Beside, our losses have made us thrifty;

"A thousand guilders! Come take fifty!" X.

The piper's face fell, and he cried,

"No trifling! I can't wait, beside !

"I've promised to visit by dinner-time
"C Bagdat, and accept the prime

"Of the Head Cook's pottage, all he's rich in,
"For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen,
"Of a nest of scorpions no survivor-
"With him I proved no bargain-driver,

"With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver !

"And folks who put me in a passion

Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musicians cunning

Never gave the enraptured air)

There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling, at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running.

All the little boys and girls,

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,
And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,
Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

XIII.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood
As if they were changed into blocks of wood,
Unable to move a step, or cry

To the children merrily skipping by
And could only follow with the eye
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.
But how the Mayor was on the rack,
And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,
As the Piper turned from the High Street
To where the Weser rolled its waters

Right in the way of their sons and daughters!
However he turned from South to West,
And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed,
And after him the children pressed;
Great was the joy in every breast.

"He never can cross that mighty top!
"He's forced to let the piping drop,

"And we shall see our children stop!"

When lo, as they reached the mountain's side,
A wondrous portal opened wide,

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;

And the Piper advanced and the children followed.

And when all were in to the very last,

The door in the mountain side shut fast.

Did I say all? No! one was lame,

And could not dance the whole of the way;

And in after years, if you would blame

His sadness, he was used to say,

"It's dull in our town since my playmates left;

"I can't forget that I'm bereft

"Of all the pleasant sights they see,

"Which the Piper also promised me ;

"For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,

Joining the town and just at hand,

"Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,

"And flowers put forth a fairer hue,

"And everything was strange and new;

"The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,

"And their dogs outran our fallow deer,

"And honey-bees had lost their stings;

"And horses were born with eagle's wings;

"My lame foot would be speedily cured,

"And just as I became assured

"The music stopped and I stood still,

"And found myself outside the Hill,
"Left alone against my will,

"To go now limping as before,

"And never hear of that country more!"

Alas, alas for Hamelin !

XIV.

There came into many a burgher's pate
A text which says, that Heaven's Gate
Opes to the Rich at as easy rate
As the needle's eye takes a camel in !
The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South
To offer the Piper by word or mouth,

Wherever it was men's lot to find him,
Silver and gold to his heart's content,
If he'd only return the way he went,

And bring the children behind him.
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour,
And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,
They made a decree that lawyers never

Should think their records dated duly
If, after the day of the month and year,
These words did not as well appear,

"And so long after what happened here
"On the twenty-second of Ju❜ly,
"Thirteen hundred and seventy-six :"
And the better in memory to fix

The place of the Children's last retreat,
They called it, the Pied Piper's Street--
Where any one playing on pipe or tabor
Was sure for the future to lose his labour.
Nor suffered they Hostelry or Tavern

To shock with mirth a street so solemn;
But opposite the place of the cavern

They wrote the story on a column,
And on the great Church window painted
The same, to make the world acquainted
How their children were stolen away;
And there it stands to this very day.

And I must not omit to say

That in Transylvania there's a tribe
Of alien people that ascribe

The outlandish ways and dress

On which their neighbours lay such stress,

To their fathers and mother's having risen

Out of some subterraneous prison

Into which they were trepanned

Long time ago in a mighty band

Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,

Bnt how or why they don't understand.

XV.

So, Willy, let you and me be wipers

Of scores out with all men-especially pipers :

And, whether they pipe us free, from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.

[We present a passage on "Wit and Humour," from a work of one who was reputed the greatest wit of his day-the Reverend Sydney Smith. In 1804-5, and 6, Mr. Smith delivered a series of Lectures on Moral Philosophy, at the Royal Institution. These Lectures were only published in 1850, five years after the decease of their author, who was born in 1768.]

I wish, after all I have said about wit and humour, I could satisfy myself of the good effects upon the character and disposition; but I am convinced the probable tendency of both is, to corrupt the understanding and the heart. I am not speaking of wit where it is kept down by more serious qualities of mind, and thrown into the background of the picture; but where it stands out boldly and emphatically, and is evidently the master quality in any particular mind. Profound wits, though they are generally courted for the amusement they afford, are seldom respected for the qualities they possess. The habit of seeing things in a witty point of view, increases, and makes incursions from its own proper regions, upon principles and opinions which are ever held sacred by the wise and good. A witty man is a dramatic performer: in process of time, he can no more exist without applause, than he can exist without air; if his audience be small, or if they are inattentive, or if a new wit defrauds him of any portion of his admiration, it is all over with him-he sickens, and is extinguished. The applauses of the theatre on which he performs are so essential to him, that he must obtain them at the expense of decency, friendship, and good feeling. It must always be probable, too, that a mere wit is a person of light and frivolous understanding. His business is not to discover relations of ideas that are useful, and have a real influence upon life, but to discover the more trifling relations which are only amusing; he never looks at things with the naked eye of common sense, but is always gazing at the world through a Claude Lorraine glass,-discovering a thousand appearances which are created only by the instrument of inspection, and covering every object with factitious and unnaturai colours. In short, the character of a mere wit it is impossible to consider as very amiable, very respectable, or very safe. So far the world, in judging of wit where it has swallowed up all other qualities, judge aright; but I doubt if they are sufficiently indulgent to this faculty where it exists in a lesser degree, and as one out of many other ingredients of the understanding. There is an association in men's minds between dulness and wisdom, amusement and folly, which has a powerful influence in decision upon character, and is not overcome without considerable difficulty. The reason is, that the outward signs of a dull man and a wise man are the same, and so are the outward signs of a frivolous man and a witty man; and we are not to expect that the majority will be disposed to look to much more than the outward sign. I believe the fact to be, that wit is very seldom the only eminent quality which resides in the mind of any man; it is commonly accompanied by many other talents of every description, and ought to be considered as a strong evidence of a fertile and superior understanding. Almost all the great poets, orators, and statesmen of all times have been witty. Cæsar, Alexander, Aristotle, Descartes, and Lord Bacon were witty men; so were Cicero, Shakspere, Demosthenes, Boileau, Pope, Dryden, Fontenelle, Johnson, Waller, Cowley, Solon, Socrates, Dr. Johnson, and almost every man who has made a distinguished figure in the House of Commons. I have talked of the danger of wit: I do not mean by that to enter into common-place declamation against faculties because they are dangerous; -wit is dangerous, eloquence is dangerous, a talent for observation is dangerous, every thing is dangerous that has efficacy and vigour for its characteristics; nothing is safe but mediocrity. The business is, in conducting the understanding well, to

risk something; to aim at uniting things that are commonly incompatible. The meaning of an extraordinary man is, that he is eight men, not one man; that he has as much wit as if he had no sense, and as much sense as if he had no wit; that his conduct is as judicious as if he were the dullest of human beings, and his imagination as brilliant as if he were irretrievably ruined. But when wit is combined with sense and information; when it is softened by benevolence, and restrained by strong principle; when it is in the hands of a man who can use it and despise it, who can be witty and something much better than witty, who loves honour, justice, decency, good-nature, morality, and religion ten thousand times better than wit ;wit is then a beautiful and delightful part of our nature. There is no more interesting spectacle than to see the effects of wit upon the different characters of men; than to observe it expanding caution, relaxing dignity, unfreezing coldness, teaching age, and care, and pain, to smile,-extorting reluctant gleams of pleasure from melancholy, and charming even the pangs of grief. It is pleasant to observe how it penetrates through the coldness and awkwardness of society, gradually bringing men nearer together, and, like the combined force of wine and oil, giving every man a glad heart and shining countenance. Genuine and innocent wit, like this, is surely the flavour of the mind! Man could direct his ways by plain reason, and support his life by tasteless food; but God has given us wit, and flavour, and brightness, and laughter, and perfumes to enliven the days of man's pilgrimage, and to "charm his pained steps over the burning marle."

356.-THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

SAMUEL FERGUSON.

[We extract the following powerful lines from a little collection of "The Ballad Poetry of Ireland." Mr. Ferguson, who is an eminent barrister in Dublin, and who is distinguished for his literary attainments, has contributed several other pieces to this interesting volume.]

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged-'tis at a white heat now:
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased-tho' on the forge's brow
The little flames still fitfully play thro' the sable mound,
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round,
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bare-
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below,
And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe,

It rises, roars, rends all outright-O, Vulcan, what a glow!
'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright-the high sun shines not so!
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show;
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row
Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe.

As, quivering thro' his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow
Sinks on the anvil-all about the faces fiery grow.

"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out-leap out;" bang, bang the sledges go:
Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low-

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow,

The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strow

The ground around: at every bound the sweltering fountains flow,

And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!
Let's forge a goodly anchor-a bower thick and broad ;