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and taken brimstone till I was a complete magazine, and was afraid to come within the range of the fire, for fear of igniting, before the proper, or necessary time, of letting off by the fusee. They say Sir Harry uses sulphur. I should like to act "powder monkey" to my hunters for five minutes just now in an air-tight room! "What if I have a rat infest my house" shall I not breathe brimstone into his soul?

But to my tale. I retired to my "cockloft" bed-room, which in point of fact was neither cock-loft nor hen-loft, for, I had usurped the cacklers' biding place, However, for once, the stranger had it to himself, to soliloquize or otherwise, upon its "stage effect." The room was partitioned man's height, (but not eye proof) which divided me from four petticoatarians who kept up a sort of giggling, tittering conversation amusing enough, while the spider, alarmed, retired to his cell in the cobweb festoons which hung to the smoky tumble-down roof to wait for silence before his night orgies commenced. And there was a certain music breathing, through the Æolian gaps of the cockloft's" partition, which

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stealing" the odour of my sulphur, and leaving some in exchange, and giving me an itching for poetry :-enough-I became the poet within, and spoke, myself as follows.

THE COCKLOFT OF COBWEBS.

How sweetly the Æolian night winds wail
Through the trellis'd roof above,

As if t'enchant the spider's tale,

And fan the flame of love.

And streamy the clouds of cobwebs fly
Upon their gossamer loom ;

Like maiden's breathings, or her sigh,
Woven in the whirlwind's gloom.

But I will be a viewless thought,

And secret through the "Cockloft" scan,
To hide my blush while talking naught,

As woman's dream may talk of man.

Ah,-there, she comes, like Mab from the star,

With moon-bred steeds of flame;

Now he, with sun-steeds to his car,

Which cause the spideress shame.

But now they bill and coo, and chatter,

In all the mystic lore of love:

Mayhap their love's like ours-no matter;

No microscopic eye can prove.

And now they spread their net, to see

If "Ferlie" may be there,

Aye, now to the trap to feast on ea---
They fang him by the ear.

Up, up they swarm to their air trap high,

Too full of love to speak;

Ah, there, they mounch the fly,

I hear their victim queak.

Again they swarm it down below...

The death trap has its prey,

But he requires a lusty blow,

For he ranks a bold Scotch Grey (louse.)

And now they loup it o'er the rug

To hunt for venison "ferlie ;"

No game alas---for not a bug
Can live in the land of Charlie.

How jumps that with thy humour? It would strut well in Maga. Something Byronic in the satire sting, hid as it were in the honey of Moore, or quaker Barton. Aye, and I could bully with McCulloch too, in case of publication, but in this refined age, conviction of error may be effected without his knock-em-down blows; or John Knox the orthodox. I do not mean to say that he has not been of service here, yea very great service; only he might have accomplished that point by milder mea

sures; and by this time, have been called friend instead of enemy by them.

A man who publishes faults (which in point of fact are not faults in the eye of the party attacked, until they are convinced) should use the honied words of sophistical inuendo; so that the day light of truth, may not shock them too much by exhibiting too suddenly their own uncleannesss. It should dawn through the darkness of their huts, like the morning sun, and disperse the mist of, of cobwebs-0 aye, to my tale.

There is the bed of rushes, opening the selfsame downy arms, to receive the Jew, which had embraced the night previous, four lovely christian women; who, like " nymphs bathing" had fled to the adjoining shade to make bed fellows of some ten fleeces of wool; that the stranger might lay like a gentleman by himself. I trembled to enter the sacred couch, fearing least a sort of indescribable sympathy might shake the pillow of my judaism to Christianity. There was a kindness in all this too, could we but read the heart abstractedly from the skin! Yet that's impossible! The rest in next. JEW EXILE.

END OF VOL I.

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