Every man has his Jack-o'lantern;—in dark night, in broad noon day—in the lonely wild, or in the populous city—each has his Jack-o'lantern. To this man Jack comes in the likeness of a bottle of old port, seducing him from sobriety, and leaving him in a quagmire; to that man, he appears in the form of a splendid phaeton and a pair of greys, driving him into bankruptcy, and dropping him into the open jaws of ruin. To one he presents himself in the guise of a cigar, keeping him in a constant cloud; to another he appears in no shape but that of an old black-letter volume, over which he continues to pore long after his wits are gone. Here you see Jack blazing in scarlet, and luring his dazzled follower on by military trappings alone to the pursuit of glory; and there Jack jumps about in the brilliant motley of harlequin, tempting a grave and leaden-heeled victim to dance away his nights and days. Jack-o'lantern is to some people, a mouldy hoarded guinea—and these he leads into the miser's slough of despond; with others, when he pays them a visit, he rolls himself up into the form of a dice-box—and then he makes beggars of them. Poetry is one man's Jack-o'lantern, and a spinning-jenny is another's. Fossil bones, buried fathoms deep in the earth, act Jack's part, and lure away one class to explore and expound; Cuyps and Claudes, in the same way, play the same part with a second class, and tempt them to collect, at the sacrifice of every other interest, or pursuit in life. Jack will now take the likeness of a French cook, and draw a patriot from his beloved country to enjoy a foreign life, cheap; and now he will assume the appearance of a glass of water, persuading the teetotaller, who "drank like a fish" in his young days, to go further astray, and drink a great deal more like a fish in his old days. Jack-o'lantern has some attractive shape for every age and condition. In childhood, he lures us, by overhanging clusters of cherries and currants, into regions consecrated to steel-traps and spring-guns; in after-age, he takes us irresistibly into the still more dangerous region of love and romance, winning us by his best lights—the bright eyes of woman; and to the very end of our days he finds some passion or prejudice wherewith to woo us successfully—some straw wherewith to tickle us, how wise-soever, and unwilling we may be. The very seasons of the year—each has its Jack-o'lantern. The bright glancing sunshine of a spring morning, when it tempts us into a sharp east-wind under promise of sultriness;—the rich luxuriousness of summer, when it fills us with aches and cramps, after revelling in romps among the grass. Christmas—yes, Christmas itself has its Jack-o'lantern. We do not mean the great blazing fire, which has been properly called the heart and soul of it; no, Jack plays his part amidst the roysters in the jovial time, by urging extra plum-pudding, which involves extra brandy with it; by suggesting mince-pies, and other irresistibles, that involve a fit of indigestion; by conjuring up blind-man's-buff, to lead one into the peril of rent skirts, and bruised heads; or by appearing in the form of a pack of cards, to the loss perhaps of one's money or one's temper * * * Moralize we no longer upon Jack-o'lantern; he has led us to Christmas, and let him leave us there in pleasant company.
CHRISTMAS. BY SAM. SLY. Now is the time For all things prime! Cramm'd Turkeys, dropsied Lambs, and oily Geese, Forced Chickens, bloated Pigs, and tons of grease; Sir-loins of suet—legs, and wings, of fat, And boys from school, to say they "can't touch that;" Mountains of Mutton, tubs of tails and blubber, Larks by the yard, like onions on a string, And giblets by the pailful is a thing Enough to turn the stomach of a grubber, Unless he tweak his nose and shut his eyes. And then again there's piles of Lemon-peel, Hillocks of nutmegs, currants, plums, and figs; And children gazing "merry as the grigs," Longing (for that which joy cannot conceal) That some of these may sweeten their "minced pies." Now, men get civil—lads more mild appear, Than they were wont to do throughout the year; The hat is doff'd—civilities come fast That after Christmas who shall say will last? Now, pens are busy writing out "old scores," And birds get pert and hop about our doors, Fighting their comrades for the largest crumbs. See that old lady shivering as she goes, Furr'd to the eyes, and muffled to the nose, And he who thumps his sides to warm his thumbs. Mark the lone berry on the Mountain Ash Like a child's coral on a leafless twig— Watch the Tom-tit That's shaking it: He's getting desperate—bolting it slap dash— A decent mouthful for a throat not big. Now here's a pretty lesson for all sinners, Hunger's the sauce to sweeten Christmas dinners. The fire burns blue—the nearest part gets roasted— The "off-side" suffers in the frigid zone; Just like a slice of bread that's been half toasted— One spot is brown'd—the other cold as stone. The winds are hoarse, the sun gets shy and cool, That is, he's not so warm with his embraces— And old Jack Frost instead begins to rule, So with his brush puts rouge on ladies' faces; A tint more lovely than the finest powder, And speaking to the eye and heart much louder. Now friends get close—and cousins meet their cousins, Babbies their daddies—aunts their pretty nieces; The jokes go round, and lies perhaps by dozens, And Jacky pulls his master all to pieces. Now prayers and cards are all the go— How's that you ask? Well, I don't know; I only know—the fact is so!
A SNAP-DRAGON: CONSISTING OF A SONG, A SONNET, AND A SERENADE. A "JOLLY" SONG—By Charles Hookey Walker, Esq. Leave, O! leave, that set of fellows, Who are always sensible; They give one the blues and yellows— 'Tis most reprehensible! Stretch your mouths from ear to ear, Never mind your beauty: Wisdom never holds it dear— Laugh, and do your duty! Laughing does a person good, Muscles exercising; Helping to digest the food— So 'tis not surprising That by laughing all grow fat, Chasing off the yellows, The blue devils, and all that; Laugh, then, jolly fellows! Push the bottle round the board, Tell the tale so merry, Sing the songs that are encored. Let's be happy—very! Push the bottle round about, Let us hear your singing, Give it voice, and troll it out. Set the glasses ringing! "Here's a health to her I love! Hip! hip! hip! hurra, sirs!" "D'ye think, sir, that the gods above Shave themselves with razors?" "No, sir, to be sure they don't, But with shells of oysters!" "Wine with me, sir?" "No, I won't!" Thus go on the roysters. Laughing, quaffing, glee and fun! That's the time of day, sir; Laugh that life was e'er begun, Laugh your life away, sir! Never wish you ne'er were born, Don't sit sadly sighing; Morn and eve, from eve to morn, Laugh, for time is flying!
SONNET TO "SOME ONE." And thou wert there! and I was not with thee! Thy bright eyes shone on many, but their ray Was just as if you had been Alice Gray, And hadn't braided up your hair for me. This method of expressing it, you see, Implies the same as if I were to say (As vide song) your eyes were turned away, And my heart's breaking!—as it ought to be— (And so it is of course). This world is drear! Most drear—without thee, Some One! at my side! Death! peace! I'll go and drown myself, that's clear! In the affairs of men I'll find my tide. Yes! life has now no music for my ear, Except that tune of which the old cow died!—C. H. W.
THE HOMŒOPATHIST'S SERENADE. BY DR. BULGARDO. The toiling sun has sped To his ever-distant goal; And the moon hangs overhead Like a silver parasol. Long has she not unfurled Her banner thus on high, But looked, for all the world, Like a muffin in the sky. The tears saline, I weep, Have no effect I see; The screech-owl talks in her sleep, But thou say'st nought to me. Thy eyelashes, love, are soft, And long as a skein of silk; Thou'rt harmless, it strikes me oft, As a grain of sugar of milk.
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