Sir R. Hang the business of the morning! Don't you see we're engaged in discussion? I hate the business of the morning!

Dob. No you don't.

Sir R. And why not?

Dob. Because 'tis charity.

Sir R. Psha!-Well, we musn't neglect business. If there be any distresses in the parish, read the morning list, Humphrey.

Dob. (Taking out a paper, and looking over it.) Jonathan Huggins, of Muck Mead, is put into prison.

Sir R. Why, 'twas but last week, Gripe, the attorney, recovered two cottages for him by law, worth sixty pounds.

Dob. And charged a hundred and ten for his trouble. So seized the cottages for part of his bill, and threw Jonathan in gaol for the remainder.

Sir R. A harpy!—I must relieve the poor fellow's distress.
Fre. And I must kick his attorney.

Dob. (Looking at the list.) The curate's horse is dead.
Sir R. Psha! there's no distress in that.

Dob. Yes there is, to a man who must go twenty miles every Sunday to preach three sermons, for thirty pounds a year.

Sir R. Why won't Punmock, the vicar, give him another nag? Dob. Because 'tis cheaper to get another curate ready mounted.

Sir R. What's the name of the black pad I purchased last Tuesday at Tunbridge ?

Dob. Beelzebub.

Sir R. Send Beelzebub to the curate, and tell him to work him as long as he lives.

Fre. And if you have a tumble-down nag, send him to the vicar, to give him a chance of breaking his neck.

Sir R. What else?

Dob. Somewhat out of the common. There's one Lieutenant Worthington, a disabled officer and a widower, come to lodge at Farmer Harrowby's, in the village. He's plaguy poor

indeed, it seems, but more proud than poor, and more honest than proud.

Fre. That sounds like a noble character.

Sir R. And so he sends to me for assistance?

Dob. He'd see you hanged first! Harrowby says, he'd sooner die than ask any man for a shilling. There's his daughter, and his dead wife's aunt, and an old corporal that has served in the wars with him; he keeps them all upon his half-pay.

Sir R. Starves them all, I am afraid, Humphrey.

Fre. (Crossing) Uncle, good morning.

Sir R. Where are you running now?

Fre. To talk to Lieutenant Worthington.

Sir R. And what may you be going to say to him?

Fre. I can't tell till I encounter him; and then, uncle, when I have an old gentleman by the hand, who is disabled in his country's service, and struggling to support his motherless child, a poor relation, and a faithful servant, in honorable indigence, impulse will supply me with words to express my sentiments. (Hurrying off.

Sir R. Stop, you rogue !-I must be before you in this business.

Fre. That depends upon who can run fastest. So start fair uncle; and here goes! (Exit hastily. Sir R. Stop! why, Frederick !—A jackanapes! to take my department out of my hands! I'll disinherit the dog for his

assurance!

Dob. No you won't.

Sir R. Won't I? Hang me, if I-but we'll argue that point as we go. Come along, Humphrey !

(Exeunt.

ART OF BOOK-KEEPING.-HOOD.

J

How hard, when those who do not wish to lend, thus lose,

their books,

Are snared by anglers,-folks that fish with literary Hooks,—

Who call and take some favorite tome, but never read it

through;

They thus complete their set at home, by making one at you.

I, of my "Spenser" quite bereft, last winter sore was shaken; Of "Lamb' I've but a quarter left, nor could I save my "Bacon";

And then I saw my "Crabbe" at last, like Hamlet, backward go; And, as the tide was ebbing fast, of course I lost my "Rowe".

MyMallet" served to knock me down which makes me thus a talker;

And once when I was out of town, my "Johnson" proved a "Walker".

While studying o'er the fire one day, my "Hobbes", amidst the smoke,

"Colman" clean away, and carried off my

They picked my "Locke", to me far more than Bramah's pateat worth,

And now my losses I deplore, without a "Home" on earth.
If once a book you let them lift, another they conceal,
For though I caught them stealing "Swift", as swiftly went
"Steele".

my

"Hope" is not now upon my shelf, where late he stood elated; But what is strange, my "Pope" himself is excommunicated. My little "Suckling" in the grave is sunk to swell the ravage; And what was Crusoe's fate to save, 'twas mine to lose,-a "Savage".

Even "Glover's" works I cannot put my frozen hands upon, Though ever since I lost my " Foot", my "Bunyan" has been

gone.

6

My Hoyle" with Cotton" went oppressed; my "Taylor"

too, must fail;

To save my

"Bayle".

"Goldsmith" from arrest, in vain I offered

I Prior sought, but could not see the "Hood" so late in front And when I turned to hunt for " Lee", O! where was my Leigh Hunt"?

I tried to laugh, old care to tickle, yet could not "Tickle"

touch;

And then, alack! I missed my "Mickle";-and surely

Mickle's much.

'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed, my sorrows to excuse, To think I cannot read my Reid", nor even use my

"Hughes";

66

My classics would not quiet lie, a thing so fondly hoped;
Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, my " Livy" has eloped.

My life is ebbing fast away; I suffer from these shocks,
And though I fixed a lock on "Gray", there's gray upon my

locks;

I'm far from "Young", am growing pale, I see my "Butler" fly;

And when they ask about my ail, 'tis "Burton" I reply.

They still have made me slight returns, and thus my griefs, divide;

For O! they cured me of my "Burns", and eased my "Aken

side".

But all I think I shall not say, nor let my anger burn,

For, as they never found me "Gay", they have not left me "Sterne".

MAGPIE AND MONKEY.-YRIARTE.

"Dear madam, I pray," quoth a magpie one day,
To a monkey, who happened to come in her way,-

"If you'll but come with me

To my snug little home in the trunk of a tree,
I'll show you such treasures of art and vertu,
Such articles, old, medieval, and new,

As a lady of taste and discernment like you

Will be equally pleased and astonished to view ;

In an old oak-tree hard by I have stowed all these rarities; And if you'll come with me, I'll soon show you where it is."

The monkey agreed at once to proceed,

And hopping along at the top of her speed,
To keep up with the guide, who flew by her side,
As eager to show as the other to sec,
Presently came to the old oak-tree;
When from a hole in its mighty bole,

In which she had cunningly hidden the whole,
One by one the Magpie drew,

And displayed her hoard to the monkey's view:
A buckle of brass, some bits of glass,
A ribbon dropped by a gypsey lass;
A tattered handkerchief edged with lace,
The haft of a knife, and a tooth-pick case;
An inch or so of Cordelia's rope,
A very small cake of Castilian soap,
And a medal blessed by the holy Pope;
Half a cigar, the neck of a jar,

A couple of pegs from a cracked guitar;

Beads, buttons and rings, and other odd things,

And such as my hearers would think me an ass, if 1
Tried to enumerate fully or classify.

At last, having gone, one by one, through the whole,
And carefully packed them again in the hole,
Alarmed at the pause, and not without caws,
The Magpie looked anxiously down for applause.
The monkey, meanwhile, with a shrug and a smile,
Having silently eyed the contents of the pile,
And found them, in fact, one and all, very vile,
Resolved to depart; and was making a start,
When, observing the movement with rage and dismay,
The Magpie addressed her, and pressed her to stay: