Ah! 'tis one big huge rat! Vat de diable is it he nibbel, nibbel at ?" Bawling aloud, called stoutly for a light. Bring me the bill for vat I have to pay !" The bill was brought, and to his great surprise, Ten shillings was the charge, he scarce believes his eyes; And every time he viewed it thought it more. Vare all de rats do run about my head ?" "Vat's dat you say pray : "Plague on those rats !" the landlord muttered out; And den invite de rats to sup vid you. And after dat-no matter dey be villing- For vat dey eat, you charge dem just ten shelang. Deyil quit your house, and never come no more." CONNUBIAL CONFAB.-ANON. MR. AND MRS. TINDER. He. I say I will be heard, madam. She. All over the parish. Can't you speak in the house? He. I'm not allowed to speak in the house; especially turn the house out o'windows! I declare I never see an hour's comfort at home for you. when you She. Because, sir, you 're never at home an hour to see it. Do I ever receive you coldly? He. No, madam, you make the house too hot to hold me. You begin it always-morning, noon, and night. She. Me! 'tis you. He I say you do! If you didn't begin it, I never should. She. I say I do not. He. I say you are a l -,a story teller! She. Pardon me, I never told a falsehood in my life. He. You have, and sworn to it. She. When was that? He. When you swore to "love, honor, and obey." She. Aye, then I grant you; but after all that was merely a joke, for neither parson or witnesses believed mc. He. A joke, indeed, for She. A single life has trouble, He. But marriage makes it double, She. You're my pain, He. You're my bane. Now, I say, madam, a woman ought to give in to her husband. Nature ordained it so; she being the weaker vessel, therefore, ought to be broke. She. Not in all cases, for it often possesses the most animal strength. fault? For my part, I prefer "The good old plan, happens that a woman Then, how is nature at Master let them be who can." He. Don't irritate me! She. And don't irritate me! He Recollect, a lamb may be provoked to impatience, a saint to anger, a worm to turn again. Perpetual dropping of water will excavate marble in time; but, I'm an exception to all these, yet my sweetness of temper may be sour'd. Don't provoke me. I'm cool-I'm a cucumber! She. An onion! He. Wormwood! She. Horse radish ! He. Honey! She. Mustard ! He. Lead! She. Quicksilver ! He. Hang it, madam, I can't get a word in edgeways. He. Oh, dear-will your tongue never be worn out? She. I hope not. It has been in constant use ever since I can remember, and it 's as good as ever it was yet. He. I see it is. You ill use it at all times and all ways, and I mean to say you 're no man— She. So do I, sir. He. No, no; I mean She. A single life has trouble, He. But marriage makes it double. She. Alas! Tom Tinder, did not you Swear to love me ever true? He. Here, my little angel, you see what a good humor I'm in again, and all in a moment, too, I'm the best-tempered man in existence, if you only know how to humor me. I'm something like a gun-I require to go through the whole process of priming and loading before I make any report. She. Then 'tis a minute gun-always going off. He. Don't be ill-natured in your remarks, I beg. You know I love you to distraction, that's the reason— She. You're always raving out at me so. Besides, you are often jealous of me—for if a gentleman only looks at me you blame me for it. He. But its little use keeping up this incessant brawl, for if we were only resolved to live happy, who could not envy us our conjugality? She. Well, then, I'm agreeable, but your temper He. You may always depend upon, and therefore- He. And you shall be my treasure. He. You're my dove. THE POET AND THE ALCHYMIST.-ANON. AUTHORS of modern date are wealthy fellows;— The rhymes and novels which cajole us, Not from the Heliconian rill, But from the waters of Pactolus. Before this golden age of writers, Of odes and poems to be twisted For patrons who have heavy purses. All ticketed from A to Izzard; And, living by his wits, I need not add, Like a ropemaker's were his ways; He spun, and, like his hempen brother, Hard by his attic lived a chemist, And though unflattered by the dimmest To find the art of changing metals, Our starving poet took occasion Or laudatory dedication, For twenty pounds, the secret art, Of metals, chemistry, and fire, The money paid, our bard was hurried Out of his chemical decorum, Crucibles, retort, and furnace, And cried, as he secured the door, And carefully put to the shutter "Now, now, the secret I implore; Out with it-speak-discover-utter !" With grave and solemn look, the poet Who still, though bless'd, new blessings crave, That we may all have what we like, Simply by liking what we have." |