A friend 's like a ship, when, with music and song,
The tide of good fortune still speeds him along;
But see him when tempest hath left him a wreck,
And any mean billow can batter his deck!
Then give me the heart that true sympathy shows,
And clings to a messmate, whatever wind blows;
And says,
when aspersion, unanswered, grows cold,
Wait;
one story 's good till another is told!"

9. THE GREAT MUSICAL CRITIC. - Original translation.

ONCE on a time, the Nightingale, whose singing
Had with her praises set the forest ringing,
Consented at a concert to appear.

Of course, her friends all flocked to hear,
And with them many a critic, wide awake
To pick a flaw, or carp at a mistake!
She sang as only nightingales can sing;
And when she'd ended,

There was a general cry of "Bravo! splendid!"
While she, poor thing,

Abashed and fluttering, to her nest retreated,
Quite terrified to be so warmly greeted.
The Turkeys gobbled their delight; the Geese,
Who had been known to hiss at many a trial,
Gave this one no denial:

It seemed as if the applause would never cease.

But, 'mong the critics on the ground,

An Ass was present, pompous and profound,

Who said, "My friends, I'll not dispute the honor,
That you would do our little prima donna.
Although her upper notes are very shrill,
And she defies all method in her trill,
She has some talent, and, upon the whole,

With study, may some cleverness attain.

Then, her friends tell me, she's a virtuous soul;

But but-"

66

But," growled the Lion, "by my mane,

I never knew an Ass who did not strain

To qualify a good thing with a but!"

"Nay," said the Goose, approaching, with a strut,
"Don't interrupt him, sire; pray let it pass;
The Ass is honest, if he is an Ass!"

"I was about," said Long Ear, "to remark,

That there is something lacking in her whistle; -
Something magnetic,-

To waken chords and feelings sympathetic,

1

And kindle in the breast a spark

Like-like, for instance, a good juicy thistle."
The assembly tittered, but the Fox, with gravity,
Said, at the Lion winking,

"Our learned friend, with his accustomed suavity,
Has given his opinion, without shrinking;
But, to do justice to the Nightingale,

He should inform us, as no doubt he will,
What sort of music 't is that does not fail
His sensibilities to rouse and thrill."

"Why," said the critic, with a look potential,
And pricking up his ears, delighted much

At Reynard's tone and manner deferential,

Why, Sir, there's nothing can so deeply touch

My feelings, and so carry me away,

As a fine, mellow, ear-inspiring bray."

"I thought so," said the Fox, without a pause;

"As far as you're concerned, your judgment 's true;

You do not like the Nightingale, because

The Nightingale is not an Ass like you!"

10. DRAMATIC STYLES. - Blackwood's Mag.

-

In dramatic writing, the difference between the Grecian and Roman styles is very great. When you deal with a Greek subject, you must be very devout, and have unbounded reverence for Diana of the Ephesians. You must also believe in the second sight, and be as solemn, calm, and passionless, as the ghost of Hamlet's father. Never descend to the slightest familiarity, nor lay off the stilts for a moment; and, far from calling a spade a spade, call it

That sharp instrument

With which the Theban husbandman lays bare

The breast of our great mother.

The Roman, on the other hand, may occasionally be jocular, but always warlike. One is like a miracle-play in church; the other, a tableau vivant in a camp. If a Greek has occasion to ask his sweetheart "if her mother knows she's out," and "if she has sold her mangle yet," he says:

Menestheus. Cleanthe!

Cleanthe. My Lord!

Men. Your mother, --your kind, excellent mother, —
She who hung o'er your couch in infancy,

And felt within her heart the joyous pride

Of having such a daughter, does she know,
Sweetest Cleanthe! that you've left the shade
Of the maternal walls?

Cle. She does, my Lord.

Men. And, but I scarce can ask the question,
I last beheld her, 'gainst the whitened wall

when

Stood a strong engine, flat, and broad, and heavy;
Its entrail stones, and moved on mighty rollers,
Rendering the crispéd web as smooth and soft
As whitest snow. - That engine, sweet Cleanthe, -
Fit pedestal for household deity, -

Larés and old Penātés; - has she 't still?
Or for gold bribes has she disposed of it?

I fain would know; - pray tell me, is it sold?

The Roman goes quicker to work:

Tell me, my Julia, does your mother know
You're out? and has she sold her mangle yet!

The Composite, or Elizabethan, has a smack of both :

Conradin. Ha! Celia here!

Thou hast a mother, child?
Celia. Most people have, Sir.

Come hither, pretty one.

-

Con. I' faith thou 'rt sharp, thou hast a biting wit;
But does this mother, this epitome

Of what all other people are possessed of,

Knows she thou 'rt out, and gadding?

Cel. No, not gadding!

Out, sir; she knows I'm out.

Con. She had a mangle;

-

Faith, 't was a huge machine, and smoothed the web
Like snow. I've seen it oft; it was, indeed,

A right good mangle.

Cel. Then thou 'rt not in thought

To buy it, else thou would not praise it so.

Con. A parlous child! keen as the cold North wind,
Yet light as Zephyrs. No, no; I'd not buy it;

But has she sold it, child?

11. THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER.- Horace Smith.

IN Broad-street buildings (on a winter night),
Snug by his parlor fire, a gouty wight

Sat, all alone, with one hand rubbing

His feet, rolled up in fleecy hose;

With t'other he'd beneath his nose

The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing,
He noted all the sales of hops,

Ships, shops, and slops,

Gums, galls, and groceries, ginger, gin,

Tar, tallow, tumeric, turpentine, and tin;

When, lo! a decent personage in black

Entered, and most politely said,

"Your footman, Sir, has gone his nightly track
To the King's Head,

And left your door ajar, which I
Observed in passing by ;

And thought it neighborly to give you notice."
"Ten thousand thanks!" the gouty man replied;
"You see, good Sir, how to my chair I'm tied;
Ten thousand thanks!· how very few get,

In time of danger,

Such kind attentions from a stranger!
Assuredly that footman's throat is

Doomed to a final drop at Newgate;
And he well knows (the heedless elf!)
That there's no soul at home, except myself."
"Indeed!" replied the stranger, looking grave
"Then he's a double knave:

He knows that rogues and thieves, by scores,
Nightly beset unguarded doors;

And see, how easily might one
Of these domestic foes,

Even beneath your very nose,
Perform his knavish tricks:
Enter your room, as I have done;

Blow out your candles, thus, and thus, -
Pocket your silver candlesticks,

And walk off, — thus ! ”

So said, so done; he made no more remark,
Nor waited for replies,

But marched off with his prize,

Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark!

12. THE VICTIM OF REFORM.

Blackwood's Magazine. Adapted.

A MONKEY, once, whom fate had led to list
To all the rancorous spouting and contention
Of a convention

For every one's emancipation

From every thing and body in creation,
Determined in the good work to assist.

So, with some curious notions in his noddle,

And conning portions of the precious twaddle,
Which, in the form of resolutions,

Had struck at all existing institutions,

He strode forth with a step that seemed designed

To represent the mighty march of mind.

Not far he'd wandered, when his indignation
Was roused to see

A great menagerie,

Where birds and beasts of every race and station,

All free-born animals, were kept confined,

Caged and locked up in durance vile!

It was a sight to waken all his bile.

The window of the building stood ajar;
It was not far,

Nor, like Parnassus, very hard to climb;
The hour was verging on the supper time,

And many a growl was sent through many a bar.
Meanwhile, Pug scrambled upward, like a tar,
And soon crept in,

Unnoticed in the hunger-telling din.
Full of his new emancipating zeal,

Zounds! how it made him chafe,

To look around upon this brute Bastille,
And see the King of creatures in a safe!
The desert's denizen in one small den,
Enduring all oppression's bitterest ills;
A bear in bars unbearable; and then,
The fretful porcupine, with all its quills,
Imprisoned in a pen!

A tiger limited to four feet ten;
And, still worse lot, a leopard to one spot!

Pug went above, a solitary mounter,

-

Up gloomy stairs, and saw a pensive group Of hapless fowls, cranes, vultures, owls,

In fact, it was a sort of poultry-counter,

Where feathered prisoners were doomed to droop:
Here sat an eagle, forced to make a stoop,

Not from the skies, but his impending roof;
And there, aloof,

A pining ostrich, moping in a coop;
With other samples of the bird creation
All caged against their wills,

And cramped in such a space, the longest bills
Were plainly bills of least accommodation;
In truth, it was a scene more foul than fair.

His temper little mended,

Pug from his bird-cage walk at last descended
Unto the lion and the elephant,

His bosom in a pant

To see all Nature's free list thus suspended,
And beasts deprived of what she had intended.
They could not even prey in their own way,

A hardship always reckoned quite prodigious. Thus he revolved, and finally resolved

To give them freedom, civil and religious; And first, with stealthy paw, Pug hastened to withdraw The bolt that kept the King of brutes within.

"Now, Monarch of the forest, thou shalt win

Precious enfranchisement,

thy bolts are undone;

Thou art no longer a degraded creature, But loose to roam with liberty and nature; Free to search all the jungles about London."