aking up)_:
With her? The hussy! Yes, it serves him right.

JONESMITH (_continuing to "seek the light"_):
What's this about old Impycu? That's good!
Grip--that's the funny man--says Impy should
Be used as a decoy in shooting tramps.
I knew old Impy when he had the "stamps"
To buy us all out, and he wasn't then
So bad a chap to have about. Grip's pen
Is just a tickler!--and the world, no doubt,
Is better with it than it was without.
What? thirteen ladies--Jumping Jove! we know
Them nearly all!--who gamble at a low
And very shocking game of cards called "draw"!
O cracky, how they'll squirm! ha-ha! haw-haw!
Let's see what else (_wife snores_). Well, I'll be blest!
A woman doesn't understand a jest.
Hello! What, what? the scurvy wretch proceeds
To take a fling at _me_, condemn him! (_reads_):
Tom Jonesmith--my name's Thomas, vulgar cad!--_Of
the new Shavings Bank_--the man's gone mad!
That's libelous; I'll have him up for that--_Has
had his corns cut_. Devil take the rat!
What business is 't of his, I'd like to know?
He didn't have to cut them. Gods! what low
And scurril things our papers have become!
You skim their contents and you get but scum.
Here, Mary, (_waking wife_) I've been attacked
In this vile sheet. By Jove, it is a fact!

WIFE (_reading it_): How wicked! Who do you
Suppose 't was wrote it?

JONESMITH: Who? why, who
But Grip, the so-called funny man--he wrote
Me up because I'd not discount his note.
(_Blushes like sunset at the hideous lie--
He'll think of one that's better by and by--
Throws down the paper on the floor, and treads
A lively measure on it--kicks the shreds
And patches all about the room, and still
Performs his jig with unabated will._)

WIFE (_warbling sweetly, like an Elfland horn_):
Dear, do be careful of that second corn.

STANLEY.
Noting some great man's composition vile:
A head of wisdom and a heart of guile,
A will to conquer and a soul to dare,
Joined to the manners of a dancing bear,
Fools unaccustomed to the wide survey
Of various Nature's compensating sway,
Untaught to separate the wheat and chaff,
To praise the one and at the other laugh,
Yearn all in vain and impotently seek
Some flawless hero upon whom to wreak
The sycophantic worship of the weak.
Not so the wise, from superstition free,
Who find small pleasure in the bended kn