He could have found their remedy, and soon; But green--it sent him up among the clouds, As if he had gone up with Green’s balloon! Black with Black Jaundice he had seen the skin; From Yellow Jaundice yellow, From saffron tints to sallow;-- Then retrospective memory lugg’d in Old Purple Face, the Host at Kentish Town-- East Indians, without number, He knew familiarly, by heat done Brown, From tan to a burnt umber, Ev’n those eruptions he had never seen Of which the Caledonian Poet spoke, As “_rashes_ growing green!” “Pooh! pooh! a rash grow green! Nothing of course but a broad Scottish joke!” Then as to flaming visages, for those The Scarlet Fever answer’d, or the Rose-- But verdant that was quite a novel stroke! Men turn’d to blue, by Cholera’s last stage, In common practice he had really seen; But green--he was too old, and grave, and sage, To think of the last stage to Turnham Green! So matters stood in-doors--meanwhile without, Growing in going like all other rumours, The modern miracle was buzz’d about, By People of all humours, Native or foreign in their dialecticals; Till all the neighbourhood, as if their noses Had taken the odd gross from little Moses, Seem’d looking thro’ green spectacles. “Green faces!” so they all began to comment-- “Yes--opposite to Druggist’s lighted shops, But that’s a flying colour--never stops-- A bottle-green that’s vanished in a moment. Green! nothing of the sort occurs to mind, Nothing at all to match the present piece; Jack in the Green has nothing of the kind-- Green-grocers are not green--nor yet green geese!” The oldest Supercargoes of Old Sailors Of such a case had never heard, From Emerald Isle to Cape de Verd; “Or Greenland!” cried the whalers. All tongues were full of the Green man, and still They could not make him out, with all their skill; No soul could shape the matter, head or tail-- But truth steps in where all conjectures fail. A long half-hour, in needless puzzle, Our Galen’s cane had rubbed against his muzzle: He thought, and thought, and thought, and thought, and thought-- And still it came to nought, When up rush’d Betty, loudest of Town Criers, “Lord, Ma’am, the new Police is at the door! It’s B, ma’am, Twenty-four,-- As brought home Mr. S. to Austin Friars, And says there’s nothing but a simple case-- He got that ‘ere green face By sleeping in the kennel near the Dyer’s!” * * * * * BEN BLUFF. A PATHETIC BALLAD. “Pshaw, you are not on a whaling voyage, where everything that offers is game.”--THE PILOT.