Since that night, taking pains that it should not be bruited Abroad in society, I've instituted

A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough,

On this vital subject; and find, to my horror,

That the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising,
But that there exists the greatest distress
In our female community, solely arising

From this unsupplied destitution of dress,
Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air
With the pitiful wail of "Nothing to wear!"

Oh! ladies, dear ladies, the next time you meet,
Please trundle your hoops just outside Regent-street,
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride,
And the temples of trade which tower on each side,
To the alleys and lanes where misfortune and guilt
Their children have gathered, their city have built;
Where hunger and vice, like twin beasts of prey,

Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair;
Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt,
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt,
Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair
To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old,
Half starved and half naked, lie crouched from the cold,
See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet,
All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street;
Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell
From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor;
Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of hell,

As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door!
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare-
Spoiled children of Fashion—you've nothing to wear!
And oh! if perchance there should be a sphere,
Where all is made right which so puzzles us here,
Where the glare and the glitter, and the tinsel of time
Fade and die in the light of that region sublime,
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense,
Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence,
Must be clothed for the life and the service above
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love;
Oh! daughters of earth! foolish virgins, beware!
Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear!

THE VISION OF THE ALDERMAN.

HENRY S. LEIGH.

AN Alderman sat at a festive board,

Quaffing the blood-red wine,

And many a Bacchanal stave outpour'd
In praise of the fruitful vine.
Turtle and salmon and Strasbourg pie,
Pippins and cheese were there;

And the bibulous Alderman wink'd his eye,
For the sherris was old and rare.

But a cloud came o'er his gaze eftsoons,
And his wicked old orbs grew dim;
Then drink turn'd each of the silver spoons
To a couple of spoons for him.

He bow'd his head at the festive board,
By the gaslight's dazzling gleam:
He bow'd his head and he slept and snor'd,
And he dream'd a fearful dream.

Far, carried away on the wings of Sleep,
His spirit was onward borne,

Till he saw vast holiday crowds in Chepe
On a ninth November morn.

Guns were booming and bells ding-dong'd,
Ethiop minstrels play'd;

And still, wherever the burghers throng'd,
Brisk jongleurs drove their tradę.

Scarlet Sheriffs, the City's pride,
With a portly presence fill'd

The whole of the courtyard just outside
The hall of their ancient Guild.

And, in front of the central gateway there,

A marvellous chariot roll'd,

(Like gingerbread at a country fair

'Twas cover'd with blazing gold).

Was brought to the big stone gate;

And they begg'd that being to mount and ride

In that elegant coach of state.

But, oh! he was fat, so ghastly fat

Was that being of pomp and pride,

That, in spite of many attempts thereat,

He couldn't be push'd inside.

That being was press'd, but press'd in vain,
Till the drops bedew'd his cheek;

The gilded vehicle rock'd again,
And the springs began to creak.

The slumbering alderman groan'd a groan,
For a vision he seem'd to trace

Some horrible semblance to his own
In that being's purple face.

And, "Oh!" he cried, as he started up;
"Sooner than come to that,

Farewell for ever the baneful cup

And the noxious turtle fat!"

They carried him up the winding-stair;
They laid him upon the bed;

And they left him, sleeping the sleep of care,
With an ache in his nightcapp'd head.

(From "Carols of Cockayne," by permission of Messrs. Chatto & Windus.)

FATHER WILLIAM.

LEWIS CARROLL.

[See p. 528.]

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
66 And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head-
Do you think, at your age, it is right ?"

"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
"I feared it might injure the brain;

But now that I'm perfectly sure I have none,

Why, I do it again and again."

"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
And have grown most uncommonly fat;

Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door—
Pray, what is the reason of that ?"

"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
"I kept all my limbs very supple

By the use of this ointment- -one shilling the box-
Allow me to sell you a couple ?"

"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet;

Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-
Pray, how did you manage to do it ?"

"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;

And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw
Has lasted the rest of my life."

That your eye was as steady as ever;

Yet

you balanced an eel on the end of your noseWhat made you so awfully clever ?"

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father. "Don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!"

(By permission of the Author.)

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.
ROBERT SOUTHEY.

[See page 110.]

A WELL there is in the west country,
And a clearer one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the west country
But has heard of the well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm-tree stand beside,
And behind doth an ash-tree grow,
And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the well of St. Keyne,
Joyfully he drew nigh,

For from the cock-crow he had been travelling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he,

And he sat down upon the bank

Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the house hard by

At the well to fill his pail;

On the well-side he rested it,

And he bade the stranger hail.

"Now, art thou a bachelor, stranger ?" quoth he,
"For an if thou hast a wife,

The happiest draught thou hast drank this day,

That ever thou didst in thy life.

"Or hath thy good woman, if one thou hast,
Ever here in Cornwall been?

For an if she have, I'll venture my life,

She has drank of the well of St. Keyne."

"I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply,

"But that my draught should be the better for that, pray you answer me why ?”

I

"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time Drank of this crystal well,

And before the angels summon'd her,
She laid on the water a spell.

"If the husband of this gifted well
Shall drink before his wife,
A happy man thenceforth is he,

For he shall be master for life.

"But if the wife should drink of it first,

God help the husband then!"

The stranger stooped to the well of St. Keyne,
And drank of the water again.

"You drank of the well I warrant betimes ?"

He to the Cornish-man said:

But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head.

"I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done,
And left my wife in the porch,

But i' faith she had been wiser than me,
For she took a bottle to church."

ONLY SEVEN!

A PASTORAL STORY, AFTER WORDSWORTH.
HENRY S. LEIGH.