Then calm I drew my night-cap on,
  Nor bondsman was for what went on
      Ere morning in the heavens;
  Twas no concern of mine to fix
  The Pleiades at seven or six,—­
  But now the omnium genitrix
      Seems all at sixes and sevens.

  Alas, ’twas in an evil hour
  We signed the paper for the tower,
      With Mrs. D. to head it! 
  For, if the Council have their way,
  We’ve merely had, as Frenchmen say,
  The painful maladie du pay,
      While they get all the credit!

  Boys, henceforth doomed to spell Trustees,
  Think not it ends in double ease
      To those who hold the office;
  Shun Science as you would Despair,
  Sit not in Cassiopeia’s chair,
  Nor hope from Berenice’s hair
      To bring away your trophies!

THE POCKET-CELEBRATION OF THE FOURTH.

Well, it has happened, and we have survived it pretty well.  The Democratic Almanacs predicted a torrent, a whirlwind, and we know not what meteoric phenomena,—­but the next day Nature gave no sign, the dome of the State-House was in its place, the Monument was as plumb as ever, no chimney mourned a ravished brick, and the Republican Party took its morning tea and toast in peace and safety.  On the whole, it must be considered a wonderful escape.  Since Partridge’s time there had been no such prophecies,—­since Miller’s, no such perverse disobligingness in the event.

But what had happened?  Why, the Democratic Young Men’s Celebration, to be sure, and Mr. Choate’s Oration.

The good city of Boston in New England, for we know not how many years, had been in the habit of celebrating the National Birthday, first, with an oration, as became the Athens of America, and second, with a dinner, as was meet in the descendants of Teutonic forefathers.  The forenoon’s oration glorified us in the lump as a people, and every man could reckon and appropriate his own share of credit by the simple arithmetical process of dividing the last census by the value he set upon himself, a divisor easily obtained by subtracting from the total of inhabitants in his village the number of neighbors whom he considered ciphers.  At the afternoon’s dinner, the pudding of praise was served out in slices to favored individuals; dry toasts were drunk by drier dignitaries; the Governor was compared to Solon; the Chief Justice to Brutus; the Orator of the Day to Demosthenes; the Colonel of the Boston Regiment to Julius Caesar; and everybody went home happy from a feast where the historic parallels were sure to hold out to the last Z in Lempriere.