which this accident had caused, without considering what 1 did, I wiped my face with that ill-fated handkerchief, which was still wet from the consequences of the fall of Xenophon, and covered all my features with streaks of ink in every direction. The Baronet himself could not support the shock, but joined his lady in the general laugh; while I sprung from the table in despair, rushed out of the house, and ran home in an agony of confusion and disgrace, which the most poig nant sense of guilt could not have excited.

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!
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,

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 you I'll soon be even, I know."

Then took his loaf, and went his way;
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 flatte 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. Oui, 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. tleman to put more salt into his

I ask, is it a crime for a gensoup ?

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?

Ris. Oui, sare, his lordship gave me excellent charactair. I 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.

mean de stipend de salaire ?

Col. As you please.

Do you

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 clergyman 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 shoul ders.) I pity your clergie! But den you don't considaire de

science and experience dat it require to make de soup, de omelette

Col. The mischief take your omelette, sir. Do you mean seriously and gravely to ask me seven hundred pounds a year for your services?

Ris. Oui, vraiment, mon col-o-nel. (Taking a pinch of snuff from a gold snuff-box.)

Col. Why, then, sir, I can't stand this any longer. Seven hundred pounds! Double it, sir, and I'll be your cook for the rest of my life. Good morning, sir. (In an angry manner, advancing towards Rissolle, who retreats out of the door.) Seven hundred pounds! Seven hundred-mon col-o-nelrascal !

MY AUNT.-O. W. HOLMES.

My aunt! my dear unmarried aunt!
Long years have o'er her flown;
Yet still she strains the aching clasp
That binds her virgin zone:

I know it hurts her, though she looks
As cheerful as she can:

Her waist is ampler than her life,

For life is but a span.

My aunt! my poor deluded aunt!

Her hair is almost gray:
Why will she train that winter curl
In such a spring-like way?
How can she lay her glasses down,
And say she reads as well,
When, through a double convex lens,
She just makes out to spell.

Her father-grandpapa! forgive

This erring lip its smiles

Vowed she would make the finest girl

Within a hundred miles.