For howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found, Drive forward you must, since there's no turning round. But though 'tis so long, it is not very wide, For two are the most that together can ride; And even there 'tis a chance but they get in a pother, And jostle and cross, and run foul of each other. Oft Poverty greets them with mendicant looks Then the banks are so high, both to left hand and right, But thinks I too these banks within which we are pent In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows, And the evergreen love of a virtuous wife Smooths the roughness of care-cheers the winter of life. Then long be the journey, and narrow the way; TOBY TOSSPOT. GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER. ALAS! what pity 'tis that regularity, But there are swilling wights in London town, By borrowing too largely of the moon. He work'd with sinuosities along, Like Monsieur Corkscrew,-worming through a cork : Not straight, like Corkscrew's proxy, stiff Don Prong, A fork! At length with near four bottles in his pate; He saw the moon shining on Shrove's brass plate; And being civil beyond measure. 6 Ring it!' says Toby; 'very well, I'll ring it with a deal of pleasure.' Toby, the kindest soul in all the town, But the first peal 'woke Isaac in a fright, Pale as a parsnip,-bolt upright. At length, he wisely to himself doth say,-- 'Tush! 'tis some fool has rung and run away;. When peal the second rattled in his ears. Shrove jumped into the middle of the floor; And, trembling at each breath of air that stirr'd, He groped down stairs, and open'd the street-door, Isaac eyed Toby fearfully askant, And saw he was a strapper, stout and tall; Then put this question:- Pray, sir, what d'ye want?' Says Toby,-'I want nothing, sir, at all.' 'Want nothing!—Sir, you've pulled my bell, I vow, As if you'd jerk it off the wire.' Quoth Toby,-gravely making him a bow, 'I pull'd it, sir, at your desire.' 'At mine's!'-'Yes, yours; I hope I've done it well.' 'High time for bed, sir.'-' I was hastening to it; But if you write up-Please to ring the bell, Common politeness makes me stop and do it.' LETTER FROM A CANDIDATE. J. R. LOWELL. [From the Biglow Papers.] Deer sir its gut to be the fashun now to rite letters to the candid 8s and i wus chose at a publick Meetin in Jaalam to do wut wus nessary fur that town. i writ to 271 ginerals and gut ansers to 209. tha air called candid 8s but I don't see nothin candid about em. this here I wich I send was thought satty's factory. I dunno as it's ushle to print Poscrips, but as all the ansers I got hed the saim, I sposed it wus best. times has gretly changed. Formaly to knock a man into a cocked hat wus to use him up, but now it ony gives him a chance fur the cheef madgustracy. DEAR SIR,-You wish to know my notions On sartin pints thet rile the land; An' ef I've one pecooler feetur, It is a nose thet wunt be led. So, to begin at the beginnin', P Thet is, I mean, it seems to me so, An', fact, it don't smell very strong; I'm an eclectic; ez to choosin' "Twixt this an' thet, I'm plaguy lawth; Ez preudunt statesmun say, who've planned A way to git the most profusion O' chances ez to ware they'll stand. Ez fer the war, I go agin it, I mean to say I kind o' du' Thet is, I mean thet, bein' in it, The best way wuz to fight it thru ; Not but wut abstract war is horrid, I sign to thet with all my heart,— But civlyzation doos git forrid Sometimes upon a powder-cart. About thet darned Proviso matter I never hed a grain o' doubt, |