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“ You've won the great world's envied prize

And grand you look in people's eyes,
With H. O. N. and LL.D.,
In big, brave letters fair to see !

Your fist, old fellow !" off they go! “How are you, Bill ?” “How are you, Joe Pop

“ You've worn the judge's ermine robe;

You've taught your name to half the globe;
You've sung mankind a deathless strain;

You've made the dead past live again.
The world may call you what it will,
But you

and I are Joe and Bill.”

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The chaffing young folks stare and say, “ See those old buffers, bent and gray ; They talk like fellows in their teens. Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means And shake their heads. They little know The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe!

How Bill forgets his hour of pride
While Joe sits smiling at his side;
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.

Ah! pensive scholar, what is fame?
A fitful tongue of leaping flame-
A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust!
A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe?

The weary idol takes his stand,
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go-
How vain it seems, this empty show!
Till all at once his pulses thrill-

poor old Joe's “ God bless you, Bill!”

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And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears,
In some sweet lull of harp and song,
For earth-born spirits none too long,
Just whispering of the world below,
Where this was Bill, and that was Joe?

No matter; while our home is here
No sounding name is half so dear.
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares


tombstones say?
Read on the hearts that love us still :
Hic jacet Joe! Hic jacet Bill!



From the Pickwick Papers.

“NOW, TOW," said Wardle, after a substantial lunch,

“what say you to an hour on the ice? Wo shall have plenty of time.”

“Capital !” said Mr. Benjamin Allen.
“Prime !" ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer.
“You skate, of course, Winkle ?” said Wardle.

Ye-yes; O yes," replied Mr. Winkle. "I-I-am

rather out of practice."

“O, do skate, Mr. Winkle," said Arabella. “I like to see it so much."

“O, it is so graceful,” said another young lady.

A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that it was “swanlike."

“I should be very happy, I'm sure,” said Mr. Winkle, reddening ; " but I have no skates."

" This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple of pairs, and the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more down stairs; whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely uncomfortable.

Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy and Mr. Weller having shoveled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvelous, and described circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies; which reached a pitch of positive enthusiasm when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the aforesaid Bob Sawyer, performed some mystic evolutions which they called a reel.

All this time Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold, had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting his skates on, with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very complicated and entangled state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than a


Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.

“Now, then, sir," said Sam, in an encouraging tone, “off with you, and show 'em how to do it.”

“Stop, Sam, stop!” said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching hold of Sam's arm with the grasp of a drowning man. “How slippery it is, Sam !"

“Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Hold up, sir!"


! This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demonstration Mr. Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice.

" These—these—are very awkward skates," said Mr. Winkle, staggering.

“Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was anything the matter. the ladies are all anxiety."

“Yes, yes,” replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. “I'm coming."

"Just going to begin," said Sam, endeavoring to disengage himself. “Now, sir, start off!”

Stop an instant, Sam,” gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately to Mr. Weller. “I find I've got a couple of coats at home that I don't want, Sam. You may have them, Sam.”

“ Thank'ee, sir," replied Mr. Weller.

“ Never mind touching your hat, Sam,” said Mr. Winkle, hastily. “You needn't take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it to you this afternoon, Sam."


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“You're very good, sir," replied Mr. Weller.

“ Just hold me at first, Sam, will you ?” said Mr. Winkle, “ There--that's right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam,-not too fast !”

Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half doubled

up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller in a very singular and un-swanlike manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank,—“Sam!”

“ Sir! shouted back Mr. Weller. “ Here! I want you.”

“Let go, sir,” said Sam. ernor calling ? Let go,

sir.” With a violent effort Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the agonized Pickwickian, and in so doing administered a considerable impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty.

Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind in skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance.

"Are you hurt ?” inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.

“Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.

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