And on the listening ear,

The sounds that float across the plain
Condense themselves into a strain
Of voices soft and clear,
That in a tone seraphic say-
Good working folks attend,
And fit respect and homage pay,
And bless the bright and glorious day
That sends across your vulgar way

His Grace, the "Poor Man's Friend."

The "Poor Man's Friend" who sallies out
With huntsman, hound, and horn,

To waken with his Nimrod shout

The echoes of the morn:

To chase to death the savage hare,
Or seek the stalwart fox's lair,

To break the hedge, to leap the ditch,
And deem it pastime rare and rich,
In combat fierce the brush to win,
And proud as ancient Paladin,
In panoply of armour bright,
The guerdon of the gallant fight
Triumphantly to bear;

And eye with scorn each peasant vile,
As though his presence might defile,
His breathing taint the air;
Then placing to his ducal nose
The otto choice of Cashmere's rose
To bless discerning fate, that he
Belongs to no such pottery,

Such coarse unsightly clay,
For common use alone designed
A mere machine without a mind,
The pipkin of the day:

A thing when lords are flitting by
With meekest grace to bend,
Created but to steal and lie,

To groan and sweat, to starve and die,
To dress his soul in livery,

And serve the "Poor Man's Friend."

The "Poor Man's Friend," the best of friends,
A friend when others fail;

For he the starving poacher sends

To banquet in a jail :

To herd with wretches cursed and bann'd
The very offal of the land,

The living plague-spots that infect

The earth with princely mansions deck'd,
Who still retain their felon maws,
Despite the wise and lenient laws,
And beg with brazen hardihood-
Yes, absolutely beg the food
Their labour cannot win:
Away with them, our jails were made
For such an outcast pauper grade,
In with the wretches, in.

To bless the crust by jailers giv'n

As though 'twere manna sent from heaven, While he, the " Poor Man's Friend" may glide Through royal rooms, with honest pride

An angel in disguise,

So deck'd with stars, the gazer might
Imagine he had left his bright
Apartments in the skies:

And that to earth alone he came
A grace to earth to lend,

And give that most serene and tame
And meek and modest maiden, Fame,
A chance to trumpet forth his name,
And shout "The Poor Man's Friend."
The "Poor Man's Friend" who proudly stands
Where gather'd densely round

The lords of funds, and lords of lands
With aspect most profound,
Assemble for a nation's weal,

And "learn to feel what wretches feel,"
Until their hearts with pity bleed
At contemplating pauper need,
Maintaining still their golden plan,
To bless and save their fellow man,
Which cannot fail of being right
While taxing heav'n's own blessed light
And taxing heav'n-sent food,
And building union prisons strong
To gather all the pauper throng
In one huge brotherhood,
And guarding with religious care
The sacred birds that skim the air.

And proud this velvet lord must be,
This concentrated charity,

This Moloch of the west,

A sainted thing o'er earth to roam,
A lump of living honeycomb,
All blessing and all blest:

His name through every heart must steal,
And peace and comfort send
To happy Englishmen, who feel
A grateful throb at every meal,
And night and morning humbly kneel
And bless the "Poor Man's Friend."

PINE APPLE SHOT!

A FACT AND A. FANCY.

BY PAUL BELL.

Give every man his dessert, and who shall 'scape whipping?

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New reading of an Old Quotation.

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WHAT an odd list of claims to distinction might be made out, by a person curious in the Anatomy of Gentility! Gentleman Smith, as any stage story-teller will corroborate, was wont to pride himself on never having gone down through a trap!—T' other evening I paid a visit to a couple of old neighbours, who married at maturity and were blessed by the arrival of their "olive branch ” some years later. It was hard to pay the expected compliment, to such a little fat formal creature-an aged woman on two short legs, as the Mackreth's offspring. But I was not called upon; the fond mother did it herself: A dear English child she is, Mr. Bell," said that wise woman, with a little tear of pride, She won't learn any language but her own!" I remember the days when the relations of a man who had escaped from a French prison, gave themselves airs for many a long year on that account, till their next door neighbour's brother-in-law happened to pick up the poor Princess Charlotte's handkerchief, which, of course, snuffed out their pretensions completely and for ever. You Londoners, Sir, have no idea of what makes a Somebody, and why, in country towns. Going to and fro a good deal, as I have done of late, and remembering the things I have seen and heard, during the last forty years, however, has made me able to speak to the

point. And odd are the thoughts, I promise you, which sometimes come into my mind, as I sit snugly leaning back in the corner of one of the railway carriages, unable to talk or look about me, because of the dinning noise and the lightning speed, and reflected upon, which happened only last week, when I was supposed to be asleep, as one of the sort of persons we never used to be brought into contact with." The speaker was a great lady, whose notions of intercourse had not got beyond Sir Charles Grandison's coach and six, and “his Byron's" sedan-chair.

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"Ay," thought I to myself, "Steam does make one acquainted with odd things!" and then I remembered a scene I had heard described, when dining out one day, in Doughty Street, by one of those writers we used, when I was young, to be rather afraid of asking to dine with us, in towns where business is business. He, it seems, had crossed to Antwerp one summer, in the same packet with a lady whose name you all know-Miss Fanny Kemble that was. They had arrived there in the midst of the Kirmesse (the third week in August), when the old town is full of the old Flemish dresses. The high lace caps of the women, with their long lappet-like ears, so enchanted Mrs. that she bought one there and then, and came down in it to dinner at the table d'hôte. (Much as if a French lady were to choose to walk about London in the beaver hat and blue cloak of one of Rebecca's daughters but that is neither here nor there.) Well, to be sure, every one was looking at the Englishwoman, and wondering who she was; and the next morning, when my friend got into the railway train for Brussels, a daisy-faced little German lady, who could hold no longer, and had seen the two speaking to each other, "begged to ask him the name of the wearer of the cap." She was soon told; and the answer was precious to her, for the Germans, his Royal Highness the Prince not excepted, I dare say, have a passion for English drama and English actors, and the niece of the Siddons, and the last of the Juliets, was as well known by name at Dresden as at Daventry. But on the other side of my friend sate another figure-a Beguine: a comely woman she was, with her clear oak-brown complexion, and her spotlessly-white linen headgear, and her pious hands folded on the crook of her pursy black umbrella. At first she sate like a statue, looking down, content with her own good thoughts (yet I have heard English single women say very wicked things of those like her); but the literary gentleman was aware, he said, that as the talk went on,

the corners of the placid mouth began to twitch and to twirl, as if the world was working there, and then the mirth settled into a broad smile, and the head fairly raised itself, and the meek, darkbrown eyes set themselves with such a curiosity on the face of the German lady who asked, and the Englishman who answered, about the wearer of that Antwerp cap. She "had heard the chimes at midnight too!" She too knew the word of power. And think you the refectory was not the better for her ride? I don't wonder that the Pope has a spite against those railroads.

Well, but I am doing anything rather than travelling first-class fashion to the point I want to reach-Distinction: or, as poor Hood used to say, "where one puts one's dig." When talking of our country neighbours, I can never forget the Pratts, of Pratt Park; an example, if there ever was one, of a reputation oddly built up. They were known throughout the country. Not for birth; as some one said, "there were so many bends in their escutcheon, that the line of ancestry got out of sight and no one could find it." Not for beauty; both he and she were plain and pale, and if I were to add, platter-faced, it would be no scandal. Not for wealth; they were reasonably well off, nothing more; and it was always given out that they had not much to spare for charity. Not for talent; Mr. Pratt's "Just so," came as often wrong as right, and his lady is the person (though the anecdote has been given to more than one) who said, "she could not read the Scott novels, they were so low-lived!" About their virtue I would rather not speak, having an objection to pronounce on my neighbours. The Pratts' reputation was neither "up" nor "down" in that respect. Let us hope that they were not worse than the rest of us. Their place, too, was nothing particular; a square brick house, with doors that shut and chimneys that drew, in a very sufficient park, neither beautiful nor ancient; but belonging to it was the strong point of the Pratts-their Pinery!

You must have lived in the country, I say, to conceive the everlastingness of such a topic as this. Nay, too, and its value. I for one would far sooner have heard Mr. Pratt talk of pine-apples than politics. One might learn something on that subject. He and his wife were urbane, as all distinguished people should be. Every new stove, every new species, Mr. Knight's discovery of turf in pots, Mr. Loudon's suggestions for the economising of fuel, had been one and all anticipated at Pratt Park, to hear them tell the tale. The Horticultural Society had taken its rise from a case