Hey! the good St. Anthony boggled his eyes
Över the holy book:

Ho ho! at the corners they 'gan to rise,
For he knew that the thing had a lovely guise,
And he could not choose but look.

There are many devils that walk this world,—
Devils large, and devils small;

Devils so meagre, and devils so stout;
Devils with horns, and devils without;
Sly devils that go with their tails upcurled,
Bold devils that carry them quite unfurled;
Meek devils, and devils that brawl;
Serious devils, and laughing devils;
Imps for churches, and imps for revels;
Devils uncouth, and devils polite;

Devils black, and devils white;

Devils foolish, and devils wise;

But a laughing woman, with two bright eyes,

Is the worsest devil of all.

T. H.S.

THE NEW YEAR.

Lines on George Cruikshank's Illustration of January, in the Comic Almanack

for 1838.

A GREAT philosopher art thou, George Cruikshank,
In thy unmatched grotesqueness! Antic dance,
Wine, mirth, and music, welcome thy New Year,
Who makes her entry as a radiant child,
With smiling face, in holiday apparel,
Bearing a cornucopiæ, crowned and clustered
With all the elements of festal joy :

All smiles and promises. But looking closely
Upon that smiling face, 'tis but a mask ;

Fitted so well, it almost seems a face;

But still a mask. What features lurk beneath,

The rolling months will show. Thy Old Year passes,—

Danced out in mockery by the festive band,

A faded form, with thin and pallid face,
In spectral weeds; her mask upon the ground,
Her Amalthæa's horn reversed, and emptied
Of all good things,-not even hope remaining.
Such will the New Year be: that smiling mask
Will fall; to some how soon to many later:
At last to all! The same transparent shade
Of wasted means and broken promises
Will make its exit: and another Year

Will enter masked and smiling, and be welcomed
With minstrelsy and revelry, as this is.

WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR. BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON SOME POINTS.

THE night was bitter cold; the snow lay upon the ground frozen into a hard thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into by-ways and corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad, which, as if expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it savagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies, scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fire, and thank God they were at home; and for the homeless starving wretch to lay him down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare streets at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may, can hardly open them in a more bitter world.

Such was the aspect of out-of-door affairs when Mrs. Corney, the matron of the workhouse to which our readers have been already introduced as the birth-place of Oliver Twist, set herself down before a cheerful fire in her own little room, and glanced with no small degree of complacency at a small round table, on which stood a tray of corresponding size, furnished with all necessary materials for the most grateful meal that matrons enjoy. In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to solace herself with a cup of tea and as she glanced from the table to the fireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles was singing a small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently increased, so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled.

"Well," said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking reflectively at the fire, "I'm sure we have all on us a great deal to be grateful for-a great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!"

Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental blindness of paupers who did not know it, and, thrusting a silver spoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea.

How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The black teapot, being very small and easily filled, over while Mrs. Corney was moralizing, and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney's hand.

ran

VOL. III.

I

"Drat the pot !" said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on the hob; "a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups! What use is it of to anybody ?-except," said Mrs. Corney pausing,-" except to a poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!"

With these words the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more resting her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small teapot and the single cup had awakened in her mind sad recollections of Mr. Corney, (who had not been dead more than five-and-twenty years,) and she was overpowered. "I shall never get another!" said Mrs. Corney pettishly, 66 I shall never get another-like him !"

Whether this remark bore reference to the husband or the teapot is uncertain. It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it as she spoke, and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first cup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room door.

"Oh, come in with you!" said Mrs. Corney sharply. "Some of the old women dying, I suppose; -they always die when I'm at meals. Don't stand there, letting the cold air in, don't! What's amiss now, eh ?"

"Nothing, ma'am, nothing," replied a man's voice.

"Dear me !" exclaimed the matron in a much sweeter tone, "is that Mr. Bumble?"

"At your service, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping outside to rub his shoes clean, and shake the snow off his coat, and who now made his appearance, bearing the cockedhat in one hand and a bundle in the other. "Shall I shut the

door, ma'am ?"

The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any impropriety in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble with closed doors. Mr. Bumble, taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold himself, shut it without farther permission. "Hard weather, Mr. Bumble," said the matron.

"Hard, indeed, ma'am," replied the beadle. " Anti-porochial weather this, ma'am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney,-we have given away a matter of twenty quartern loaves, and a cheese and a half, this very blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented."

"Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?" said the matron, sipping her tea.

"Why,

"When, indeed, ma'am !" rejoined Mr. Bumble. here's one man that, in consideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and a good pound of cheese, full weight. Is he grateful, ma'am,-is he grateful? Not a copper farthing's worth of it! What does he do, ma'am, but ask for a few coals, if it's only a pocket-handkerchief full, he says! Coals!-what would he do with coals?-Toast his cheese with 'em, and then come back for more. That's the way with these