Yet these are few to speak of, in the hosts
Of human sewage flung upon our coasts.
The better emigrant seeks distant lands,
The lower type is thrown upon our hands.
The Liffey to the Mersey joins its flood;

The Thames is festering, rank, with German mud ;
The busy Frenchman and the scheming Greek
Seek England's shores, and with good reason seek;
Include each form of traffic in their range,
And make a Babel upon each Exchange.
They owe no duty to the land they drain,
They see no home where they collect their gain.
They're keen, because they've nothing else to do;
They're shrewd, since nothing else distracts their view
Thus the trained hawk his quarry best descries,
Who wears, when idle, blinkers on his eyes.
Wherever you turn, the foreigner you meet;
A German band howls out in every street.
Hither they come in swarms which never cease;
Now win their spoils by war and now by peace.
That street whose graceful curves and lines denote
The Regent's figure in the Regent's coat,
With foreign shops invites the passer by
While foreign harlots in the Circus ply,
The venal nymphs, who mighty paniers wear,
And mightier pyramids of yellow hair.
Thy damsels, England, one and all confess
The demi-monde's consummate taste in dress.
These are the simpler arts, and these alone,
Which virtue, youth, and beauty make their own.
For when the natural charm begins to fail,
A Rachel beautifies a Borrodaile.

Hither from Hambro, Frankfort, Riga, Kiehl, From Smyrna, Scio, Athens, thousands steal; From Cork, from Galway, Dublin, or Belfast, Eastward or westward, here they stop at last; Half London is a foreign colony,

Half Liverpool is now, or soon will be;

Each country under heaven transports its hordes,
Our servants now, and presently our lords;
This one is versatile, and that is bold,

Each with his native brass wins British gold.
Your Schneider's talk all parallel defies,

More dark than Hegel, more than Breitmann wise.

Who are these strangers, what do they profess? No bushel hides the light which they possess. What do they bring to this benighted land? What do they not, say rather, understand? Whatever art and science may be known, They vow they know it, and they know alone. Give them a chance, and trust them for the rest, They'll hold their own, and hold it with the best. If heaven were worth their pains, or did it pay, Through heaven itself these men would force their way. But what's more germane to their highest aims, Some back-stairs influence puffs and puffs their claims.

This is the crew I fly from. Shall I see
Hybrids like these take precedence of me?
Shall these adventurers strive, and take our place,
These men of guttural names and dubious race?-
Who six years since, before they made a noise,
Came here with Hambro sherry, hemp, and toys.
Is it no matter that such stocks as ours
Have been the source of all this country's powers;
Have laid the broad foundations of the state,
Built up the nation and made England great?
That now, like vultures scenting out a prey,
These supple tradesmen hustle us away—
Give them their way, in every English place
The rarest sight will be an English face;
Give them their way, and then the ocean o'er
Self-banished, he will seek another shore.
Where for some time, until there's cream to skim,
These keen-eyed cormorants will not follow him.

We quit our country, yielding to their claims,
And they take all, ay, even take our names.
Manasseh, Cohen, Levi, Israel, soon
Are Massey, Lewis, Raleigh, and Colquhoun.
But when his tongue the adopted Saxon plies,
The voice of Jacob breaks the thin disguise,
And by its nasal snuffle, to our view,
Betrays the patriarch and unmasks the Jew.

Think you that such as these would sacrifice
One single penny of the market price?

Would, if the land which makes them rich and great,
Ran any risk, a single farthing bate?

Would, if it staked upon some desperate strife
All well-earned wealth, and every worthy life,
Fail to exact the profit that they might,
Or fancy wholesale knavery not their right?
Learn, from the story of unhappy France,
The nation's agony's the tradesman's chance.
Although the storm is high, the sky is dark,
Gambetta strives to save the shattered bark;
Hope seems to smile upon his desperate feats,
He fails, because he's forced to trade with cheats.
The people gives its blood, its cash, its toil,
While sharp contractors carry off the spoil.

Patriots, I know, are very dubious men,
Not one is honest out of every ten.
The cry is easy, and one cannot tell
Whether its crier means to buy or sell;
To make some profit from the stuff he says,
And help some folly, if he sees it pays.
So smashers, for their proper ends, may join
To aid the Mint in issuing current coin;
And, if no practised eye the fraud detects,
May furnish Tomline more than he expects.
But they who never let one generous thought
Enter the workshop where their wealth is wrought;
Who never occupy
their heart and brain

With any higher end than sordid gain—
Enough of this, since time would not suffice

To illustrate the mongrel and his vice."

The Widow has it.

BY "OLD CALABAR."

"They wos all widders, Sammy, all on 'em, 'cept the camomile tea vun, as wos a single young lady o' fifty-three."

"MONEY, sir!" exclaimed old Colonel Martinette, who was flattening his "jolly red nose" against the window of the Senior United. "He won't know what to do with it. I give you my honour, sir, as an officer and a gentleman, I don't believe he can ever spend it all. It's an emense sum-an e- -mense sum." He quite forgot that as a young man it had not taken him long to run through sixty thousand pounds. "Ah!" said his friend, who was assiduously using a gold toothpick to his false teeth, "you don't know what he can do till he tries.'

"I know one thing," answered the Colonel; "that he won't part easily with any. I tried him on, sir, for a couple of thou.; but not a farthing, sir-by the living Harry! not a farthing-could I get out of him. I, his uncle, went away from his house with pockets to let." "Well, that was hard lines, Colonel !"

"Lines, sir! damn him! I wish I had him in the lines. I'd break the infernal fellow's back. I'd have a roll-call every two hours; and the rest of the time he should be at rope-drill, or in heavy marching order. I'd-I'd

"But what excuse did he give you?" asked the other.

Excuse! Why, he said that the purchasing and furnishing of his town house-the painting and redecorating of his country onehis yacht at Cowes-his new horses and carriages-with various other items, would take all his spare money; that he was now expected to keep up an appearance and position in society; that servants and large establishments were expensive, and all that sort of rot; that he had an idea of marrying and settling down; and the necessity of saving something for a rainy day. Why, hang him! his box at the opera costs more than I have for a year's income. By gad, I

But did he actually refuse you?" persisted the other. "Well, no, not exactly," replied the Colonel, turning as red as he well could. "He said he would let me have five hundred if I'd put down a certain little establishment at Brompton. Damme, sir, I'm a bachelor, and can do as I choose. Fancy, sir, a young man of sixand-twenty, with thirty thousand a year, dictating to his uncle, and offering him five hundred pounds on certain conditions. By gad, it's monstrous."

Young Arthur Martinette, the inheritor of the fortune alluded to, was the only son of a drysalter, who had taken his leave of the world some months previous to the time we are speaking of. He had died unknown and unheard of, except by his city friends and acquaintances.

Arthur, who had been left everything, burst like a meteor on the town. All were eager to know him and make his acquaintance; poor relations turned up in scores, and rich ones he had hardly ever heard of now condescended to know him-his uncle amongst the number. Arthur Martinette had not been educated at a public school, where a lad can make swell acquaintances who are useful in after life; but he had been well educated, his old father had not been niggardly with him; he had made him a fair allowance, and let him live like a gentleman.

"I don't want my boy," he said, "to wish for my death because I won't give him sufficient for his expenses. Young men will be young men, and Arthur shall do as the rest do." So Arthur had his couple of hunters and a small manor to shoot over.

He was a nice, quiet, gentlemanly, good-looking fellow, with plenty of common sense, which is not a common thing with young men of means of the present day. He rode fairly, fished fairly, and shot fairly. He detested the drysalting business; but it was too good a thing to give up. So when he came into the property he left it to the management of his father's old confidential clerk, whom he knew he could trust.

George was fond of farming; he had a nice estate in Wiltshire, not too far from London, and a canny Scotchman as his bailiff. He liked yachting-in fact, all country amusements. A friend of his having made the pace too hot to last, Arthur took his hundred-ton schooner off his hands at a moderate price. He was not a racing or betting man, but he liked to see a race, and was fond of horses; so he kept his two riding ones, and three or four for carriage work, and was now on the look-out for half-a-dozen hunters for the coming season. He had a stall at the opera, which his uncle magnified into a box.

As Arthur Martinette had plenty of means, he did not see why he should not enjoy himself, like other men similarly situated. Many men of his club had volunteered to introduce him into society, though as yet he had declined all offers. His uncle had been most pressing on this point; but as that gentleman's acquaintances were somewhat doubtful, he had not availed himself of his services.

Arthur wished to get into good society; and he resolved that if he, with his fortune, could not get into the best, he would go into none.

One night, as he was waiting his turn for his carriage to come up to take him from the opera, a fine white-headed old gentleman, who had been standing by him, was taken suddenly faint, for the heat was