(The Squire and his Lady cross the shop, and take seats opposite each other; Mr. Dawe, who affects the pensive rather than the solemn.)

Shopm. You wish to inspect some half-mourning, madam ? Lady. Yes, the newest patterns.

Shopm. Precisely, -in the second stage of distress. As such, ma'am, allow me to recommend this satin,-intended for grief when it has subsided,-alleviated, you see, ma'am, from a dead black to a dull lead color!

Squire. As a black horse alleviates into a gray one, after he's clipped!

Shopm. Exactly so, sir,-a Parisian novelty, ma'am. It's called "Settled Grief," and is very much worn by ladies of a certain age, who do not intend to embrace Hymen a second time.

Squire. Old women, mayhap, about seventy? Shopm. Exactly so, sir,-or thereabouts. Not but what some ladies, ma'am, set in for sorrow much earlier; indeed, in the prime of life; and, for such cases, it's very durable wear. Lady. Yes; it feels very stout.

Shopm. But, perhaps, madam, that is to olugubre. Now, here is another, not exactly black, but shot with a warmish tint, to suit a woe moderated by time. We have sold several pieces of it. That little nuance de rose* in it-the French call it a gleam of comfort-is very attractive.

(After a little more chat of this dolorous kind, the pair are shown into a back room, hung with black, and decorated with looking-glasses in black frames. A show-woman in deep

mourning is in attendance.)

Show-woman. Your melancholy pleasure, ma'am?

Lady. Widow's caps.

Squire. Humph!—that's plump, anyhow!

Show. This is the newest style, ma'am―

Lady. Bless me! for a widow? Isn't it rather, you know, rather a little

Squire. Rather frisky in its frilligigs!

* Rose-tint.

+ Somber.

Show. Not for the mode, ma'am. Affliction is rather much modernized, and admits more goût than formerly.

(They leave the store.)

Squire. Humph! And so that's a Mourning Store! Well, if it's all the same to you, ma'am, I'd rather die in the country, and be universally lamented, after the old fashion ;for, as to London, what with the new French modes of mourning, and the "Try-Warren" style of blacking the premises, it does seem to me that, before long, all sorrow will be sham Abram, and the House of Mourning a regular Farce!

FIGHTING DOGS.-WOLCOTT.

YOUNG men!—

I DO presume that one of you in ten
Has kept a dog or two, and has remark'd,

That when you have been comfortably feeding,
The curs, without one atom of court breeding,
With wat'ry jaws, have whin'd, and paw'd, and bark'd;
Show'd anxiousness about the mutton bone,
And, 'stead of your mouth, wish'd it in their own;
And if you gave this bone to one or t'other,
Gracious! what a snarling, quarrelling, and pother l`
This, p'rhaps, has often touch'd you to the quick
And made you teach good manners by a kick,
And if the tumult was beyond all bearing,
A little bit of sweet emphatic swearing,
An eloquence of wondrous use in wars,
Amongst sea captains and the brave Jack tars.

Now, tell me honestly,-pray, don't you find
Somewhat in Christians, just of the same kind
That you experienc'd in the curs,

Causing your anger and demurs?
As, for example, when your mistress, Fame,
Wishing to celebrate a worthy name,

de Takes up her trump to give the just applause,

How have you, puppy-like, paw'd, wish'd, and whin'd; How growl'd, and curs'd, and swore, and pin'd, And long'd to tear the trumpet from her jaws ! The dogs deserv'd their kicking, to be sure; But you! O fie, boys! go and sin no more.

THE BOY AND THE BAKER.-C. I. PITT.

ONCE, when monopoly had made
As bad as now the eating trade,
A boy went to a baker's shop,
His gnawing appetite to stop;
A loaf for two-pence there demanded,
And down a tiny loaf was handed.
The boy survey'd it round and round,
With many a shrug and look profound;
At length-" Why, master," said the wight,
"This loaf is very, very light !"

The baker, his complaint to parry,

Replied, with look most archly dry,

While quirk conceit sat squinting on his eye

" Light boy?-then you've the less to carry!"

The boy grinn'd plaudits to his joke,
And on the counter laid down rhino,

With mien that plainly all but spoke

"With I'll soon
you

be

even,

I know."

way;

Then took his loaf, and went his

But soon the baker bawl'd him back-
"You've laid down but three half-pence, Jack,

And two-pence was the loaf's amount.

How's this, you cheating rascal, hey?"—

"Sir," says the boy, "you 've less to count !"

Thus modern wits against each other fight,
In point deficient, and in substance light;
· But so profuse and pond'rous are their stores.
To count or carry, strength and patience bores,

HIGH NOTIONS OF AN HUMBLE ART.-ANON.

COLONEL ARDEN AND RISSOLLE.

Colonel. Do I mistake? I really beg pardon-it is fiftyeight years since I learned French. Am I speaking to a-acook?

Rissolle Oui, Monsieur, I believe I have de first reputation in de profession; I live four years wiz de Marquee de Chester, and Je me flåtte dat if I had not turn him off last months, I should have supervise his cuisine at dis moment.

Col. Oh, you have discharged the marquis, sir?

Ris. Qui, mon col-o-nel, I discharge him, because he cast affront upon me, insupportable to an artist of sentiment. Col. Artist!

Ris. Mon col-o-nel, de marquee had de mauvais gout, one day, when he have large partie to dine, to put salt into de soup, before all de compagnie.

Col. Indeed!-and may I ask, is that considered a crime, sir, in your code?

Ris. I don't know cod. You mean morue? Dat is salt enough widout.

Col. I don't mean that, sir. I ask, is it a crime for a gentleman to put more salt into his soup ?

Ris. Not a crime, mon col-o-nel. Mais! it would be de ruin of me, as cook, should it be known to de world. So I told his lordship I must leave him; for de butler had said, dat he saw his lordship put de salt into de soup, which was proclamation to de univairse, dat I did not know de proper quantite of salt for season my soup.'

Col. And you left his lordship for that?

I

Ris. Oui, sare, his lordship gave me excellent charactair. go afterwards to live wiz my Lor Trefoil: very respectable man, my lor, of good family, and very honest man, I believe. But de king, one day, made him his governor in Ireland, and I found I could not live in dat barbare Dublin.

Col. No?

Ris. No, mon col-o-nel; it is a fine city, good place-but no opera.

Col. How shocking! And you left his excellency on that account?

Ris. Oui, mon col-o-nel.

Col. Why, his excellency managed to live there without an opera.

Ris. Yes, mon col-o-nel, c'est vrai; but I tink he did not know dare was none when he took de place. I have de charactair from my lord to state why I leave him.

Col. And pray, sir, what wages do you expect?

Ris. Wages! Je n'entend pas, mon col-o-nel. Do you mean de stipend―de salaire ?

Col. As you please.

Ris. My Lord Trefoil give to me seven hundred pounds a year, my wine, and horse and tilbury, wid small tigre for him. Col. Small what, sir?

Ris. Tigre-little man-boy, to hold de horse.

Col. Ah! seven hundred pounds a year and a tiger!

Ris. Exclusive of de pastry, mon col-o-nel; I never touch dat department; but I have de honor to recommend Jenkin my sister's husband, for de pastry, at five hundred pounds and his wine. Oh, Jenkin is dog a sheap at dat, mon col-o-nel. Col. Oh, exclusive of pastry!

Ris. Oui, mon col-o-nel.

Col. Which is to be obtained for five hundred pounds a year additional. Why, sir, the rector of my parish, a clergy. man and a gentleman, with an amiable wife and seven children, has but half that sum to live upon.

Ris. Poor clergie, mon col-o-nel! (Shrugging his shoulders.) I pity your clergie! But den you don't considaire de