MR. SLUDGE, "THE MEDIUM."

Now, don't sir! Don't expose me! Just this once !

This was the first and only time, I'll swear,

Of Her who hears, -(your sainted mother, sir!)

All, except this last accident, was truth,

This little kind of slip! - and even this,

It was your own wine, sir, the good champagne,

You still inflict on me that terrible face?

You show no mercy?- Not for Her dear sake,

The sainted spirit's, whose soft breath even now

Blows on my cheek -(don't you feel something, sir?) You'll tell?

Go tell, then! Who the devil cares

What such a rowdy chooses to ..

Please, sir! your thumbs are through my windpipe, sir!

Ch-ch!

Well, sir, I hope you've done it now !

O Lord! I little thought, sir, yesterday,

When your departed mother spoke those words

Of peace through me, and moved you, sir, so much,

Please, sir!)—yes, little did I think so soon

A trifle of trick, all through a glass too much

Of his own champagne, would change my best of friends Into an angry gentleman!

Though, 't was wrong.

I don't contest the point; your anger's just:

Whatever put such folly in my head,

I know 't was wicked of me.

There's a thick,

Or else an Irish emigrant's; yourself

Explained the case so well last Sunday, sir,

When we had summoned Franklin to clear up
A point about those shares in the telegraph :
Ay, and he swore . . or might it be Tom Paine? ..
Thumping the table close by where I crouched,
He'd do me soon a mischief: that's come true!

Why, now your face clears! I was sure it would!
Then, this one time .. don't take your hand away,
Through yours I surely kiss your mother's hand
You'll promise to forgive me?— or, at least,
Tell nobody of this? Consider, sir!

What harm can mercy do? Would but the shade

Of the venerable dead-one just vouchsafe

A rap or tip! What bit of paper 's here?
Suppose we take a pencil, let her write,

Make the least sign, she urges on her child

Forgiveness? There now! Eh? Oh! 'T was your foot, And not a natural creak, sir?

Answer, then!

Once, twice, thrice . . . see, I'm waiting to say "thrice!*

...

All to no use? No sort of hope for me?

It's all to post to Greeley's newspaper?

What? If I told you all about the tricks?

Upon my soul!—the whole truth, and naught else,

And how there's been some falsehood for

your part,

Will you engage to pay my passage out,
And hold your tongue until I'm safe on board?

England's the place, not Boston, — no offence!

I see what makes you hesitate: don't fear!

I mean to change my trade and cheat no more,

Yes, this time really it's upon my soul !

Be salvation! my

under Heaven, of course.

I'll tell some queer things. Sixty Vs must do.
A trifle, though, to start with! We'll refer
The question to this table?

How you're changed!

Then split the difference; thirty more, we'll say.
Ay, but you leave my presents! Else I'll swear
'T was all through those: you wanted yours again,
So, picked a quarrel with me, to get them back!
Tread on a worm, it turns, sir! If I turn,

Your fault! "T is you'll have forced me! Who's obliged
To give up life, yet try no self-defence?

At all events, I'll run the risk. Eh?

May I sit, sir? This dear old table, now!
Please, sir, a parting egg-nogg and cigar!

Done !

I've been so happy with you! Nice stuffed chairs,
And sympathetic sideboards; what an end
To all the instructive evenings! (It's alight.)
Well, nothing lasts, as Bacon came and said!
but keep your temper, or I'll scream!

Here goes,

Fol-lol-the-rido-liddle-iddle-ol!

You see, sir, it's your own fault more than mine; It's all your fault, you curious gentlefolks!

You 're prigs, -excuse me, - like to look so spry, So clever, while you cling by half a claw

To the perch whereon you puff yourselves at roost, Such piece of self-conceit as serves for perch Because you chose it, so it must be safe.

O, otherwise you 're sharp enough! You spy Who slips, who slides, who holds by help of wing, Wanting real foothold, who can't keep upright

On the other perch, your neighbor chose, not you : There's no outwitting you respecting him!

For instance, men love money, that, you know,

And what men do to gain it: well, suppose
A poor lad, say a help's son in your house,
Listening at keyholes, hears the company
Talk grand of dollars, V-notes, and so forth,
How hard they are to get, how good to hold,