----'What sprawling heels! And holes are cut anigh the spreading toes, As if the ponderous feet in that wide space Had still been 'cabined, cribbed,' and wanted room,-- Or else, that doleful crops of pedal maize, Called by the vulgar corns, had flourished there. I see the wearer plainly. In public haunts He of his self deportment takes no heed, And spitteth evermore. His lips are sealed And juicy, like wind-beparchéd mouth Of ichthyophagous Kamschatkadale; and oft, With three sheets in the wind, in upper tier Midst mirthful Cyprians, he puts his feet Over the box's front, and leaning back, Guffaws and swears, like privateer at sea, Until the pitlings from beneath, exclaim, 'Boots!' 'Trollope!' and he straightway draws them in.'
When I rang in the morning, the waiter brought a note. The address was 'pleasingly familiar' to me. I broke the seal, and read:
'Miss L---- will be excused from her engagement to ride with Mr. D---- to-day. Mr. D---- may spare himself the trouble of calling to inquire the reason.'
[1] 'APOPLEXY--TIGHT BOOTS.--A physician of New-York says, that he has recently attended four cases of apoplexy, caused by wearing tight boots. Many a grown-up man is now grieving over the effects of this folly of his dandyism, in earlier years. Corns, toes cramped in a heap, and tenderness of the whole foot, are the penalty which manhood has to pay for this sin of youth.'
* * * 'LE poéte est homme par les sens Homme par la douleur! * * * L'argile périssable où tant d'âme palpite, Se façonne plus belle, et se brise plus vite; Le nectar est divin, mais le vase est mortel; C'est un Dieu dont le poids doit écraser l'autel; C'est un souffle trop plein du soin ou de l'aurore, Qui fait chanter le vent dans un roseau sonore, Mais, qui brisé de son, le jette au bord de l'eau, Comme un chaume séché battu sous le fléau!'
THOU dark-eyed, pensive, passionate child of song! Enthusiast! dreamer! worshipper of things By the world's crowd unnoticed, 'mid the throng Of beautiful creations, Nature flings The sunlight of existence o'er!
The wings Of the rude tempest are not half so strong As thy proud hopes--thy wild imaginings: Stop! ere their bold and sacrilegious flight Reach a too-dazzling height! Venturing sunward, till the flashing eye Of reason, grown deliriously bright, Kindle to madness, and to idiocy; And, from excessive light To hideous blindness fall, and tenfold night!