, I'll go instantly-it is but as far as Fleet Street, and my hat, I think, must be under those pamphlets.” "Don't think of such a thing, pray, dear Sir," cried Jack, leaping half from his chair, and tenderly laying his hand on his arm. "You may think it odd, but sugar, I can assure you, is a thing I don't at all care for. Do you know, my dear Mr. Goodall, I have often had serious thoughts of leaving off sugar, owing to the slave-trade?" 'Why that, indeed "Yes, Sir; and probably I should have done it, had not so many excellent men, yourself among them, thought fit to continue the practice, no doubt after the greatest reflection. However, what with these perhaps foolish doubts, and the indifference of my palate to sweets, sugar is a mere drug to me, Sir-a mere drug." 66 Well, but "Nay, dear Sir, you will distress me if you say another word upon the matter-you will indeed; see how I drink." (And here Jack made as if he took a hasty gulp of his milkless and sugarless water.) "The bread, my dear Sir-the bread is all I require, just that piece which you were going to take up. You remember how I used to stuff bread, and fill the book I was reading with crumbs-I dare say the old Euripides is bulging out with them now." "Well, Sir-ah-em-aw-well indeed, you 're very good, and I'm sure very temperate; but, dear me-well, this laundress of mine-I must certainly get rid of her thieving-rheumatism, I should say; but butter! I vow I do not-—” "BUTTER!" interrupted our hero, in a tone of the greatest scorn, "Why I haven't eaten butter I don't know when. Not a step, Sir, not a step. And now let me tell you I must make haste, for I've got to lunch with my lawyer, and he 'Il expect me to eat something; and in fact I'm so anxious, and feel so hurried, that now I have eaten a good piece of my hunk, I must be off, my good Sir-I must indeed." To say the truth, Jack's hunk was a good three days old, if an hour; |