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How she obtain'd the secret none can tell,
But, in the night, Luxora pass'd our gate,
And by her speaking looks and signs full well
Gave us to understand our threaten'd fate;
To shun which doom most truculent and fell,

She urged our flight ere yet it was too late,
Offering to guide us to the spot where we
Left our balloon fast tackled to a tree.

In her right hand our fairy guide conceal'd
A turning lamp, whose light at times was dead,
At times the glades and copses it reveal'd,

Through which in silent fearfulness we fled.
And thus we hurried on through wood and field,
Till to the moor'd balloon our way we sped,
When in we jump'd-cut loose-and soar'd together
Up in the whirlwind like an eagle's feather.

How we should ever re-descend to earth,

We hadn't, one of us, the smallest notion;
But while our thoughts were struggling for a birth,
A moon volcano, in a fierce explosion,

Threw out an aerolite, which struck the girth

Of our silk globe, and caused a strange commotion-
Out went the gas, and down, down, down went we,
Shooting through space with dread velocity!

All thoughts of life I now resign'd, well knowing
That if we reach'd the earth (and what if not!)
At the tremendous rate that we were going

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,
Who, when he saw us rising from below,

Lower'd a boat and took us all on board.
Both Green and Guy at first were somewhat slow
In coming to, but were at length restored,
And quaff'd a glass of grog to cure the rum ach
Occasioned by the water in their stomach.

It seems that we had plunged in our descent
Into the Gulf of Mexico-a cast

Which saved our bones and lives; so now we bent
Our course for Boston, which we reach'd at last,
Thence by the diligence we homeward went,
Much talking of our strange adventures past,
Deeming ourselves all singularly lucky
Safely to reach our dwellings in Kentucky.

H.

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JOHN WIGGINS was a cobler bold,

A blithsome youth to boot,

Whose works, though prized by all his friends,

Were trodden under foot.
Unknown to him connubial joys,
So hapless was his fate-
He daily mended boots and shoes,
But could not mend his state.
A wag was Wiggins, and the pride
Of all his neighbours round;
And yet most lowly in his views,
For he dwelt under ground.
His wit was piercing as his awl,

His jokes who could resist 'em?
For he would say, like Newton, he
Could trace the solar system.
Let Fortune do her worst, he knew
He could not lower fall;
And though he scarce a living got,
He still could boast a stall.
Cupid at length our youth assailed,
(For who beyond his reach is?)
Taking a double shot, of course

He made a pair of breaches.

For Peggy Skeggs John Wiggins sighed,
But sighed, alas! in vain--
The flower she of grocers green
That bloomed in Maiden Lane.
No cabbage had so firm a heart,
No pea was half so sweet;
Her skin was cool as cucumbers,
Her cheeks as red as beet.

Single her state-so was her eye-
And yet it did betide,

He never had succeeded once
To get on her blind side.

He dwelt below, no wonder she
Had higher thoughts above;

For though he'd leave to make her shoes,
None had he to make love.
One morning as she went her rounds
Through alleys far and near,
Crying,Cheap peas and cabbage, oh!"
He stood and cried, "Oh! dear-
"Oh! Peggy, since with thee allied
Myself I ne'er shall see,

I only hope you'll grant that still
Your sutor I may be.

"I have the length of both your feet,
But ah! with all my art,

Hor. Serm., lib. i. sat. 3.

I've not been able yet to take,

Right measures for your heart:
"I vainly hoped in bed and board,
With me you would go snacks;
For once you said in tender mood,
I was a lad of wax.
"But oh! you disregard my vows,
My proffered hand refuse,
And often have declined all ties,

But those which tie your shoes.
"Tis said that, 'ultra crepidam'
No cobbler ought to go;-
Had I stuck to my last, I ne'er
Had felt this lasting woe.
"Your shoes were ever right and left,
And made to fit you true;
Oh! surely, then, it can't be right,
To be thus left by you.

"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.

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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
Of cabbage and of woe.

"Come, let us have a glass, o'er which

I'll pledge myself as thine,

Unlike those temperance fools, who cast
Their purl before the swine.

"Then hie thee home, and with an end
My Sunday shoes repair;
Put in the banns, and I will put
An end to all your care.”

Now long live Wiggins, and Miss Skegs,
Who thus our youth bewitched,

And may I present be the day
When they're together stitched!

*

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

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"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.'

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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.

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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?"

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"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;

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