Dix. Wa-a-l, I calculate we'll agree about that when you've settled. Count. Settled! Vere's your bill?-(Dix 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 extras-(milles tonnerres !)-four dollare! Totale, To sundries (vat soondries?)-five dollare, fifty cent! 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-1, 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. Neow, 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 ture out on 'em. Count. But, Monsieur Deex, 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 Dix (eagerly), Scoundrel! Did you say scoundrel, Jo vanny? Count. No, sare; you von grand impostor. Count. And there's your money. A MODEST WIT.-ANON. 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, To crack a joke upon his secretary. "Young man," he said, " by what art, craft or trade, THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.-ANON. A MAN in many a country town we know, Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle. With all the love and kindness of a brother; 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 mix a draught, or bleed, or blister; Of occupations these were quantum suff. And therefore surgery he chose to pin to 't— A few score mortals from the world, He made amends by keeping others in it. 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? Apollo patronizes physic. Bolus lov'd verse, and took so much delight in 't, Of writing the directions on his labels, Or rather like the lines in Hudibras. He had a patient lying at death's door, Some three miles from the town-it might be fourTo 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, Who a vile trick of stumbling had: For what 's expected of a horse Are given by gentlemen who teach to dance. One loud, and then a little one behind, The servant lets him in with dismal face, Portending some disaster; John's countenance as rueful look'd and grim, "Well, how's the patient?" Bolus said: "Indeed!-hum !-ha!-that's very 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." "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.' "Two shakes! Foul nurse, 'Twould make the patient worse!" "It did So, sir-and so a third we tried." Well, and what then?"" Then, sir, my master died !" TRUTH IN PARENTHESIS.-HOOD. I REALLY take it very kind This visit, Mrs. Skinner; I have not seen you such an age (The wretch has come to dinner!) What heads for painters' easels! Come here, and kiss the infant, dears- |