And lofty trees, like winged things, flit by for evermore; Plainly--but with no prophet sense--I heard the sullen sound, The torrent's voice--and felt the mist, like death-sweat gathering round.

Oh agony! Oh life! My home! and those that made it sweet: Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet.

With frightful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the dizzy edge, Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge to ledge, From crag to crag,--in speechless pain,--from midnight deep to deep; I did not die, but anguish stunn'd my senses into sleep.

How long entranced, or whither dived, no clue I have to find: At last the gradual light of life came dawning o'er my mind; And through my brain there thrill'd a cry,--a cry as shrill as birds Of vulture or of eagle kind, but this was set to words: "It's Edgar Huntley[32] in his cap and nightgown, I declares!

He's been a-walking in his sleep, and pitch'd all down the stairs!"

[Footnote 32: "Edgar Huntley, the Somnambulist," was the title of a popular novel of the time.]

OUR VILLAGE.

BY A VILLAGER.

Our village, that's to say, not Miss Mitford's village, but our village of Bullock Smithy, Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders, and a withy; And in the middle there's a green, of about not exceeding an acre and a half; It's common to all and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf!

Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a similar sort of common law lease, And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese.

Of course the green's cropt very close, and does famous for bowling when the little village boys play at cricket; Only some horse, or pig, or cow, or great jackass, is sure to come and stand right before the wicket.

There's fifty-five private houses, let alone barns and workshops, and pigsties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds, With plenty of public-houses--two Foxes, one Green Man, three Bunch of Grapes, one Crown, and six King's Heads.

The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for love or money can raise A postillion, a blue jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and a ramshackle "neat post-chaise!"

There's one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be their ranks in life or their degrees, Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing cold, a little Methodist Chapel of Ease; And close by the churchyard, there's a stone-mason's yard, that when the time is seasonable Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns and cherubims, very low and reasonable.

There's a cage, comfortable enough; I've been in it with Old Jack Jeffery and Tom Pike; For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or anything else you like.

I can't speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the upright post; But the pound is kept in repair for the sake of Cob's horse as is always there almost.

There's a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his way, Old Joe Bradley, Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes horses very badly.

There's a shop of all sorts that sells everything, kept by the widow of Mr. Task; But when you go there it's ten to one she's out of everything you ask.

You'll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the old sugary cask: There are six empty houses, and not so well papered inside as out, For bill-stickers won't beware, but stick notices of sales and election placards all about.

That's the Doctor's with a green door, where the garden pots in the window is seen; A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a red geranium, and a teaplant with five black leaves, and one green.

As for hollyhocks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and jasmines, you may go and whistle; But the Tailor's front garden grows two cabbages, a dock, a ha'porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle!

There are three small orchards--Mr. Busby's the school-master's is the chief-- With two pear trees that don't bear; one plum, and an apple that every year is stripped by a thief.

There's another small day-school too, kept by the respectable Mrs. Gaby, A select establishment for six little boys, and one big, and four little girls and a baby; There's a rectory with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that never smokes, For the Rector don't live on his living like other Christian sort of folks; There's a barber's once a week well filled with rough black-bearded, shock-headed churls, And a window with two feminine men's heads, and two masculine ladies in false curls; There's a butcher's, and a carpenter's, and a plumber's, and a small greengrocer's, and a baker, But he won't bake on a Sunday; and there's a sexton that's a coal merchant besides, and an undertaker; And a toyshop, but not a whole one, for a village can't compare with the London shops; One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout's balls, and the other sells malt and hops, And Mrs. Brown in domestic economy not to be a bit behind her betters, Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler, lives in it herself, and it's the post-office for letters.

Now I've gone through all the village--ay, from end to end, save and except one more house, But I haven't come to that--and I hope I never shall--and that's the Village Poor House!

A PUBLIC DINNER.

"Sit down and fall to, said the Barmecide."

_Arabian Nights_.

At seven you just nick it, Give card--get wine ticket; Walk round through the Babel, From table to table, To find--a hard matter-- Your name in a platter; Your wish was to sit by Your friend Mr. Whitby, But stewards' assistance Has placed you at distance, And, thanks to arrangers, You sit amongst strangers, But too late for mending; Twelve sticks come attending A stick of a Chairman, A little dark spare man, With bald, shining nob, 'Mid committee swell-mob; In short, a short figure,-- You thought the Duke bigger.

Then silence is wanted, _Non Nobis_ is chanted; Then Chairman reads letter, The Duke's a regretter, A promise to break it, But chair, he can't take it; Is grieved to be from us, But sends friend Sir Thomas, And what is far better, A cheque in the letter.

Hear! hear! and a clatter, And there ends the matter.

Now soups come and fish in, And C---- brings a dish in; Then rages the battle, Knives clatter, forks rattle, Steel forks with black handles, Under fifty wax candles; Your soup-plate is soon full, You sip just a spoonful.

Mr. Roe will be grateful To send him a plateful; And then comes the waiter, "Must trouble for tater"; And then you drink wine off With somebody--nine off; Bucellas made handy, With Cape and bad Brandy, Of East India Sherry, That's very hot--very!

You help Mr. Myrtle, Then find your mock-turtle Went off while you lingered, With waiter light-fingered.

To make up for gammon, You order some salmon, Which comes to your fauces, With boats without sauces.

You then make a cut on Some lamb big as mutton; And ask for some grass too, But that you must pass too; It served the first twenty, But toast there is plenty.

Then, while lamb gets coldish, A goose that is oldish-- At carving not clever-- You're begged to dissever, And when you thus treat it, Find no one will eat it.

So, hungry as glutton, You turn to your mutton, But--no sight for laughter-- The soup it's gone after.

Mr. Green then is very Disposed to take Sherry; And then Mr. Nappy Will feel very happy; And then Mr. Conner Requests the same honor; Mr. Clark, when at leisure, Will really feel pleasure; Then waiter leans over To take off a cover From fowls, which all beg of, A wing or a leg of; And while they all peck bone, You take to a neck-bone, But even your hunger Declares for a younger.

A fresh plate you call for, But vainly you bawl for; Now taste disapproves it, No waiter removes it.

Still hope, newly budding, Relies on a pudding; But critics each minute Set fancy agin it-- "That's queer Vermicelli."

"I say, Vizetelly, There's glue in that jelly."

"Tarts bad altogether; That crust's made of leather."

"Some custard, friend Vesey?"

"No--batter made easy."

"Some cheese, Mr. Foster?"

"--Don't like single Glo'ster."

Meanwhile, to top table, Like fox in the fable, You see silver dishes, With those little fishes, The whitebait delicious, Borne past you officious; And hear rather plainish A sound that's champagnish, And glimpse certain bottles Made long in the throttles; And sniff--very pleasant!

Grouse, partridge, and pheasant.

And see mounds of ices For patrons and vices, Pine-apple, and bunches Of grapes for sweet munches, And fruits of all virtue That really desert you; You've nuts, but not crack ones, Half empty and black ones; With oranges, sallow-- They can't be called yellow-- Some pippins well-wrinkled, And plums almond-sprinkled; Some rout cakes, and so on, Then with business to go on: Long speeches are stutter'd, And toasts are well butter'd, While dames in the gallery, All dressed in fallallery, Look on at the mummery, And listen to flummery.

Hip, hip! and huzzaing, And singing and saying, Glees, catches, orations, And lists of donations, Hush! a song, Mr. Tinney-- "Mr. Benbow, one guinea; Mr. Frederick Manual, One guinea--and annual."

Song--Jocky and Jenny, "Mr. Markham, one guinea."

"Have you all filled your glasses?"

Here's a health to good lasses.

The subscription still skinny-- "Mr. Franklin--one guinea."

Franklin looks like a ninny; "Mr, Boreham, one guinea-- Mr. Blogg, Mr. Finney, Mr. Tempest--one guinea, Mr. Merrington--twenty,"

Rough music, in plenty.

Away toddles Chairman, The little dark spare man, Not sorry at ending, With white sticks attending, And some vain Tomnoddy Votes in his own body To fill the void seat up, And get on his feet up, To say, with voice squeaking, "Unaccustomed to speaking."

Which sends you off seeking Your hat, number thirty-- No coach--very dirty.

So hungry and fever'd Wet-footed, spoilt-beaver'd, Eyes aching in socket, Ten pounds out of pocket, To Brook Street the Upper You haste home to supper.

SALLY SIMPKIN'S LAMENT;

OR, JOHN JONES'S KIT-CAT-ASTROPHE.

"He left his body to the sea, And made a shark his legatee."

BRYAN AND PERENNE.

"Oh! what is that comes gliding in, And quite in middling haste?

It is the picture of my Jones, And painted to the waist.

"It is not painted to the life, For where's the trowsers blue?

Oh Jones, my dear!--Oh dear! my Jones, What is become of you?"

"Oh! Sally dear, it is too true,-- The half that you remark Is come to say my other half Is bit off by a shark!

"Oh! Sally, sharks do things by halves, Yet most completely do!

A bite in one place soems enough, But I've been bit in two.

"You know I once was all your own, But now a shark must share!

But let that pass--for now, to you I'm neither here nor there."

"Alas! death has a strange divorce Effected in the sea, It has divided me from you, And even me from me!