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• Thank heaven! it is flesh and blood after all,' thought Don Manuel; * for I never heard of ghosts being addicted to liquor. Little mercy, however, shall I show it, for none it deserves for this impertinent freedom.'

Senorita,' he replied, 'I shall be delighted to offer you anything you choose to take; but, pardon me,' he added, in tones most cuttingly bland, 'will that nose permit a glass to reach your lips ?

Strange to say, the kindly interest exhibited in the question served only to augment the cheerfulness of his opposite, who laughingly requested him to be under no uneasiness on that account.

But, talking of glasses,' she continued, 'had you stood before one ere enacting the runaway, you might have furnished yourself with a capital picture of horror. Being a poet, your fancy might have gleaned something new for dying scenes and speechless emotions. You do not object to copying from yourself

, do you?' Quite unpardonable was its assurance in daring even to address him; but this style of being facetious upon the awkward display he had made was doubly aggravating, and accordingly it stirred up within our hero the lowest deeps of his virtuous indignation.

• What ! to be treated with levity by a monstrosity like this!—a thing disowned by humanity !-it, that day after day should be sad and silent, conscious of being an outcast from kind feelings,-it, that should laugh at the shadow of a jest upon its own deformity, and be thankful for the honour done it, -that should stand afar off from the haunts of men, whose image it libels,—it to forget its place, and intrude among the well-proportioned and unblemished as an equal, nay, to launch its jest at one of them! That is a crime against society too deep to be forgiven, and therefore,' said our hero to himself, I owe it as a duty to myself and society to humble its insolence. I shall see if I cannot bring it to a proper sense of its misconduct.-I believe, Senorita,' he said aloud, you have a taste for

You are not mistaken,' said the Serranita. • Will you not favour us with a specimen of your muse? Pray translate into words the charms my mask concealed.

*Hum—that is beyond my powers; but allow me, instead, to repeat a charming epigram of Alcazar. Far be it from me to insinuate anything ; but it warns us to be on our guard against every face whose nose is– rather strongly developed.'

Having received the requisite permission, he then repeated the following lines

poetry?

* Lady fair, no whisper goes
To ask whence springs the nose
That from thy snowy brow descends!
But tell, oh! tell us where it ends.

What! wondrous more! thou canst not tell ?
Then be it mine office to conjecture
That so interminable a feature,

Where'er it sprung, cannot end well.'
With the last line of the preceding effusion parting from his lips, Don
Manuel directed a look at the delinquent organ, in expectation of seeing

by

it convulsed by all the agonies of remorse, or at least blushing a repentant crimson. But nothing of the kind followed. Far from being downcast, the object of his wrath, though nearly breathless from laughter, was loud in praises of his taste.

* Very good, indeed,” it said. Where it ends”-capital ! Really you are so amusing to-night, Don Manuel, that I must reward

you showing “where it ends."

So saying, the unknown raised her hand to her head, and quick as thought the nose fell from its place, and lay on the table before our hero. How shall we paint his confusion and desperation of mind as he gazed on the astounding sight, and recalled the rudeness and unfeeling discourtesy of his previous conduct?

Pecador de mil he exclaimed, it is of pasteboard—it is false, and the real one is not less perfect than the other features of her face. Oh, Senorita !' burst from his lips in the most penitent accents, and rushing forward, he was proceeding to throw himself at her feet to sue for pardon, to bewail his indiscretion in the most abject terms within the reach of language; but a gesture of impatience on the part of the unknown, blasted all his hopes. Rising from her seat, and taking the arm of her companion, she quitted the room with a slow and dignified step, very unlike the former precipitate retreat of Don Manuel, of whom she took no farther notice than by coldly bestowing on him a repelling 'beso á usted la mano.'

If for the rest of the night our hero wandered he knew not where, with no clear perception of anything; and if, on courting repose, he dreamt of being stabbed to the heart by a sabre-like nose, which, as he gasped his last, changed into a lovely ballet-dancer, who made his dying frame its stage, and indulged in pirouettes on the extreme tip of his own nasal feature; though his medical adviser might ascribe such unwholesome visions to indigestion, yet it is more pro. bable that the origin of his malady might be traced to the Lonja of Seville.

HOPE.
BY JESAIAS RUMPLER VOX LOEWENTAALT.*
Though ice and snow,

Let thunder roar,
Where'er we go,

And hailstorm pour
Both land and water cover,

Its ravage o'er the plain;
Soon early Spring

His exile past,
Will fragrance bring,

Returned at last,
Soon Winter will be over.

The sun will shine again.
The stormy wind

Why tremble still ?
Will shortly find

Jehovah's will
His surly reign is ended : .

Shall leave us not in sorrow;
We shall not fear

And dark to-day
His blast severe,

Shall fade away
By sunny warmth defended.

Before a bright to-morrow.
The troubled sea

Hope in belief,
Must tranquil be;

Nor cherish grief,
The ship, no longer driven

Trust rather in His power;
By angry wave,

Faint not, for He
Her crew shall save,

Our friend will be
Be such the will of Heaven.

In sorrow's lonely hour.
Lived about 1633.

Merrie England in the olden Time:

OR, PEREGRINATIONS WITH UNCLE TIM AND MR. BOSKY, OF LITTLE BRITAIN,

DRYSALTER.

BY GEORGE DANIEL.

• Dost thou think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and

ale ?'-SHAKSPEARE.

CHAPTER XVI.

My friends,'—continued Mr. Bosky, after an approving smack of the lips, Heaven bless his honour and Thanks, my kind mistress ! many happy returns of Saint Bartlemy ! had testified the ballad-singer's hearty relish and gratitude for the refreshing draught over which he had just suspended his well-seasoned nose,

- never may the mouths be stopped (except with a cup of good liquor) of these musical itinerants, from whose harmonious doggrel a curious history of men and manners might be gleaned, to humour the anti-social disciples of those devout publicans who substituted their discordant nasal twang for the solemn harmony of cathedral music; who altered St. Peter's phrase, “the Bishop of your souls," into "the Elder (!!) of your souls;" for "thy kingdom come," brayed “thy Commonwealth come !" and smuggled the water into their rumpuncheons, which they called wrestling with the spirit, and making the enemy weaker! •Show me the popular ballads of the time, and I will show you the temper and tastes of the people.”+ I delight in a

* "Thom: Brewer, my Mus: Servant, through his proneness to good fellowshippe having attained to a very rich and rubicund nose, being reproved by a friend for his too frequent use of strong drinkes and sacke, as very pernicious to that distemper and inflammation in his nose. Nay, faith,” says he, “if it will not endure sacke, it is no nose for me.”L'Estrange, No. 578. Mr. Jenkins.

+ Robin Conscience,' an ancient ballad (suggested by Lydgate's · London Lackpenny,') first printed at Edinburgh in 1683, gives a curious picture of London

Tradesmen, &c. Robin goes to Court, but receives cold welcome; thence to Westminster Hall. It were no great matter,' quoth the lawyers, 'if Conscience quite were knock'd on th' head.' He visits Smithfield, and discovers how the horse-coursers' artfully coerce their lame jades' to 'run and kick.' Then Long Lane, where the brokers hold conscience to be 'but nonsense.' The butter-women of Neugate Market, claw him, and the bakers brawl at him. At Pye Corner, a cook, glancing at him as the Devil did look o'er Lincoln,' threatens to spit him. The salesmen of Snow Hill would have stoned him; the fish-uives' of Turn-again Lane rail at him; the London Prentices of Fleet Street, with their What lack you, countryman?' scamper away from him. The haberdashers, that sell hats; the mercers and silk-men, that live in Paternoster Rowo,' all set upon him. He receives no better treatment in CheapsideA cheesemonger in Bread Street; "the lads that wish Lent were all the year in Fish Street ; a Merchant on the Exchange; the 'gallant girls,' whose brave shops of ware' were ' up stairs ;' and the drapers and poulterers of Gracechurch Street, to whom conscience was · Dutch or Spanish,' flout and jeer bim. A trip to Southwark, the King's Bench, and to the Blackman Street demireps, proves that conscience is nothing.' In St. George's Fields, ' rooking rasculs,' playing at nine pins,' tell him to 'prate on till he is hoarse.' Espying a windmill hard by, he hies to the miller, whose excuse for not dealing with him was, that he must steal out of every bushel “a peck, if not three gallons.' Conscience then trudges onto try what would befall i' the country,' whither we will not follow him.

Fiddler's Fling, and revel in the exhilarating perfume of those odoriferous garlands* gathered on sunshiny holidays and star-twinkling nights, bewailing how disappointed lovers go to sea, and how romantic young lasses follow them in blue jackets and trowsers! Nay, rather than the tuneful race should be extinct, expect to see me some night, with my paper lantern and cracked spectacles, singing you woeful tragedies to love-lorn maids and cobblers' apprentices.'t

And, carried away by his enthusiasm to the jesting, ballad-singing days of jolly Queen Bess, the Laureat of Little Britain, with a countenance bubbling with bilarity, warbled con spirito, as a probationary ballad for the Itinerantship (!)

THE KNIGHTING OF THE SIRLOIN.
Elizabeth Tudor her breakfast would make
On a pot of strong beer and a pound of beefsteak,
Ere six in the morning was tollid by the chimes-
O the days of Queen Bess, they were merry old times !
From bawking and hunting she rode back to town,
In time just to knock an ambassador down;
Toy'd, trifled, coquetted, then lopp'd off a head;
And at three score and ten danced a hornpipe to bed.
With Nicholas Bacon,t her councillor chief,
One day she was dining on English roast beef;
That very same day when her Majesty's Gracey
Had given Lord Essex a slap on the face.
My Lord Keeper stared, as the wine-cup she kiss'd,
At his sovereign lady's superlative twist,
And thought, thinking truly his larder would squeak,
He'd much rather keep her a day than a week.

*When I travelled,' says the Spectator, “I took a particular delight in hearing the songs and fables that are come from father to son, and are most in vogue among the common people of the countries through which I passed; for it is impossible that any. thing should be universally tasted and approved by a multitude (though they are only the rabble of a nation), which hath not in it some peculiar aptness to please and gratify the mind of man.'

Old tales, old songs, and an old jest,

Our stomachs easiliest digest.
* Listen to me, my lovly shepherd's joye,

And thou shalt heare, with mirth and muckle glee,
Some pretic tales, which, when I was a boye,

My toothlesse grandame oft hath told to mee.' + Love in a Tub, a comedy, by Sir George Etheridge.

# When Queen Elizabeth came to visit Sir Nicholas Bacon, Lord Keeper, at his new house at Redgrave, she observed, alluding to his corpulency, that he had built his house too lillle for him.

Not so, madaın,' answered he; but your Highness has made me too big for my house!

Ø The term your Grace' was addressed to the English Sovereign during the earlier Tudor reigns. In her latter years Elizabeth assumed the appellation of Majesty.' The following anecdote comprehends both titles. “As Queen Elizabeth passed the atreets in state, one in the crowde cried first, “ God blesse your Royall Majestie !" and then, “God blesse your Noble Grace!" "Why, how now," says the Queene, “ am I tenne groates worse than I was e'en now?". The value of the old Ryal' or 'Royall,' was 10s., that of the · Noble' 6s. 8d. The Emperor Charles the Fifth was the first crowned head that assumed the title of Majesty.'

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What call you this dainty, my very good lord ?'—,
The Loin,' – bowing low till his nose touch'd the board, -
• And-breath of our nostrils, and light of our eyes !*
Saving your presence, the ox was a prize.'

Unsheath me, mine host, thy Toledo so bright.
Delicious Sir Loin ! I do dub thee a knight.
Be thine at our banquets of honour the post;
While the Queen rules the realm, let Sir Loin rule the roast !
And 'tis, my Lord Keeper, our royal belief,
The Spaniard had beat, had it not been for beef!
Let him come if he dare! he shall sink ! he shall quake!
With a duck-ing, Sir Francis shall give him a Drake.
Thus, Don Whiskerandos, I throw thee my glove !
And now, merry minstrel, strike up “ Lighty Love."
Come, pursy Sir Nicholas, caper thy best-
Dick Tarlton shall finish our sports with a jest.'
The virginals sounded, Sir Nicholas puff'd,
And led forth her Highness, highheel’d and be-ruffd-
Automaton dancers to musical chimes !

O the days of Queen Bess, they were merry old times ! And now, leaving Nestor Nightingale to propitiate Uncle Timothy for this ballad-singing interpolation to his Merrie Mysteries, let us return and pay our respects, not to the dignified Count Haynes, the learned Doctor Haynes, but to plain Joe Haynes, the facetious, practical-joking DrollPlayer of Bartholomew Fair."

In the first year of King James the Second, t our hero set up a booth in Smithfield rounds, where he acted a new droll, called the Whore of Babylon, or the Devil and the Pope. Joe being sent for by Judge Pollixfen, and soundly rated for presuming to put the pontiff into such bad company, replied, that he did it out of respect to his Holiness; for whereas many ignorant people believed the Pope to be a blatant beast, with seven heads, ten horns and a long tail, like the Dragon of Wantley's according to the description of the Scotch Parsons ! he proved him to be a smart, comely

* Queen Elizabeth issued an edict commanding every artist who should paint the royal portrait to place her in a garden, with a full light upon her, and the painter to put any shadow in her face at his peril! Oliver Cromwell's injunctions to Sir Peter Lely were somewhat different. The knight was desired to transfer to his canvas all the bloiches and carbuncles that blossomed in the Protector's rocky physiognomy. Sir Joshua Reynolds,

-with fingers so lissom,

Girls start from his canvas, and ask us to kiss 'em!) having taken the liberty of mitigating the utter stupidity of one of his · Pot-boilers,' i. e. stupid faces, and receiving from the sitter's family the reverse of approbation, exclaimed, I have thrown a glimpse of meaning into this fool's phiz, and now none of his friends know him! At another time, having painted too true a likeness, it was threatened to be thrown upon his hands, when a polite note from the artist, stating that, with the additional appendage of a tail, it would do admirably for a monkey, for which he had a commission, and requesting to know if the portrait was to be sent home or not, produced the desired effect. The picture was paid for, and put into the fire!

† Antony, vulgo Tony Aston, a famous player, and one of Joe's contemporaries. The only portrait (a sorry one) of Tony extant, is a small oval in the frontispiece to the Fool's Opera, to which his comical harum-scarum autobiography is prefixed.

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