What!

teeth, and his knuckles cramm'd into his coat pocket. Then away you go, lounging lazily along. Ah, Tom ! What! Will rolling away you see! How are you, Jack? my little Dolly!-that's the way-isn't it, mother? Lady D. The very air and grace of our young nobility! Lord D. Is it? Grace must have got plaguy limber and lopt, of late. There's the last Lord Duberly's father, done in our dining room, with a wig as wide as a wash-tub, and stuck up as stiff as a poker. He was one of your tip-tops, too, in his time, they tell me; he carried a gold stick before George the First.

Lady D. Yes; and looks, for all the world, as straight as if he had swallowed it.

Lord D. No matter for that, my lady. What signifies dignity without its crackeristick? A man should know how to bemean himself, when he is as rich as Pluto.

Pang. Plutus, if you please, my lord. Pluto, no doubt, has disciples, and followers of fashion; but Plutus is the ruler of riches:- — Δημήτηρ μεν Πλοῦτον ἐγείνατο.”—Hesiod. Hem !

Lord D. There, Dick! d'ye hear how the tutorer talks? Odd rabbit, he can ladle you out Latin by the quart; and grunts Greek like a pig. I've gin him three hundred a year and settled all he 's to larn you. Ha'n't I doctor? "Thrice to thine-"

Pang. Certainly, my lord.

Dick. Yes, we know all about that. Don't we, doctor? Pang. Decidedly-" and thrice to thine-"

Lady D. Aye, aye; clearly understood. Isn't it, doctor? Pang. Undoubtedly-" And thrice again to make up nine"-Shakspeare. Hem! (These three quotations asile

A SONG OF THE RAILROAD.-C. T. WOLFE

THROUGH the mold and through the clay,
Through the corn and through the hay,

By the margin of the lake,
O'er the river through the brake,
O'er the bleak and dreary moor,
On we hie with screech and roar !
Splashing! flashing!

Crashing! dashing!

Over ridges,

Gullies, bridges!

By the bubbling rill,

And mill

Highways,

Byways,

Hollow hill—

Jumping-bumping—
Rocking-roaring

Like forty thousand giants snoring i
By the lonely hut and mansion,
By the ocean's wide expansion—
Where the factory chimneys smoke,
Where the foundry bellows croak-

Dash along!

Slash along!

Crash along!

Flash along!

On! on with a jump,

And a bump,

And a roll!

Hies the fire-fiend to its destined goal!

O'er the acqueduct and bog,
On we fly with ceaseless jog;
Every instant something new,
Every instant lost to view;

Now a tavern-now a steeple—
Now a crowd of gaping people-
Now a hollow-now a ridge-
Now a crossway—now a bridge—

Grumble-stumble

Rumble-tumble

Fretting getting in a stew!

Church and steeple, gaping people--
Quick as thought are lost to view!
Everything that eye can survey,
Turns hurly-burly, topsy-turvy!
Each passenger is thumped and shaken,
As physic is when to be taken.

By the foundry, past the forge,
Through the plain and mountain gorge,
Where the cathedral rears its head,
Where repose the silent dead!
Monuments amid the grass,

Flit like spectres as you pass !

If to hail a friend inclined—

Whish! whirr! ka-swash! he's left behind!

Rumble, tumble, all the day,

Thus we pass the hours away.

THE FARMER AND THE LAWYER.-HORACE SMITH.

A COUNSEL in the Common Pleas, who was esteemed a mighty wit, upon the strength of a chance hit, amid a thousand flippancies, and his occasional bad jokes in bullying, bantering, browbeating, ridiculing, and maltreating women, or other timid folks, in a late cause resolved to hoax a clownish, Yorkshire farmer,-one who by his uncouth look and gait appeared expressly meant by Fate for being quizzed and played upon. So having tipped the wink to those in the back rows, who kept their laughter bottled down until our wag should draw the tork, he smiled jocosely on the clown, and went to work. "Well, Farmer Numbskull, how go caives at York?" "Why, not, sir, as they do wi' you, but on four legs instead of two." "Officer!" cried the legal elf, piqued at the laugh

against himself, "do pray keep silence down below there. Now look at me, clown; attend! have I not seen you somewhere, friend?" Yes, very like; I often go there." "Our rustic's waggish-quite laconic !" the counsel cried, with grin sardonic; "I wish I'd known this prodigy, this genius of the clods, when I on circuit was at York residing. Now, farmer, do for once speak true; mind, you're on oath, so tell me you who doubtless think yourself so clever, are there as many fools as ever in the West Riding?" Why, no, sir; no; we've got our share, but not so many as when you were there."

66

THE MORALISTS.-ANON.

So prone are all men to debate,
And warn us of the wiles of fate-
So eager to condemn the crimes
That blot these unregenerate times--
I sometimes fancy that I meet
A moralist in every street;

But mark his life-that surest test-
You'll catch them tripping like the rest,
And half the follies they condemn

Is plainly visible in them;

The truth of which remark to show,
I have a tale quite apropos.

Over a glass of Burton's Lest,

Tim thus his loving friend address'd:

"Well, Peter, 'tis a shameful sin

That Dick should swill such seas of gin;

Oft from the tavern drunk he reels,

Tag, rag, and bobtail at his heels.

Now, for my part, I cannot think

What makes the man so fond of drink." "Nor I," said Peter, with a groan— "'Tis vastly wonderful, I own;

But, bless me! what a change appears
Within the space of forty years!

The world grows more deprav'd, I'm sure!
Heav'n knows. 'twas bad enough before."
"True," answered Tim. "good Peter, true;
But see, the bottle stands with you."
"Besides," said Peter, " of all crimes
That mar these dissipated times,
Dick's favorite is the greatest pest,
And makes more fools than all the rest.
The man addicted, Tim, to drinking,
Will daily find his credit sinking;
His reputation soon decays,
And mis ry on his bosom preys,
Till, wasted by disease and pain,
Death ends his transitory reign."

"E'en so," cried Tim, and fill'd his glass, "Dick's crimes all other crimes surpass. I scorn the man, who, void of shame, With such base stigmas marks his name, And, careless of a future state,

Thus trifles with the shafts of fate.
But sec, my friend! the wine is out!
You'll wet the other eye, no doubt.
We well may sit a little later,
So bring another bottle, waiter."

Thus long, in many a speech sublime,
They painted Dick's besetting crime,
Till drunk as drills, and scarcely able
To see distinctly o'er the table;
And, heedless what each other said,
The roaring sinners reel'd to bed.

The very fault they thus condemn,
Dick, the next evening, found with them;
Whilst Peter gravely rail'd at Tim,

Who rail'd as heartily at him.