been in grammar, were perfectly intelligible in spirit, by the basest, the vilest treachery, and, after entangling him in her wiles, seek to entrap him in a most fearful toil! It can scarcely be credited-but such was the fact that instead of her own chamber, she had directed the unlucky Sam to the room in which her sick mistress and her irascible master slept. Sam well remembered the situation and number. The accident of the beard had warned him. Marian told him the door would be on the latch. Sam Surly ascended with stealthy steps, his shoes off, on tip-toe, holding his breath, for fear of a discovery; his piping-hot apples in hand. He arrived at the door: with a gentle motion it opened-all was silent. A night-lamp was emitting a feeble light, by which he perceived a curtained bed, the drapery half drawn aside. With a fluttering heart he approached the couch-he heard a gentle moan. "Is it possible," thought he, "that at a moment like this she can sleep!" He beheld her fast on her pillow :-he would have awakened her with a kiss, but he thought the announcement of supper would be quite as effectual, and he whispered in her ear, in tones as amorous as a man accustomed to converse with horses and kitchenmaids could master, “Pom quit, pom quit, pom quit !" The voice must have been ascending in the scale, for the last pom quit awoke the sleeping lady, who gave a loud shriek, which was followed by the imprecation of a stentorian voice, “Au voleur! au voleur !" The terrified lover instinctively thrust the baked apples in the face of the affrighted lady, whose husband, who had been lying by her side, now jumped out of bed, and seized the first instrument of revenge he could find, a warming-pan, while Sam, foreseeing danger, grasped a pewter vessel which he stumbled over, and commenced his retreat, closely pursued by the indignant Frenchman. Laughable as the adventure was, nothing could appease the furious husband; he foamed and danced about the room, exclaiming that a scélerat, a vile ravisseur, had broken through the slumbers of his bobonne, after taking a potion calmante and anodine; that to offer roasted apples to a woman of her condition was to take her for a femme de mauvaise vie. In vain his countrymen represented to him that it was a mistake, requested him to return to his bobonne, as he was not in a mise décente, being en chemise, and that, moreover, of short dimensions, and torn to ribands in the fray. Scarcely could four persons restrain him from making what he called a hecatombe and a catacombe of Sam, who, squaring himself for a regular set-to, was exclaiming, "If you've the pluck of a man about you, you bloody-minded foreigner, Come on, you d-d parley-voo, come on, and I'll sarve come on. you out!" But what irritated the poor fellow more than the blows he had received was the sight of Marian at the door, her arms a-kimbo, and in fits of loud laughter, in which every one joined, with the exception of the parties immediately concerned, while the sick lady up-stairs had rushed to the window, alarming the whole town with shrieks and yells after mon mari―mon petit-mon pauvre homme--au voleur ! à l'assassin. Her pauvre homme at last was persuaded to withdraw. Sam him self, while washing the blood off his bushy head, could not help laughing at the adventure, although he was often irritated at the nick-name of Pomme Cuite, which ever after stuck to him. All this time poor Mr. Commodus Cannon, who, as Solomon Gundy said, was not able to "asseyez-vous for a week," was turning and winding in his bed, while his busy thoughts were in a similar twisting mood. He would now and then sigh heavily, and think of Wick Hall, and compare the oppressive laws of England with those of the land of freedom which he now had visited, while daily, nay, hourly demands upon his purse, which necessitated constant drafts upon his banker, convinced him that a French hotel is as expensive to a family as any English establishment of the kind, without any of its comfortable enjoyments. In Shropshire he had been something, although lately eclipsed by a brighter and more attractive star. What was he in France? Less than nothing, in a land where nothingness alone is sought after. He would willingly have retraced his steps, but, like many other persons who do foolish things, he was ashamed to avow his folly. Such were not the feelings of the ladies. They were enchanted with their new acquaintances, who gave them lessons in French, romance, singing, and guitar, and écarté playing. It may be easily surmised that our two chevaliers had already selected two of the young ladies, under the impression (perhaps) of their being entitled to a handsome fortune. The Comte des Oripeaux not only trusted to his good luck, but tossed up with his companion for the first attempt to secure the girl's affections. The die was in his favour, and he set to work the following morning. He proposed to take a ride with Molly Cannon, to which she assented, while Lucy accepted, a similar offer from M. de la Blague. They were to procure horses. A dealer of their acquaintance was applied to, and a consultation was held, when it was decided that Miss Molly should be accommodated with a stumbling animal, which, although he might keep his legs at a gallop, was sure to come down at a trot. The following morning the party set out. Whether it was that Molly Cannon rode tolerably well, or held her miserable jade tight in hand, the beast would not come down. But Des Oripeaux perceived that, accustomed to well-trained horses, it was necessary to try her skill on a kicking Rosinante; and therefore, under pretence of tightening a girth and settling a crupper, he did somehow or other contrive to put the animal under the absolute necessity of kicking ad libitum. The stratagem had the desired effect; the galled beast began wincing and snorting, and finally played so many pranks, that a rough-rider would have found it difficult to keep his seat. Molly roared, the horse snorted, and at last set off at the top of his speed, until horse and rider rolled in a ditch. The Count, galloped after them; and having succeeded in seizing Molly Cannon's reins, tumbled off his own horse after her, accidentally hitting his head against a stone, and covering his terrified companion with his generous blood as he rolled over her, while M. De la Blague was assisting them off the ground, exclaiming, "Oh, Mademoiselle il vous a sauvè la vie." And so thought Molly Cannon, and so thought Lucy Cannon, who, perceiving that her sister had only been slightly bruised, wished in her heart that her horse had played her the same trick. Miss Molly's horse was gone, the Lord knows where. To return on foot was out of the question. A cottage was nigh. Molly was fainting with fear. Le Comte, supporting her in his arms, called a peasant, who was told to run to town as fast as he could for a carriage, while a wink and a five-frank piece, which, strictly speaking, was part of the charitable donation to the shuttlecock alien, intimated to the bumpkin that he was to move as slowly as possible. Miss Molly recovered from her fright, beheld the blood flowing from the generous Frenchman, and, with becoming sentiments of sympathy, could not help sinking on his bosom, when he swore that he should have been proud to have shed the last drop of his vital stream to rescue her from danger. M. De la Blague, who deemed it necessary to look for the runaway horse, endeavoured to persuade Lucy to accompany him in the search; but she, from various motives, that I shall not presume to question, remained with her sister. NUTMEGS FOR NIGHTINGALES! BY DICK DISTICH. No. I. SHERIDAN KNOWLES. FILL, fill up a bumper! no twilight, no, no! The rose smells as sweet call it what name you will; Can we find a truer to garnish our bowls Than Sheridan, Sherry, or prime Paddy Knowles? The bard, in a bumper! behold, to the brim Of sprigs from the laurel, and leaves from the vine. A bumper! the bard who, in eloquence bold, Of two noble fathers the story has told; What pangs heave the bosom, what tears dim the eyes, When the dagger is sped, and the arrow it flies. The bard, in a bumper! Is fancy his theme? Ye tramplers on liberty, tremble at him ; His song is your knell, and the slave's morning hymn! And bright as the goblet I hold in my hand. The bard! brim your glasses; a bumper! a cheer! Shame to thee, Britain, if ever he roam, To seek with the stranger a friend and a home! Fate in his cup ev'ry blessing infuse, Blythe be his autumn as summer hath been,- To dear Paddy Knowles, then, a bumper we fil!, In genius he 's left all behind him, by goles ! But he won't leave behind him another Pat Knowles! No. II.-HOURS THERE ARE TO MEM'RY DEARER. Hours there are to mem'ry dearer In love's harbour safe and sound; Nothing now can cross or wrong go, Bless'd with such a fav'ring gale; When I thought my Lydia won; He, bold youth, has bowl'd you out." No. III.-THAT ROMAN NOSE. That Roman nose! that Roman nose! Between two eyes as black as sloes I walk the streets, the alleys, rows; Then blessed be the day I chose No. IV. TELL ME, GENTLE LAURA, WHY. Tell me, gentle Laura, why, I could laugh, and I could cry, When my blood flows hotter, quicker, Lovely Laura, nymph divine! When my muzzy brains begin BOOK-MAKING CONSIDERED AS ONE OF THE COMPOSITION (in Literature) is a metaphor probably borrowed from the printing-office, and, (as the etymology of the word implies) consists in the " composing," or arranging of certain intellectual materials, derived either from the minds of other men, or from a man's own-either abstracted by the memory, or separated by the scissors. Bookcraft, therefore, is to a certain extent to be considered as one of the manual arts; and the productive industry of the country during the last half century, in the article of books, has probably no parallel, except in the article of cotton goods. An extraordinary impetus has recently been given to the book manufacture, by the large consumption of that class of goods denominated " Penny Publications," which are got up with little labour, made of old and coarse materials, and have a rapid and extensive sale, producing a quick return of the small capital employed. The object of the following pages is to render book-making easy to the meanest capacity; to lay down such rules and principles of the art, as will increase the productive industry of a numerous, and somewhat despised class of men—a class that (with the exception of the hand-loom weavers) may be considered as the most industrious and ill-paid of the working classes-I mean the journeymen book-makers; and I trust that the present essay will be thought worthy of being reprinted and circulated by the " Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge." In the practical consideration of our subject, our attention will be first directed to the market; for it will be necessary first to ascertain the commodity required, and then the best and cheapest mode of producing it. Now, the home-consumption of modern books is principally confined to the lighter kinds of goods, and, for some years, the run has been chiefly upon pamphlets, travels, novels, and above all, miniature books of science. The composition of a pamphlet is one of the most simple processes in the art of book-making. I have known an admirable pamphlet on "Capital Punishments' "made" after supper out of a file of "Morning Heralds," with no other assistance than a few expletives and a pair of scissors! The recent publication of a valuable work called the "Statistical Journal," has greatly facilitated the "composition" of pamphlets by furnishing, with tolerable correctness, those imposing rows of figures which form so indispensable a part of the stockin-trade of a pamphleteer. The immense number of Parliamentary Reports on various subjects now accessible to the public, furnish also a rich vein of materials for this kind of writing. There is a class of writers that feed almost entirely on this kind of literary offal. Some of these gentlemen like their game "high," and may be seen occasionally in the manuscript-room in the British Museum, with their white heads hanging over the state parchments, like moths on a damp garment! At sunset, these industrious creatures (like homeward-bound bees,) return, laden with the sweets of centuries, to their garrets, to toil through the night at the work of reproduction. VOL. III. 2 K |