The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 397, November 7, 1829

Sad is my grief, and violent my rage, Furious I knock my head against the rail, That damns me to this miserable cage; Fierce as a Jack Tar with his well chew'd tail, I dash my spittle on the ground, and roar Loud as the trump to bid us be no more.

I am the doughty, the illustrious beast, Called Leo, father of the Panther young, Tho' last begotten, not belov'd the least, You all know I have a roast beef tongue: Then, hear my John Bull clamour, hear my shout! Why, why the d----, roust we all tarn out?

Did I not keep a beef-eater below To show the ladies to my monarch cave? I kept a constant levee day of show, And seldom monarchs so polite behave! You paid far less for seeing me, I ken, Than porterage for seeing noble men.

Did I not eat my supper in your presence. And gnaw the beef bone with a greedy tusk? Did you not shudder at the marrow's essence, Not quite so beautiful or sweet as musk? Did I not ope my lion fauces wider Than is the difference 'twixt Moore and Ryder?

Then, why the d----?--I'm obliged to swear! Must we turn out, to grace the monarch's mews, From the thronged Strand which seemed our native air, And, where as thick as piety in pews, We growl'd within our dens, nor hop'd to change, Nor wish'd, Instead of Exeter, a change.

Sweet lovely corner, neighb'ring the Lyceum, Lord of whose showy board I used to crow. Frighting my brethren when folks came to see 'em, Or cutlery of Mr. Clarke below; I mourn thee in the King's Mews, Mr. Cross Get Mr. Southey's muse to sing my loss.

Yes, I am chang'd, like shillings from the Mint Sent forth to find another one's protection! Chang'd as palaver which the members print And do not follow after their election! Ah! Mr. Cross, your gratitude is low, You might have ask'd me where I wish'd to go.

Since we have turn'd out, like a minister Whose day of residence on loaves and fishes, Finding himself unable to defer, He offers up, as if 'twere to his wishes; Listen, tho' lately coming, to my moan, And then I'll tell you where we should have gone.

The Monkeys should have dwelt in the Arcade, And join'd their fellows, and their brethren Ape Sat in the shop where clothes are ready made, To show how elegant they fit the shape! The Bears gone westward also, ne'er to range The city, lest they got upon the Change.

The Tigers, with their talons might have got A place as blood letters to Dr. Brooks! The Ounces found themselves a cosy spot In a confectioner's or pastrycook's, And yet I question howsoe'er they bake, That sixteen ounces make not a _pound_-cake.

And, O, you Elephant!--I beg your pardon! Dead Chunee! listen to my grave petition, And take your ivory to Covent Garden; That they may furnish me a free admission, And you, you Lynx, you ought to out, and sally The Winter Theatres, or dark blind alley.

The lovely Zebra, Asia's painted ass, 'Stead of a den, and bed of straw possessor, Down to old Cambridge should have had a pass, To fill the office of some wise professor; Then, had he shown each antiquated quiz, His Zebra auricles were long as his.

Thus had we all obtained a proper station, 'Twere in one day of happiness to cruise. And I had never written my vexation At being palac'd in the Royal Mews. The reason for which conduct I'm at loss, O, Mr. Cross, 'tay'nt you, but I am cross.

I really thought thou had'st been much genteeler, _Polite_-o was thy grandfather, remember Thou wert a Merchant Tailor, and a stealer To school in younger days, in cold December, Then did thy fingers, shiv'ring like a Russ, Make thee to feel--thou could'st not feel for us.

At Charing Cross, the Golden Cross is thine No longer; why, then hurry us so near it, We do not in the little tap-room dine, Where Greenwich cads and Walworth jarvies beer it, This Mews is cold to the Exchange's glow, Belle Sauvage Cross, thou'rt beau sauvage, I trow.

My usage is the best, I don't deny, Thou'st fee'd the keeper, and he likes to feed us, But, then the situation I decry, But crying's useless--who the deuce will heed us? Then, reader would you listen to my wail, Come, and but see me, "I'll unfold my tail."

P.T.

Question 1.--A ship set sail at noon from Naples to Palermo (the distance between the two cities being 180 miles), and sailed at the rate of ten miles an hour; another ship set off at the same time, to sail from Palermo to Naples, at the rate of seven miles per hour: at what time did the ships meet each other, and what was the distance sailed by each? Vincent Zuccaro immediately replied--The first ship sailed 105 15/17 miles; the second, 74 2/17 miles. It was then observed to him, that he had only answered part of the question, and that the hour of meeting had been omitted. He then said this would be 10 10-17 hours after the time of the departure. The child had perceived that this part of the answer was implicitly contained in the former; which he also imagined the examiners perceived as well as himself, and therefore he omitted it.

Question 2.--In three successive attacks upon a town, a quarter of the assailants perished in the first attack, a fifth in the second, and a sixth in the last, when their number was reduced to 138 men. Required the original number? Answer, 360.

Q.--How did you find that number?

A.--If the number had been 60, there would eventually have remained 23; now 23 being the sixth of 138, the assailants were 6 times 60 or 360 at first.

Q.--Why did you suppose the number 60, rather than 50 or 70?

A.--Because neither 50 nor 70 are divisible by 4 or 6.

From these questions and replies, it will be readily understood that the child does not employ the ordinary artifices of mathematicians. Marquess Scriso, who was the first person to discover this singular talent, is about, with several other persons of distinction in the city, to solicit the aid of Government in the education of the child, every one being fully aware of the impropriety of subjecting him to the ordinary mode of education.

Heigho! what a blank is our being! ahi! For there's nobody left in the town, That's nobody fit to associate with me; Dinner's up, but my spirits are down, I can't eat or drink (how should I?) for sorrow, And the lack of some usual treat, And I surely should hang me, or marry tomorrow, Were there not a few bawls in the street.

Hang! marry! said I, why I'm now drown'd in tears, Who am wont in sham pain to lose real; And could pull my own house down, about my own ears For lack of amusements ideal; But plays, concerts, shopping, Di'ramas so bright, That enlarge the pent mind at a view, Are fled with my friends; I'm the wretchedest wight That from devil ennui, e'er look'd blue!

O horrible! horrible world! there's not e'en An old maid in't, to ask me to tea; Not fit, or in country or town, to be seen, They have hurried off, blindly to see! Parks, houses, clubs, shops, churches, squares, deserts seem; Quite flat, Magazines and Newspapers; Ah, what shall I do? make a trial of steam, In order to banish the vapours?

Shall I swallow my dinner? I can't--shall I sleep? Then I don't get away from myself! Shall I think what a beau I have once been, and weep Like a belle, that is laid on the shelf? Shall I write? shall I read? ah, yes, that will do, But an old book is terrible stuff: Boy, get the new novel, stop, reading's so new, That a book will be novel enough!

M.L.B.