Till at last in St. Stephen’s both early and late, To divide for his party he bends to his fate, Despis’d, poor and feeble he votes for each bill, Brought in by the minister’s paramount will, And now blank and silent an object of scorn, On the very same bench he was used to adorn, While his memory the treasury whipper-in jogs, The young politician is gone to the dogs. _Figaro in London._ October 13, 1832. ―――― THE HIGH-METTLED RAZOR. Since of course we want razors when manhood’s begun, Lest profusion of beard should our faces o’errun, A thousand strange methods are found every year, And Mechi and Rodgers assail our young ear, When we next, like a vain beau, direct that our crest, Silver-mounted, should be on the handle impressed, Scarcely scraping a hair in our downy estate, The High-mettled Razor first ranks among plate. The next ten years turn out, and we need not now blush To be caught when we’re soaping our beard with a brush, For we _have_ one at length, and we need not say nay, Should any one ask if we shave every day. While alike born for scrapes in our life’s daily course, Always sure to come through with a cut, if not worse; When we’re barely shaved down just to what Fashion saith, The High-mettled Razor now bores us to death. Grown rusty, used up, and turned dull as a spud, Notched, blunted, and always, when used, drawing blood; While, knowing its past deeds, its misdeeds we trace, Tell, “This notch cut my finger, and this cut my face;” And what dangers we’ve run, we could quickly count o’er, As we wasted our time, and our temper, and gore; When the shaving doth gall, and the steel our chins goad. The Dull-mettled Razor’s put out of the road. At length they’ve improved it, before ’tis too late, And Mechi and Rodgers must bend to their fate; And barbers will soon have to work the tread-mill, If their razors are brought to a daily stand-still. For now, with its works nearly hid from our view, In the very same chair in which we must sit too, While a music-box plays like a musical elf, The High-mettled Razor doth _shave us itself_.” CUTHBERT BEDE. (This amusing parody, by the author of _Verdant Green_, originally appeared in _Punch_. It was afterwards included in _Medley_, a small shilling volume of light reading published by James Blackwood in 1856. The last verse referred to the invention by a joiner, at North Shields, of a machine which was to lather and shave a man whilst seated in an arm-chair.) ―――― THE HIGH METTLED GUARDSMAN.