Some minutes elapsed since he enter'd the flood,

Ere his heels touch'd the bottom, and stuck in the mud.

But oh! what a sight

Met the eyes of the knight,

When he stood in the depth of the stream bolt upright!

A grand stalactite hall,

Like the cave of Fingal,

As the one he had seen by the light of the moon,

And lisp'd, while a soft smile attended each sentence,

"Sir Rupert, I'm happy to make your acquaintance;

My name is Lurline,

And the ladies you've seen,

All do me the honour to call me their Queen; I'm delighted to see you, sir, down in the Rhine here,

and small

Came thronging around him, regardless

of danger,

And seemed all agog for a peep at the

stranger.

Their figures and forms to describe, language fails

They'd such very odd heads, and exceeding odd tails;

Of their genus or species a sample to gain,

You would ransack all Hungerford market in vain ;

E'en the famed Mr Myers Would scarcely find buyers, Though hundreds of passengers doubt. less would stop

To stare, were such monsters expos'd in his shop.

But little reck'd Rupert these queerlooking brutes,

Or the efts and the newts That crawled up his boots, For a sight beyond any of which I've

made mention,

In a moment completely absorb'd his

attention.

A huge crystal bath, which, with water, far clearer

Than George Robins's filters, or Thorpe's (which are dearer),

Have ever distill'd,

To the summit was fill'd,

Of

dine here."

The Knight blush'd, and bow'd, As he ogled the crowd subaqueous beauties, then answer'd aloud:

"Ma'am, you do me much honour,-I cannot express

The delight I shall feel-if you'll pardon my dress

May I venture to say, when a gentleman jumps

In the river at midnight for want of 'the dumps,'

He rarely puts on his knee-breeches and pumps;

If I could but have guess'd—what I sensibly feel

Your politeness-I'd not have come en dishabille,

But have put on my silk tights in lieu of my steel."

Quoth the lady, " Dear sir, no apologies, pray,

You will take our 'pot-luck' in the family way;

We can give you a dish

Of some decentish fish,

And our water's thought fairish; but here in the Rhine,

I can't say we pique ourselves much on our wine."

The Knight made a bow more profound than before,

room door,

And told her outright

How that he, a young Knight,

Had never been last at a feast or a fight; But that keeping good cheer Every day in the year,

And drinking neat wines all the same as small beer,

Had exhausted his rent,
And, his money all spent,

How he borrow'd large sums at two hundred per cent;

How they follow'd-and then, The once civilest of men, Messrs Howard and Gibbs, made him bitterly rue it he

Had ever raised money by way of annuity; And, his mortgages being about to foreclose,

How he jump'd in the river to finish his woes!

Lurline hung her head, Turn'd pale, and then red, Growing faint at this sudden proposal to wed,

As though his abruptness, in " popping the question"

So soon after dinner, disturb'd her digestion.

Then, averting her eye,

With a lover-like sigh,

"You are welcome," she murmur'd, in tones most bewitching,

"To every utensil I have in my kitchen!" Upstarted the Knight,

Half mad with delight,

Round her finely-form'd waist
He immediately placed

One arm, which the lady most closely embraced,

Of her lily-white fingers the other made capture,

And he press'd his adored to his bosom with rapture.

"And, oh!" he exclaimed, "let them go catch my skiff, I

'll be home in a twinkling, and back in a jiffy,

Nor one moment procrastinate longer my journey

Than to put up the banns, and kick out the attorney."

One kiss to her lip, and one squeeze to her hand,

And Sir Rupert already was half way to land,

For a sour-visaged Triton,
With features would frighten

Old Nick, caught him up in one hand,

though no light one,

Sprang up through the waves, popp'd him into his funny,

Which some others already had half filled with money;

In fact, 'twas so heavily laden with ore And pearls, 'twas a mercy he got it to shore;

But Sir Rupert was strong, And, while pulling along, Still he heard, faintly sounding, the water-nymphs' song.

LAY OF THE NAIADS.

"Away, away! to the mountain's brow, Where the castle is darkly frowning; And the vassals, all in a goodly row, Weep for their lord a-drowning! Away! away! to the steward's room, Where law with its wig and robe is; Throw us out John Doe, and Richard Roe,

And sweetly we'll tickle their tobies!"

The unearthly voices scarce had ceas'd their yelling,

When Rupert reach'd his old baronial dwelling.

What rejoicing was there!
How the vassals did stare!

The old housekeeper put a clean shirt down to air,

For she saw by her lamp

That her master's was damp,

And she feared he'd catch cold, and lumbago, and cramp;

But, scorning what she did, The Knight never heeded Wet jacket or trowsers, nor thought of repining,

Since their pockets had got such a delicate lining.

But oh what dismay

Fill'd the tribe of Ca Sa,

When they found he'd the cash, and intended to pay !

Away went "cognovits,"

"bills,"

"bonds," and "escheats,"Rupert cleared off all scores, and took proper receipts.

Now no more he sends out

For pots of brown stout,

Or schnaps, but resolves to do henceforth without,

Abjure from this hour all excess and ebriety,

Enrol himself one of a Temp'rance Society,

All riot eschew,

Begin life anew,

Nay, to strengthen him more in his new

mode of life,

He boldly determines to take him a wife.

Now, many would think that the Knight, from a nice sense

Of honour, should put Lurline's name in the license,

And that, for a man of his breeding and quality,

To break faith and troth,
Confirm'd by an oath,

Is not quite consistent with rigid morality; But whether the nymph was forgot, or he thought her

From her essence scarce wife, but at best wife-and-water,

And declined as unsuited
A bride so diluted—

Be this as it may,

He, I'm sorry to say,

(For, all things consider'd, I own 'twas a rum thing,)

Made proposals in form to Miss Una Von -something,

(Her name has escaped me,) sole heiress,

and niece

To a highly respectable Justice of Peace.

"Thrice happy's the wooing That's not long a-doing!" So much time is saved in the billing and cooing

The ring is now bought, the white favours, and gloves,

And all the et cetera which crown people's loves;

A magnificent bride-cake comes home from the baker,

And lastly appears, from the German Long Acre,

That shaft which the sharpest in all Cupid's quiver is,

A new plum-colour'd coach, and rich pompadour liveries.

"Twas a comely sight

To behold the Knight,

With his beautiful bride, dress'd all in white,

And the bride-maids fair with their long lace veils,

As they all walk'd up to the altar rails, While nice little boys, the incense dis

With a gracious air, and a smiling look, Mess John had opened his awful book, And had read so far as to ask if to wed he meant?

And if " he knew any just cause or impediment?"

pew!

shook!!!

together;

What she said to the nice little boys in

white clothes,

Oh, nobody mentions, for nobody knows; For the roof tumbled in, and the walls tumbled out,

And the folks tumbled down, all confusion and rout,

The rain kept on pouring, The flood kept on roaring, The billows and water-nymphs roll'd more and more in;

Ere the close of the day

All was clean wash'd away

One only survived who could hand down the news,

A little old woman that open'd the pews; She was borne off, but stuck,

By the greatest good luck,

wild stream in ;

In vain, all the week,

Did the fishermen seek

For the bodies, and poke in each cranny and creek;

In vain was their search
After ought in the church,

Of the waters was heard as they reach'd the church door,

While, high on the first wave that roll'd in, was seen,

Riding proudly, the form of the angry Lurline;

And all might observe, by her glance fierce and stormy,

She was stung by the spretæ in juriâ forma.

What she said to the Knight, what she said to the bride,

perhaps a few perch;

The Humane Society
Tried a variety

Of methods, and brought down, to drag for the wrecks, tackles,

But they only fish'd up the clerk's tortoise-shell spectacles.

MORAL.

This tale has a moral. Ye youths, oh,

beware

Of liquor, and how you run after the fair!

Shun playing at shorts-avoid quarrels and jars―

And don't take to smoking those nasty cigars.

Let no run of bad luck, or despair for some Jewess-eyed

Damsel, induce you to contemplate suicide.

Don't sit up much later than ten or eleven

Be up in the morning by half after seven. Keep from flirting-nor risk, warn'd by Rupert's miscarriage,

An action for breach of a promise of marriage;

Nor finger your friend's silver dishes and plates,

Lest you too, like him, should be "shewn up" by Yates;

And, to sum up the whole, in the shortest phrase I know,

her side,

OF THE RHINO !

My cousin Nicholas was the liveliest, the sprightliest, the handsomest, and the cleverest little fellow in the world-so said every body, (at least every body that visited at the Hall,) and," what every body says must be true." If there were any persons in the neighbouring village of a contrary opinion, they were of that description which usually comes under the designation of Nobody-the Attorney, the Parson, and the Doctor, for instance; besides, as my cousin seldom came in contact with either of these worthies, but his genius effervesced in some juvenile prank at their expense, their opinions were naturally prejudiced, and, of course, the less to be relied on. As to my uncle, he looked upon this issue of his loins with mingled love and reverence and frequently swore (for my uncle had contracted a bad habit of anathematizing) that there was more wit in Nick's little finger than in the entire corporeal economy of the whole parish, including its churchwardens and overseer. Whether my uncle proceeded upon any particular hypothesis in thus determining the locality of my cousin's talents, must remain a matter of conjecture; to those who favour the supposition that he did, it may afford no slight confirmation to observe, that Master Nicholas's jokes being invariably of a practical description, it is far from improbable that the seat of wit, in his particular instance -for one would not rashly oppugn a system in the abstract-was rather in his fingers' ends than in the more recondite recesses of the pineal gland.

To those who maintain that my uncle never formed an hypothesis in his life, I have nothing to say. This exuberance of fancy was forever exhibiting itself in a variety of shapes, and usually more to the surprise than delectation of those who witnessed its career. Indeed, it must be confessed, that if wit, like all other good qualities, be, according to Aristotle's idea, a medium between two opposite extremes, my

cousin's certainly inclined rather to the Hyperbole than the Ellipsis, inasmuch as that it seldom happened but that, in the opinion of some one or other, he " carried the joke a little too far."

The education received by this hopeful heir of an ancient family was commensurate with his abilities, and, in its earlier stages at least, admirably adapted to bring talents like his to their full maturity. His father, Sir Oliver Bullwinkle, or, as he loved to write it, Bolevaincle, was the highest blossom of the genealogical tree which hung in his study, (a room so designated, a non studendo,) and shot up in a variety of luxuriant and overhanging branches from a root coeval with the Norman Conqueror, among whose more immediate attendants Sir Roger de Bolevaincle was numbered. This worthy Paladin performed, it seems, such good service at the battle of Hastings and elsewhere, that he was, like many others, his brave compeers, rewarded by his victorious master, when at length securely seated on the throne of these realms, with the grant of a castle and lordship, the forfeited fief of some outlawed Saxon noble. Such, at least, was the account frequently given by Sir Oliver to that most patient of auditors, Captain Pyefinch; and if the name of his illustrious ancestor, through some unaccountable neglect, is not to be found either in Domesday Book, or the Roll of Battle Abbey, so trifling a circumstance can scarcely impeach the credit due to an historical fact, in all other respects so well authenticated. The castle, it is true, had long since mouldered into dust, "perierant etiam ruinæ," nor did a stone remain to tell on what precise spot of the domain the feodal habitation of the valiant and venerated Roger had existed, or whether it had ever existed at all. Not so with the estate, the "dirty acres," as Sir Lucius somewhat disparagingly calls them, the rich arable land and the luxuriant pastures, the majestic oaks, many of which might,