Just like a novice, timid yet,
And ever fearful to forget;

Never, unquestioned, silence broke,
Yet answered all, though twenty spoke;
Just as great Cæsar, between whiles,
Wrote all at once five different styles.

At night his pleasure was to roam
From one to other for a home;
Happy, too happy, was the nun
Whose cell his wayward choice had won.
He wandered here and wandered there,
But, truth to say, 'twas very rare
That fancy led him to the cell
Where any ancient dame might dwell.
No, rather would his choice be laid
Where some young sister's couch was made;
There would he sleep the long night through,
Till daylight broke and slumbers flew ;
And then, so privileged and free,
The sister's first toilette might see.
Toilette I say, but whisper low,
Somewhere I've read, but do not know,
Nuns' mirrors must be quite as true
As, ladies, is required for you;
And, just as fashion in the world

Must here be fringed and there be curled,
So also in the simple part

Of veils and bands there lies an art;
For that light throng of frivolous imps
Who scale o'er walls and creep through
bars,

Can give to stiffest veils and gimps

A grace that satin never wears.
Of course, you guess, at such a school,
Ver-Vert, by parrot's instinct-rule,

Endowed with speech, his ladies took
For pattern; and, except at meat,
When all the nuns in silence eat,

Talked fast and long, and like a book.
He was not, mark, one of these light
And worldly birds, corrupted quite
By secular concerns, and who

Know mundane follies through and through;
Ver-Vert was piously inclined;

A fair soul led by innocence,
Unsullied his intelligence,

No rude words lingered in his mind.
But then he knew each canticle,
Oremus, and the colloquies,

His Benedicite said well,

The Notre mère, and charities.
Instructed still, he grows more wise,
The pupil with the teacher vies;
He imitates their very tones,

The softened notes, the pious groans,
The long-drawn sighs, by which they prove
How they adore, and how they love;
And knows at length-a holy part-
The Breviary all by heart.

But fame is full of perils; well
In lowly lot obscure to dwell.
Success too great, without reverse,
Oft makes the moral nature worse.
Thy name, immortal parrot, spread
Still wider, till by sad fate led,
It reached as far as Nantes. Here stood
The chief house of the sisterhood.
Now not the last, as might be guessed,
Are nuns to hear of what goes on;

And chattering still, like all the rest, Of what was said and what was done,

They heard of Ver- Vert, wondered much, They talked and envied, talked and sighed (Great though his powers, his virtues such,

Had been by rumor magnified),
Till last a common longing fell

On all alike this miracle

Themselves to see. A girl's desire
Is like a flame that leaps and burns;
But ah! a fiercer, brighter fire,
Is when a nun with longing yearns.

To Nevers fly all hearts; of nought
But Ver-Vert can the convent think.
Could he―ah! could he here be brought,
The Loite is swift; ships do not sink.
Oh bid him come, if but to show
For one day what a bird can know.

They write to Nevers; then, how long Before an answer? Twelve whole days?

So long? So far? Alas! 'tis wrong. We sleep no more; pale every face, And sister Cécile wastes apace.

On board the bark that on the wave

Bore Ver-Vert from his patrons' care Were three fair nymphs, two soldiers brave, A nurse, a monk, a Gascon pair. Strange company and sad, I ween,

For Ver-Vert, best of pious birds. Innocent quite of what might mean

Their strange garb and their stranger
words,

He listened, 'mazed at first. The style
Was new, and yet the words were old.
It was not gospel, truly; while

The jokes they make, the tales they told,
Were marked by absence of those sweet
Ejaculations, vows and prayers,
Which they would make and he repeat.

No Christian words are these he hears. The bold dragoons with barrack slang Confused his head and turned his brain; To unknown deities they sang

In quite an unaccustomed strain. The Gascons and the ladies three Conversed in language odd but free; The boatmen all in chorus swore Oaths never heard by him before.

And, sad and glum, Ver-Vert sat still In silence, though against his will.

But presently the bird they spy,
And for their own diversion try
To make him talk. The monk begins
With some light questions on his sins;
Ver-Vert looks up, and with a sigh,
"Ave! my sister," makes reply:
And as they roar with laughter long,
Suspects, somehow, he's answered wrong.
Proud was his spirit, until then
Unchecked by scoff of vulgar men;
And so he could not brook to see
His words exposed to contumely.
Alas! with patience, Ver-Vert lost
The first bloom of his innocence.
That gone, how little did it cost

To curse the nuns and their pretence To teach him French? well might they laugh,

The nuns, he found, had left out half-
The half, too, most for beauty made,
The nervous tone, the delicate shade;
To learn this half-the better lore-
He speaks but little, thinks the more.
At first the parrot, so far wise,
Perceives that all he learned before,
The chants, the hymns, the languid sighs,
And all the language of the nuns,
Must be forgotten, and at once.

In two short days the task was done,
And the soldiers' wit 'gainst prayer of nun,
So fresh, so bright, so pleasant seemed,
That in less time than could be dreamed
(Too soon youth lends itself to evil)
He cursed and swore like devil.

any

By steps, the proverb says, we go From bad to worse, from sin to crime; Ver-Vert reversed the rule, and so Served no novitiate's tedious time. Full-fledged professor of all sin, Whate'er they said he marked within; Ran their whole dictionary through, And all the wicked language knew; Till one day, at an oath suppressed, He finished it, with swelling breast. Loud was the praise, great the applause; Poor Ver-Vert proudly looked around, He, too, could speak by boatman's laws, He, too, this glorious half had found. Then to his genius giving play, He cursed and swore the livelong day. Fatal example this, how pride

Young hearts from heaven may turn aside.

And watching every sail that flits

Across the wave, each, in her dream,
The bark that brings the saint Ver-Vert.
He knew-corrupted bird-aright,
By that half-opened eye, that bare

And scanty dress, those gloves so white,
The cross-by all these tokens good-
He knew, he knew the sisterhood.
Seeing her there, he trembled first,
And then in under ones he cursed,
For much he feared, and much he sighed,
Thinking that all the blasphemies
In which he took such joy and pride
Would change again to litanies.
And then he shrieked; she seized the cage,
In vain he pecked in useless rage;

Bit the poor sister here and there, For still she bore him to his fate, Arrived within the convent gate,

And told the advent of Ver-Vert. The rumor ran. They ring the bells, The sisters troop from choir and cells: "'Tis he, my sister, come at last."

They fly, they run, the old forget
The burden of the winters past;

Some who were never known as yet
To haste their steps, came running now
All joyous, eager all, and bright,
As happy as if Ver-Vert's sight
Released them all from convent vow.

They see at last, and cannot tire,
That form so full of youth and fire:
For Ver-Vert, though now steeped in harm
Had not, therefore, become less fair;
That warlike eye, that dandy air,
Lent him at least a novel charm.
Ah, heaven! why on a traitor's face
Waste all this beauty, all this grace?

The sisters, charmed with such a bird,
Press round him, chattering all at once,
As is the way, I'm told, with nuns;

That even thunder fell unheard.
He during all the clatter sat,
Deigning no word, or this, or that.
Only with strange libertine gaze,

Rolling his eyes from nun to nun.
First scandal. Not without amaze,
The holy ladies saw how one
So pious could so rudely stare.
Then came the Prioress, and there
First questioned him. For answer all,
Disdainfully spread his wings,
Careless what horror might befall,

And thus replied to these poor things,
"Par le corbleu! Lord! Lord, what fools!"
At this infringement of the rules
Which mere politeness teaches, "Fie,
My dearest brother," one began.
In mocking tones he made reply,
Till cold her very life-blood ran.

"Great Heaven! Is this a sorcerer?

Is this the saintly praying bird They boast so much of at Nevers,

Ver-Vert, of whom so much is heard?
Is this-" Here Ver-Vert, sad to say,
Took up the tale in his new way.
He imitated first the young,
The novices with chattering tongue;
Their babble and their little ways,
Their yawning fits at times of praise.

Then turning to the ancient ones,
Whose virtues brought respect to Nantes,
He mocked at large their nasal chants,
Their coughs, their grumblings, and their
groans.

But worse to follow. Filled with rage,
He beat his wings and bit the cage,
He thundered sacrilegious words
Ne'er heard before from beak of birds;
All that he'd learned on board the ship
Headlong from that corrupted lip

Fell mid the crowd-words strange to see
(Mostly beginning with a d)
Hovered about his impious beak-

The young nuns thought him talking Greek,
Till with an oath so full, so round,

That even the youngest understood,
He ended. At the frightful sound
Multivious fled the sisterhood,
All smitten with terrific panic,
Ran pell mell from the imp Satanic;
'Twas by a fall that Mother Ruth
Then lost her last remaining tooth.

Ver-Vert, replaced his cage within,
The nuns resolved without delay
To purge the place of heinous sin

And send the peccant bird away.
The pilgrim asks for nought beside,
He is proscribed, pronounced accurst,
Guilty pronounced of having tried

The virtue of the nuns; called worst
Of parrots. All in order due

Attest the truth of this decree, Yet weep that one so fair to view So very black of heart should be. He goes, by the same sister borne,

But now with feelings changed and sad. Ver-Vert, of all his honors shorn, Is yet resigned, and even glad. So is brought back to Nevers. Here, Alas! alas! new scandals come. Untaught by shame, untouched by fear, With wicked words he welcomes home. To these kind ladies manifests,

Reading the dreadful letter through, With boatmen's oaths and soldiers' jests,

That all their sisters' wrath was true. What steps to take? Their cheeks are pale, Their senses overwhelmed with grief,

VOL. V.-W. H.

With mantles long, with double veil,
In council high they seek relief.
Nine ancient nuns the conclave make-
Nine centuries assembled seem-
Here without hope for old love's sake,
Far from the girls whose eyes would stream
At thought of hurting him, the bird,
Chained to his perch, is duly heard.
No good he has to say. They vote.
Two sibyls write the fatal word
Of death; and two, more kindly taught,
Propose to send him back again
To that profane stream whence he came,
Brought by a Brahmin. These in vain-
The rest resolve, in common sense,
Two months of total abstinence.
Three of retreat, of silence four-
Garden and biscuits, board and bed,
And play-shall be prohibited.
Nor this the whole; in all the space
Forbidden to see a pretty face.
A jailer harsh, a guardian grim,
With greatest care they chose for him,
The oldest, ugliest, sourest nun,
An ape in veils, a skeleton,
Bent double with her eighty years-
Would move the hardest sinner's tears.

So passed Ver-Vert his term; in spite
Of all his jailer's jealous care,
The sisters gave him some delight,

And now and then improved his fare. But chained and caged, in dungeon fast, Bitter the sweetest almonds taste. Taught by his sufferings to be wise, Touched, may be, by their tearful eyes, The contrite parrot tries to turn

Repentant thoughts from things of ill, Gives all his mind again to learn, Recovers soon his ancient skill, And shows as pious as a dean.

Sure the conversion is not feigned,
The ancient conclave meet again,

And to his prison put an end.
Oh! happy day when Ver-Vert, free,
Returns the sisters' pet to be.
A real fête, a day of joy,
With no vexation, no annoy, ̧
Each moment given up to mirth,

And all by love together bound.
But ah! the fleeting joy of earth,

Unstable, untrustworthy found.
The songs, and chants, and joyful hours,
The dormitory wreathed with flowers,
Full liberty, a tumult sweet,

And nothing, nothing that could tell
Of sorrow hiding 'neath their feet,
Of death advancing to their cell.
Passing too quick from diet rude,
From plain dry bread to richer food,

13

With sugar tempted, crammed with sweets,
Tempted with almonds and such meats,
Poor Ver-Vert feels his roses change
Into the cypress dark and strange.
He droops, he sinks. In vain they try
By every art to stave off fate.
Their very love makes Ver-Vert worse,
Their cares his death accelerate,
Victim of love, of love he tires,
And with a few last words expires.
These last words, very hard to hear,
Vain consolation, pious were.

THE TOWN DRUMMER. For many a year one Robin Boss had been town drummer;-he was a relic of some American war fencibles, and was, to say the God's truth of him, a divor bodie, with no manner of conduct, saving a very earnest endeavor to fill himself fou as often as he could get the means; the consequence of which was, that his face was as plooky as a curran bun, and his nose as red as a partan's tae.

One afternoon there was a need to send out a proclamation to abolish a practice that was growing a custom in some of the by-parts of the town-of keeping swine at large ordering them to be confined in proper styes, and other suitable places. As on all occasions when the matter to be proclaimed was from the magistrates, Robin, on this, was attended by the town officers in their Sunday garbs, and with their halberts in their hand; but the abominable and irreverent creature was so drunk that he wamblet to and fro over the drum, as if there had not been a bane in his body. He was seemingly as soople and as senseless as a bolster. Still, as this was no new thing with him, it might have passed; for James Hound, the senior officer, was in the practice, when Robin was in that state, of reading the proclamation himself. On this occasion, however, James happened to be absent on some hue-and-cry quest, and another of the officers (I forget which) was appointed to perform for him. Robin, accustomed to James, no sooner heard the other man begin to read, than he began to curse and swear at him as an incapable nincompoop —an impertinent term that he was much addicted to. The grammar-school was at the time skayling, and the boys, seeing the stramash, gathered round the officer, and, yelling and shouting, encouraged

Robin more and more into rebellion, till at last they worked up his corruption to such a pitch that he took the drum from about his neck and made it fly like a bombshell at the officer's head.

The officers behaved very well, for they dragged Robin by the lug and the horn to the tolbooth, and then came with their complaint to me. Seeing how the authorities had been set at nought, and the necessity there was of making an example, I forthwith ordered Robin to be cashiered from the service of the town, and, as so important a concern as a proclamation ought not to be delayed, I likewise, upon the spot, ordered the officers to take a lad that had been also a drummer in a marching regiment, and go with him to make the proclamation.

Nothing could be done in a more earnest and zealous public spirit than this was done by me. But habit had begot in the town a partiality for the drunken ne'erdo-weel Robin, and this just act of mine was immediately condemned as a daring stretch of arbitrary power; and the consequence was, that when the council met next day, some sharp words flew among us, as to my usurping an undue authority, and the thank I got for my pains was the mortification to see the worthless bodie restored to full power and dignity with no other reward than an admonition to behave better for the future. Now, I leave it to the unbiased judgment of posterity to determine if any public man could be more ungraciously treated by his colleagues than I was on this occasion.

THE GOOD-HUMORED CLUB.

A man who has it in his power to choose his own company, would certainly be much to blame, should he not, to the best of his judgment, take such as are of a temper most suitable to his own; and where that choice is wanting, or where a man is mistaken in his choice, and yet under a necessity of continuing in the same company, it will certainly be his interest to carry himself as easily as possible.

In this I am sensible I do but repeat what has been said a thousand times, at which, however, I think nobody has any title to take exception but they who never failed to put this in practice. Not to use any longer preface, this being the season of the year in which great numbers of all sorts of people retire from this place of business and pleasure to country solitude, I think it not improper to advise them to take with them as great a stock of good-humor as they can; for, though a country life is described as the most pleasant of all others, and though it may in truth be so, yet it is so only to those who know how to enjoy leisure and retire

ment.

As for those who cannot live without the constant helps of business or company, let them consider that in the country there is no Exchange, there are no playhouses, no variety of coffeehouses, nor many of those other amusements which serve here as So many reliefs from the repeated occurrences in their own families; but that there the greatest part of their time must be spent within themselves, and, consequently, it behoves them to consider how agreeable it will be to them before they leave this dear town.

I remember, Mr. Spectator, we were very well entertained last year with the advices you gave us from Sir Roger's country-seat; which I the rather mention because it is almost impossible not to live pleasantly where the master of a family is such a one as you there describe your friend, who cannot therefore (I mean as to his domestic character) be too often recommended to the imitation of others. How amiable is that affability and benevolence with which he treats his neighbors, and every one, even the meanest of his own family! and yet how seldom imi

tated! Instead of which we commonly meet with ill-natured expostulations, noise, and chidings- And this ĺ hinted, because the humor and disposition of the head is what chiefly influences all the other parts of a family.

An agreement and kind correspondence between friends and acquaintance is the greatest pleasure of life. This is an undoubted truth; and yet any man who judges from the practice of the world will be almost persuaded to believe the contrary; for how can we suppose people should be so industrious to make themselves uneasy? What can engage them to entertain and foment jealousies of one another upon every the least occasion? Yet so it is, there are people who (as it should seem) delight in being troublesome and vexatious, who (as Tully speaks) mira sunt alacritate ad litigandum, "have a certain cheerfulness in wrangling." And thus it happens that there are very few families in which there are not feuds and animosities, though it is everyone's interest, there more particularly, to avoid them, because there (as I would willingly hope) no one gives another uneasiness without feeling some share of it. But I am gone beyond what I designed, and had almost forgot what I chiefly proposed; which was barely to tell you how hardly we, who pass most of our time in town, dispense with a long vacation in the country; how uneasy we grow to ourselves, and to one another, when our conversation is confined; insomuch that, by Michaelmas, it is odds but we come to downright squabbling, and make as free with one another to our faces as we do with the rest of the world behind their backs. After I have told you this. I am to desire that you would now and then give us a lesson on good-humor, a familypiece, which, since we are all very fond of you, I hope may have some influence upon us.

After these plain observations, give me leave to give you a hint of what a set of company of my acquaintance, who are now gone into the country and have the use of an absent nobleman's seat, have settled among themselves to avoid the inconveniences above mentioned. They are a collection of ten or twelve, of the same good inclination towards each other, but of very different talents and inclinations; from hence they hope that the