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Or else surprise the ferrel of his stick

Trying the mortar's temper 'tween the chinks
Of some new shop a-building, French and fine.
He stood and watched the cobbler at his trade,
The man who slices lemons into drink,
The coffee-roaster's brazier, and the boys
That volunteer to help him turn its winch.
He glanced o'er books on stalls with half an eye,
And fly-leaf ballads on the vendor's string,
And broad-edge bold-print posters by the wall.
He took such cognisance of men and things,
If any beat a horse, you felt he saw ;
If any cursed a woman, he took note;
Yet stared at nobody,—you stared at him,
And found, less to your pleasure than surprise,
He seemed to know you and expect as much.
So, next time that a neighbour's tongue was loosed,
It marked the shameful and notorious fact
We had among us, not so much a spy

As a recording chief-inquisitor,

The town's true master if the town but knew!

We merely kept a governor for form,
While this man walked about and took account
Of all thought, said and acted, then went home,
And wrote it fully to our Lord the King

Who has an itch to know things, he knows why,
And reads them in his bed-room of a night.
Oh, you might smile! there wanted not a touch,
A tang of... well, it was not wholly ease,
As back into your mind the man's look came.
Stricken in years a little, such a brow
His eyes had to live under !-—clear as flint
On either side o' the formidable nose
Curved, cut and coloured like an eagle's claw.
Had he to do with A.'s surprising fate?
When altogether old B. disappeared

And young C. got his mistress,—was 't our friend,
His letter to the King, that did it all?

What paid the bloodless man for so much pains?
Our Lord the King has favourites manifold,
And shifts his ministry some once a month;
Our city gets new governors at whiles,—
But never word or sign, that I could hear,
Notified, to this man about the streets,
The King's approval of those letters conned
The last thing duly at the dead of night.
Did the man love his office? Frowned our Lord,
Exhorting when none heard-" Beseech me not!
"Too far above my people,-beneath me!
"I set the watch,-how should the people know?
"Forget them, keep me all the more in mind!"
Was some such understanding 'twixt the two?

I found no truth in one report at least—
That if you tracked him to his home, down lanes
Beyond the Jewry, and as clean to pace,
You found he ate his supper in a room
Blazing with lights, four Titians on the wall,
And twenty naked girls to change his plate!
Poor man, he lived another kind of life

In that new stuccoed third house by the bridge,
Fresh-painted, rather smart than otherwise!
The whole street might o'erlook him as he sat,
Leg crossing leg, one foot on the dog's back.
Playing a decent cribbage with his maid
(Jacynth, you 're sure her name was) o'er the cheese
And fruit, three red halves of starved winter-pears,
Or treat of radishes in April. Nine,

Ten, struck the church clock, straight to bed went he.

My father, like the man of sense he was, Would point him out to me a dozen times;

"St-St," he 'd whisper, "the Corregidor!"

I had been used to think that personage
Was one with lacquered breeches, lustrous belt,
And feathers like a forest in his hat,

Who blew a trumpet and proclaimed the news,
Announced the bull-fights, gave each church its turn,
And memorized the miracle in vogue!

He had a great observance from us boys;
We were in error; that was not the man.

I'd like now, yet had haply been afraid,
To have just looked, when this man came to die,
And seen who lined the clean gay garret sides,
And stood about the neat low truckle-bed,
With the heavenly manner of relieving guard.
Here had been, mark, the general-in-chief,

Thro' a whole campaign of the world's life and death,
Doing the King's work all the dim day long,

In his old coat and up to knees in mud,
Smoked like a herring, dining on a crust,—

And, now the day was won, relieved at once!
No further show or need of that old coat,

You are sure, for one thing! Bless us, all the while
How sprucely we are dressed out, you and I !

A second, and the angels alter that.

Well, I could never write a verse, could you?
Let's to the Prado and make the most of time.

PROTUS.

AMONG these latter busts we count by scores,
Half-emperors and quarter-emperors,
Each with his bay-leaf fillet, loose-thonged vest,
Loric and low-browed Gorgon on the breast,—-
One loves a baby face, with violets there,

Violets instead of laurel in the hair,

As those were all the little locks could bear.

Now read here. "Protus ends a period "Of empery beginning with a god;

"Born in the porphyry chamber at Byzant, "Queens by his cradle, proud and ministrant : "And if he quickened breath there, 't would like fire "Pantingly through the dim vast realm transpire. "A fame that he was missing, spread afar: "The world, from its four corners, rose in war, "Till he was borne out on a balcony

"To pacify the world when it should see.

“The captains ranged before him, one, his hand
"Made baby points at, gained the chief command.
"And day by day more beautiful he grew

"In shape, all said, in feature and in hue,
"While young Greek sculptors gazing on the child
66 Became, with old Greek sculpture, reconciled.
"Already sages laboured to condense
"In easy tomes a life's experience :

"And artists took grave counsel to impart

"In one breath and one hand-sweep, all their art, "And make his graces prompt as blossoming "Of plentifully-watered palms in spring: "Since well beseems it, whoso mounts the throne, "For beauty, knowledge, strength, should stand alone, "And mortals love the letters of his name."

-Stop! Have you turned two pages? Still the same. New reign, same date. The scribe goes on to say How that same year, on such a month and day, "John the Pannonian, groundedly believed "A blacksmith's bastard, whose hard hand reprieved "The Empire from its fate the year before,—

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Came, had a mind to take the crown, and wore

"The same for six years, (during which the Huns
“Kept off their fingers from us) till his sons
"Put something in his liquor"-and so forth.
Then a new reign. Stay-"Take at its just worth"
(Subjoins an annotator) "what I give

"As hearsay. Some think, John let Protus live
"And slip away. 'T is said, he reached man's age
"At some blind northern court; made, first a page,
"Then tutor to the children; last, of use
"About the hunting stables. I deduce
"He wrote the little tract 'On worming dogs,'
"Whereof the name in sundry catalogues

"Is extant yet. A Protus of the race

"Is rumoured to have died a monk in Thrace,—

66 And, if the same, he reached senility.”

Here's John the Smith's rough-hammered head. Great

eye,

Gross jaw and griped lips do what granite can
To give you the crown-grasper. What a man!

MASTER HUGUES OF SAXE-GOTHA.

I

HIST, but a word, fair and soft!

Forth and be judged, Master Hugues !

Answer the question I've put you so oft:

What do you mean by your mountainous fugues? See, we 're alone in the loft,—

I, the poor organist here,

II

Hugues, the composer of note,

Dead though, and done with, this many a year:

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