That pierces the dunnest, loneliest cell,
Where wickedness hides, and marks it well!
And the ancient sexton re-opens the ground;
And the nodding plumes pass down the hill,--
'Tis the time of the year when the buds appear,
And the blackbird pipes his music shrill;
On the breeze there is balm, and a holy calm,
Whispers the troubled heart, "Be still! "
That mourner of twenty long winters past!
And finds that, bankrupt! naught remains.
"This will I carry with me to my pillow," said Uncle Timothy. "My friends, good night."
|A chubby young gentleman, a "little _Jack Horner_ eating his Christmas pie," abutting from "_The Fortune of War_," at Pie-Corner, marks the memorable spot where the Great Fire of London concluded its ravages. The sin of _gluttony_, * to which, in the original inscription (now effaced,) the fire was attributed, is still rife; a considerable trade in eatables and drinkables being driven, and corks innumerable drawn, in defiance, under the chubby young gentleman's bottle nose.
* "There was excessive spending of venison, as well as other victuals, in the halls. Nay, and a great consumption of venison there was frequently at taverns and cooks' shops, insomuch that the Court was much offended with it. Whereupon, anno 1573, that the City might not continue to give the Queen and nobility offence, the Lord Mayor, Sir Lionel Ducket, and Aldermen, had by act of Common Council forbidden such feasts hereafter to be made; and restrained the same only to necessary meetings, in which, also, no venison (!!) was permitted."--Stow.
Venison was also prohibited in the taverns and cooks' shops. Our modern civic gourmands and gourmets, wiser grown! have propitiated the Court by occasional invitations to take part in their gluttony.
A Bartlemy Fair shower of rain overtook us while we were contemplating the dilapidated mansion of the Cock Lane Ghost; and, as it never rains in Bartle-my Fair, but it pours, we scudded along to the parlour of The Fortune of War, as our nearest shelter; where we beheld Mr. Bosky, though he beheld not us, bombarding his little body with cutlets and bottled beer, in company with a tragedy queen; a motion-master; and a brace of conjurors, Mr. Rumfiz and Mr. Glumfiz. Mr. Rumfiz was a merry fellow, who had fattened on blue fire, which he hung out for a sign upon his torrid nose; with Mr. Glumfiz dolor seemed to wait on drinking, and melancholy on mastication; for he looked as if he had been regaling on fishhooks and castor-oil, instead of Mr. Bosky's bountiful cheer.