THIRD OLD HUMBUG.

Dear Smith and Brown, of parted hours
     Your talk is void and vain,
They’re gone—God wot! Let’s bless our lot!
     They cannot come again.
Each age has its appointed joy,
     And each its heavy load,
And I for one would not retrace
     My footsteps on the road.
I know no Time, but present Time,
     And if the claret flow—
And we enjoy it—why recall
     Twice twenty years ago?

I know I’ve had my share of joy,
     I know I’ve suffered long,
I know I’ve tried to do the right,
     Although I’ve done the wrong.
I know ’mid all my pleasures past,
     That sleep has been the best,
And that I’m weary, very weary,
     And soon shall be at rest.
Yet all the same I cling to life,
     “To be” is all I know,
And if I’m right, I knew no more,
     Twice twenty years ago.

THE YOUNG HUMBUG.

You dear old humbugs, Jones and Smith,
     Thou dear old humbug, Brown,
You live like oysters, though not half
     So useful to the town.
I’ll lead a nobler life than yours,
     While yet my youth remains,
And gather up a store of gold
     To heal old Age’s pains.
You’ve had your pleasures as you went
     In driblets small and thin,
I’ll have my pleasures in the lump,
     And end where you begin.

I’ll carve and care, I’ll stint and spare,
     And heap up sum on sum,
To make myself a millionnaire
     Before old Age shall come.
I’ll flaunt the rich, I’ll feed the poor,
     And on the scroll of Fame,
So large that all the world may read,
     I’ll write my honest name!

CHORUS OF OLD HUMBUGS.

Yes! Fool! and when you’re old as we,
     You’ll find, on verge of death,
That little pleasures are the best,
     And Fame—not worth a breath.

IN SEVILLE.

I WAS in Seville a few weeks ago, when
Isabella still was Queen. A traveller’s first impression
in Seville is that of being perpetually
stared at. In the streets, at the theatres, in the
churches, at the Mesa rodonda (table d’hôte), it
is all the same. Spanish politeness seems to
have gone the way of Spanish debentures; a
stranger who is inclined for a lounge will attract
about the same amount of respectful attention
as a giraffe taking the air in the Strand. A good
wholesome English beard is the thing of all others
to excite wrath; it would be less conspicuous,
perhaps, to wear a tail. The full-grown beard
of Britain is too nearly allied to the Moorish
or Israelitish appendage to be tolerated by
orthodox believers, who shave off the whiskers,
and trim the hair on the chin to a fine
Vandyke point. An Englishman with a white
beard was not long ago pelted in one of the
squares of Seville. That city is very sensitive
also on the subject of bonnets, or ladies’ hats.
It would be about as safe to wear a Moorish
turban. Probably, it is only intended as a
tribute of respect to the national Mantilla,
that fashionably dressed young men stand still
and laugh aloud, as an English lady passes
by.

Whether the tired traveller will sleep at night
in Seville, depends upon the view he may take
of street noises. If he has gone through a preparatory
course of having chain-cables hauled
over his berth on board ship, he may possibly
be soothed to rest by mule-bells, which are like
tin-kettles with stones in them, and the rattle
whereof is incessant. Mellowed by the distance
of a mile or so, the sound may have a charm;
but it certainly is not to be discovered when it
is continued all night immediately under your
bedroom window.

The watchmen too, are very obliging. They
prowl about with halberds and lanterns, and
insist upon telling you the time every half-hour,
accompanying their intimation by a prolonged
howl, which is supposed to be “Ave
Maria purissima,” and so on. By about three
A.M. the church bells are stirring. These instruments
of torture are suspended to a beam
which revolves on pivots, and the bell is pushed
by a man, like a swing, and turns over and
over, ringing as it goes. So, between mule-bells
on the earth, and church bells in the
sky, the traveller may improve his sleepless
nights by extending his acquaintance with
campanology.

If the people of Seville be dirty, it is their
own fault, for the town abounds in excellent
and well arranged baths. The only difficulty is
in getting the water cold. You state your
wishes, the attendant shrugs his shoulders and,
while your back is turned, secretly lets a quantity
of hot water in, under the impression that you
are mad, and that no created constitution could
survive the shock of a cold bath.

A visit to the correo, or post-office, for the
purpose of despatching a foreign letter, is rather
an exhilirating operation. A knock at the
inquiry window produces a lean and smoke-dried
individual, who, on learning the destination
of the letter, explains how much the postage
will amount to. The window in question is
barred with a close iron grating, and the
general air of the place is that of a rather
disreputable prison. If the window bars are
intended as a precaution against felony, they
would seem superfluous, for a comprehensive
view of the interior reveals nothing to steal,
except the hungry-looking clerk himself, and an
enormous deal counter. The next process is to
ascertain that the letter does not exceed the