Go where I will, to me thou art the sameA loved regret which I would not resign. There yet are two things in my destiny, A world to roam through, and a home with thee. II. The first were nothing-had I still the last yore, He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. III. If my inheritance of storms hath been I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks, I have been cunning in mine overthrow, The careful pilot of my proper woe. IV. Mine were my faults, and mine be their re ward. My whole life was a contest since the day That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd The gift,-a fate, or will, that walk'd astray; Kingdoms and empires in my little day hold A spirit of slight patience ;-not in vain, Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. VI. Perhaps the workings of defiance stir not The chief companion of a calmer lot. Admiral Byron was remarkable for never making a voyage without a tempest. He was known to the sailors by the facetious name of "Foul-weather Jack." "But though it were tempest-tost, Still his bark could not be lost." He returned safely from the wreck of the Wager, (in Anson's voyage,) and subsequently circumnavigated the world, many years after as commander of a similar expedition. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM was born at Canter- | bury, December 6, 1788. He was educated at Oxford, and studied law. But afterward he devoted himself to theology, took orders, and was settled at Ashford in Kent, afterward at Westwell. He had inherited a small estate from his father, and married in 1814. He became successively rector of Snargate, canon of St. Paul's, rector of St. Mary Magdalene and St. Gregory by St. Paul, London, and president of Sion College. In 1802 his right arm was shattered by the overturning of a mail-coach, and a dozen years later he was thrown from a gig and had his leg broken. While he was laid up by this INGOLDSBY LEGENDS. A LEGEND OF A SHIRT. I SING of a Shirt that never was new! accident, he wrote "Baldwin," a novel, and af terward "My Cousin Nicholas," also a novel. From this time he was a frequent contributor to periodicals, of both prose and verse, but always anonymously. In 1837 he began the "Ingoldsby Legends" in Bentley's Miscellany, under the nom de plume of Thomas Ingoldsby, which attracted wide attention. He was intimate with Sydney Smith and Theodore Hook, was a good diner-out, and told a story capitally, but always attended faithfully to his clerical duties. He died on June 17, 1845. A complete edition of the "Ingoldsby Legends,” with a memoir by his son, was published in three volumes in 1847. To her grief and dismay She discovered one day Cornet Jones of the Tenth was a little too gay; For, besides that she saw him-he could not say nay In the course of the year Eighteen hundred and Wink at one of the actresses capering away In a Spanish bolero, one night at the play, He was "viler than dirt!" All her powers to forget him—and finish my "I care not a whit, He's not grown a bit," Says my aunt; "it will still be a very good fit." So Janet and She, Now about thirty-three, (The maid had been jilted by Mr. Magee,) Each taking one end of the Shirt" on her knee, Again began working with hearty good-will, Felling the seams," and "whipping the frill," For twenty years since, though the ruffle had vanished, A frill like a fan had by no means been banished; People wore them at playhouses, parties, and churches, Like overgrown fins of overgrown perches. Now, then, by these two thus laying their caps Together, my "Shirt" had been finished, perhaps, But for one of those queer little three-cornered straps, Which the ladies call "Side-bits," that sever the 'Flaps; " Here unlucky Janet Took her needle and ran it Right into her thumb, and cried loudly, "Ads cuss it! I've spoiled myself now by that 'ere nasty Gusset!" For a month to come Poor dear Janet's thumb The button-holes now were at length" overcast." All's won! Never under the sun Was Shirt so late finished, so early begun! The most critical eye. It was "bleached"-it was washed-it was It was marked on the tail with a T, and an I! In front of the fire. - "Tom to-morrow shall Was in that sort of state vulgar people call O cæca mens hominum !-Fanny, good soul, Left her charge for one moment--but one--a vile coal The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring, His bosom throbbed with agony-he cried like anything! I stooped, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him I haven't got no supper! and I haven't got no |