Jack
has thrown some water on the pavement before my door; and should it
freeze, I have given strict orders to my old housekeeper not to strew any
ashes, or sand, or sawdust, or any similar rubbish about. People's bones
are very brittle in frosty weather, and this may bring a job. I hope it
will.
If, in your London rambles, as you seem to be everywhere at once, you
pitch upon Manhug, Rapp, or Jones, give my love to them, and tell them to
keep their powder dry, and not to think of practising in the country,
which is after all a species of social suicide. And with the best
compliments of the season to yourself, and "through the medium of the
columns of your valuable journal" to your readers, believe me to remain,
My dear old bean,
Yours very considerably,
JOSEPH MUFF.
* * * * *
THE SECRET SORROW.
Oh! let me from the festive board
To thee, my mother, flee;
And be my secret sorrow shared
By thee--by only thee!
In vain they spread the glitt'ring store,
The rich repast, in vain;
Let others seek enjoyment there,
To me 'tis only pain.
There _was_ a word of kind advice--
A whisper, soft and low;
But oh! that _one_ resistless smile!
Alas! why was it so?
No blame, no blame, my mother dear,
Do I impute to _you_.
Pages:
1666
1667
1668
1669
1670
1671
1672
1673
1674
1675
1676
1677
1678
1679
1680
1681
1682
1683
1684
1685
1686
1687
1688
1689
1690