In his religion he is a materialist, putting no faith but in things palpable. In politics, no visionary; in his learning a smatterer, his knowledge of all being superficial; in his age a child, being yet in leading-strings; in his life immortal, for death may lengthen his night, but can put no end to his days; in his courage, heroic, for he winks at no danger; in his pretensions humble, confessing that he is nothing, even in his own eyes; in his malady hopeless, for eyes of _looking_-glass would not help him to see. To conclude--he is pitied by the rich, relieved by the poor, oppressed by the beadle, and horse-whipped by the fox-hunter, for not giving the view holloa! [Illustration: “BE TO THEIR FAULTS A LITTLE BLIND.”] THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION. A PATHETIC BALLAD. “Oh flesh, flesh how art thou fishified.”--MERCUTIO. I. ’Twas twelve o’clock by Chelsea chimes, When all in hungry trim, Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup With wife, and Kate, and Jim. II. Said he, “Upon this dainty cod How bravely I shall sup,”-- When, whiter than the table-cloth, A GHOST came rising up! III. “O, father dear, O, mother dear, Dear Kate, and brother Jim,-- You know when some one went to sea,-- Don’t cry--but I am him! IV. “You hope some day with fond embrace To greet your absent Jack, But oh, I am come here to say I’m never coming back! V. “From Alexandria we set sail, With corn, and oil, and figs, But steering ‘too much Sow,’ we struck Upon the Sow and Pigs! VI. “The Ship we pump’d till we could see Old England from the tops; When down she went with all our hands, Right in the Channel’s Chops. VII. “Just give a look in Norey’s chart, The very place it tells; I think it says twelve fathom deep, Clay bottom, mixed with shells. VIII. “Well, there we are till ‘hands aloft,’ We have at last a call; The pug I had for brother Jim, Kate’s parrot too, and all. IX. “But oh, my spirit cannot rest, In Davy Jones’s sod, Till I’ve appear’d to you and said,-- Don’t sup on that ’ere Cod! X. “You live on land, and little think What passes in the sea; Last Sunday week, at 2 P.M., That cod was picking me! XI. “Those oysters too, that look so plump, And seem so nicely done, They put my corpse in many shells, Instead of only one. XII. “O, do not eat those oysters then, And do not touch the shrimps; When I was in my briny grave, They suck’d my blood like imps! XIII. “Don’t eat what brutes would never eat, The brutes I used to pat, They’ll know the smell they used to smell; Just try the dog and cat!” XIV. The Spirit fled--they wept his fate, And cried, Alack, alack! At last up started brother Jim. “Let’s try if Jack was Jack!” XV.