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Dix. Wa-a-1, I calculate we'll agree about that when you've settled.

Count. Settled ! Vere's your bill ?-(Dıx gives it to him.)-Eh! vat all dese scharge ? (Reads.) To six weeks board and lodgeeng, at tree dollare per veek-(you tell me two dollare ven I come !)-eighteen dollare !

To fuel during that time—(va-a-t dat !)—six dollare!
To lights—(mon Dieu !)—two dollare !
To extras—(milles tonnerres !)—four dollare !
To sundries—(vat soondries ?)—five dollare, fifty cent!
To interest on amount,-say--(cochon !)—fifty cent!

Thirty-six dollare ! Oh, c'est trop-dis is infamous. Ah, vat you call extrass, e_h_h? Vat you call sondrees?

Dix. Wa-a-l, I call sodgers for breakfast, extras,-and lunch and beer, extras,—and dinner after time, extras,—and horse-radish, and garding truck, and long sarce, extras,-and Welsh rabbit for supper, extras

Count. Dat extrass, e-h-h? Vell, vat sondrees ?,

Dix. Sundries ?-Wa-a-l, I calculate readin' my paper 's sundries—and another blanket's sundries—and gettin' your grate sot is—sundries-and

Count. And you tink I pay him, eh? Nevare!

Dix. Neöw, Jovanny, I must say it 's darned mean in you to grumble at my bill, considerin' you ’ve won so much from me at dominoes--darned mean !

Count. Begar, I vill not pay him. Peste !--Diable! —'tis von grand imposition.

Dix. You can't come that over me, Jovanny. You jest better say nothin' about it, and deown with your dust, or you 'll get into a peck o' troubles. You 've got to du it, Jovanny.

Count. But I have not de l'argent-I ’ave no moneys.

Dix. Wun’t du, mister. I've had some hard customers afore now—(winks at Count)—and some shockin' poor ; but none warn’t so dry but what the law could squeeze some mysture out on 'em.

Count. But, Monsieur Dees, I give you my parole d'honneur, the word of a gentleman, that you shall be paid to-morrow.

Dix. Can't wait, rayally neöw, Jovanny. Fact is, you 've dodged round that mast most too often. No, Jovanny; you don't leave this house without shellin' out the pewter. Count. Well, then, sign your bill, and I'll pay you.

But you von grand excessif

Disc (eagerly), Scoundrel! Did you say scoundrel, Jovanny ?

Count. No, sare; you yon grand impostor.
Dix. Wa-a-1, then, there's your receipt.
Count. And there 's your money.


A SUPERCILIOUS nabob of the east

Haughty, being great-purse-proud, being rich,
A governor, or general, at the least,

I have forgotten which—
Had in his family an humble youth,

Who went from England in his patron's suite,
An unassuming boy, and in truth

A lad of decent parts, and good repute.

This youth had sense and spirit;

But yet, with all his sense,

Excessive diffidence
Obscured his merit.

One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,

His honor, proudly free, severely merry,
Conceived it would be vastly fine

To crack a joke upon his secretary.

“ Young man,” he said, “ by what art, craft or trade,

Did your good father gain a livelihood ?"


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A man in many a country town we know,

Professing openly with death to wrestle;
Entering the field against the foe,

Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle.
Yet some affirm no enemies they are,
But meet just like prize-fighters at a fair,
Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,

With all the love and kindness of a brother ;
So many a suffering patient saith)
Though the apothecary fights with death,

Still they 're sworn friends with one another.
A member of this Esculapian race
Liv'd in Newcastle-upon-Tyne;
No man could better gild a pill,

Or make a bill,
Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;
Or draw a tooth out of your head,
Or chatter scandal by your bed,

Or tell a twister.
Of occupations these were quantum suff.
Yet still he thought the list not long enough,
And therefore surgery he chose to pin to 'ta
This balanced things; for if he hurl'd
A few score mortals from the world,
He made amends by keeping others in it.
His fame full six miles round the country ran;

In short, in reputation he was solus ;
All the old women call'd him 5 a fine man!"

His name was Bolus.
Benjamin Bolus, tho' in trade,

Which oftentimes will genius flatter, Read works of fancy, it is said,

And cultivated the belles lettres.

And why should this be thought so odd ?

Can't men have taste to cure a phthisic ? Of poetry, though patron god,

Apollo patronizes physic.
Bolus lov'd verse, and took so much delight in 't,
That his prescriptions he resolv'd to write in 't;

No opportunity he e'er let pass
Of writing the directions on his labels,
In dapper couplets-like Gay's fables,

Or rather like the lines in Hudibras.
Apothecary's verse !—and where's the treason?

'Tis simply honest dealing-not a crime: When patients swallow physic without reason.

It is but fair to give a little rhyme.
He had a patient lying at death's door,
Some three miles from the town—it might be four-
To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article
In pharmacy, that 's called cathartical ;
And on the label of the stuff,

He wrote verse,
Which, one would think, was clear enough

And terse:-
“ When taken,

To be well shaken."
Next morning, early, Bolus rose,
And to the patient's house he goes,

Upon his pad,
Who a vile trick of stumbling bad:
It was, indeed, a very sorry hack;

But that's of course-
For what's expected of a horse

With an apothecary upon his back?
Bolus arriv'd, and gave a loudish tap,
Between a single and a double rap.

Knocks of this kind
Are given by gentlemen who teach to dance

By fiddlers, and by opera singers;

One loud, and then a little one behind,
As if the knocker fell by chance

Out of their fingers.
The servant lets him in with dismal face,
Long as a courtier's out of place,

Portending some disaster;
John's countenance as rueful look'd and grim,
As if the apothecary had physicked him,

And not his master.
"Well, how's the patient ?" Bolus said:

John shook his head. Indeed !-hum !-ha!-that's


odd! He took the draught ?" John gave a nod. "Well, how ?-what then? Speak out, you dunce !" “Why, then," says John, “we shook him once." 6. Shook him !-how ?!! Bolus stammer'd out.

“We jolted him about.” “ What! shake a patient, man !—a shake won't do." “ No, sir—and so we gave him two.'

6 Two shakes!

'Twould make the patient worse !" “ It did so, sir—and so a third we tried.”

Well, and what then ?"_" Then, sir, my master died !”

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Foul nurse,

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I REALLY take it


This visit, Mrs. Skinner ;
I have not seen you such an age-

(The wretch has come to dinner !)
Your daughters, too-what loves of girls ! -

What heads for painters' easels !
Come here, and kiss the infant, dears-
(And give it, p'rhaps, the measles !)

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