Bra. This is torture!

Spr. First I dine. I never can think, do you know, before dinner. By-the-bye, have you dined yet? That's a capital house at the corner!

Bra. (Impatiently.) Psha! I shall go mad!

Spr. No, don't! because, when you know what Miss Morti

mer said

Bra. Miss Mortimer! has she too heard of this villainous invention ?

Spr. Did not I tell you? Bless my heart, there's my throat again! The most extraordinary complaint in my throat, when I talk much! I can't speak another word till I've swallowed an oyster, and you have not dined, you say? Bra. You shall eat, drink, and swill-only tell me what Miss Mortimer

Spr. Upon my life, it's too bad; I would not, on any account, let you pay, only it is not a credit house; and changing my trousers, I have left my purse at home.

Bra. I will pay anything-give anything! Put me out of this suspense.

Spr. It's really extraordinary-hem !-hem!-all here! (Putting his hand to his throat.) All round!-It's only just at the corner.

Bra. Tell me, but in one word—

Spr. I can't-upon my life, I can't speak a word-my throat is getting in such a state-I can't utter a single syllable, till I've-There, you see-that's the house-I'll introduce you.

Bra. But, Miss Mortimer

(Going.

Spr. The doctors say it's the uvula.

Bra. Hang your uvula!

Spr. Oysters, I think, you said, for a whet to begin with?

(Exit.

Bra. (Following.) Scoundrel!-tell me what Elinorwhat Miss Mortimer(Rushes after him.

THE GLUTTON.--ANON.

A DUCK, who had got such a habit of stuffing,
That all the day long she was panting and puffing,
Ard, by every creature, who did her great crop see,
Was thought to be galloping fast for a dropsy,

One day, after eating a plentiful dinner,

With full twice as much as there should have been in her, While up to her eyes in the gutter a roking,

Was greatly alarmed by the symptoms of choking.

Now there was an old fellow, much famed for discerning,
(A drake, who had taken a liking for learning,)
And high in repute with his feathery friends,
Was called Dr. Drake;-for this doctor she sends.

In a hole of the dunghill was Dr. Drake's shop,
Where he kept a few simples for curing the crop;
Some gravel and pebbles, to help the digestion,
And certain famed plants of the doctor's selection.

So taking a handful of comical things,
And brushing his topple and pluming his wings,
And putting his feathers in apple-pie order,
Set out, to prescribe for the lady's disorder.

"Dear sir," said the duck, with a delicate quack,
Just turning a little way round on her back,

And leaning her head on a stone in the yard,

"I feel so distended with wind, and opprest,

So squeamish and faint,-such a load at my chest;
That I'm anxious to get some doctor, or wizard
To spirit away these pains in my gizzard."

"Give me leave," said the doctor, with medical look,
As her flabby cold paw in his fingers he took ;—

"By the feel of your pulse-your complaint, Ive been thinking, Is caused by your habits of eating and drinking."

"O no, sir, believe me," the lady replied,
(Alarmed for her stomach as well as her pride,)
"I am sure it arises from nothing I eat,
For I rather suspect I got wet. in my feet.

"I've only been roking a bit in the gutter,

Where the cook had been pouring some cold melted butter
And a slice of green cabbage, and scraps of cold meat,
Just a trifle or two—that I thought I could eat.”

The doctor was just to his business proceeding,
By gentle emetics, a blister, and bleeding,
When all on a sudden she rolled on her side,-
Gave a horrible quackle-a struggle—and died!

Her remains were interred in a neighboring swamp,
By her friends, with a great deal of funeral pomp;
But I've heard this inscription her tombstone was put on,
"Here lies Mrs. Duck, the notorious glutton."

And all the young ducklings are brought by their friends
To learn the disgrace in which gluttony ends.

BEHIND AND BEFORE.-AUTHOR OF PEN AND INK SKETCHES.

BEFORE and behind-before and behind!
'Twere well if we often felt inclined
To keep these two little words in mind

That are pregnant with joy or sorrow :

Many a tale of weal or of woe

This brace of significant syllables show,
From which we may all, as through life we go,
Instruction and warning borrow.

For instance-look at the gaudy screen,
Which stands the bar and the street between,
To prevent Death's doings from being seen
By the passers-by on the paving:

Before it, Sobriety gravely goes

With its cheek of bloom, and its lip of rose;
Behind it, Drunkenness brews its woes,
Bodies and souls depraving.

"Before and behind! behind and before!"
I heard a toper once muttering o'er
The words;-and a rueful phiz he wore
As he chimed the syllables over;

Before I drank of the liquid flame,

I had health and wealth and a right good name,
I knew not sorrow, disease, and shame ;
In fact, I was living in clover.

Before the screen I'd a purse well lined-
A contented heart and a cheerful mind;
I had pleasures before I went behind,
Before-but ah! never after;

Behind it, my money went day by day,
My pleasures, like summer-birds, flew away,
Behind it I darkened the mental ray

And shrieked out my mirthless laughter.

Behind, behind, and nothing before
But a prison cell or a workhouse door,

And a bundle of rags on a creaking floor,

In lieu of flock or of feather;

Behindhand with payments when bills were due;

Behindhand with cash and with credit too;
Before no fire when the fingers were blue
In the keen December weather!

Before the bar but behind the times;
Behindhand when sounded the early chimes,

When Industry wakens, and toils, and climbs
Up the rugged ascent of Duty:

Behindhand when little ones cried for bread;
Behindhand with board, and bereft of bed;
But before me a Wife with a drooping head,
Whose anguish had marred her beauty.

Trouble and turmoil, and torture and gloom!
Behind, all light, and before, no bloom;
With no Angel sitting upon the tomb,
To rob it of half its terrors;

Behindhand, when Sabbath bells stirred the air;
Before no altar, to offer there

The incense of praise, and the voice of prayer, For pardon of sins and errors.

Before the Judge; and before one knows, Knocked down by the law's tremendous blows, And behind the bars, which in dismal rows, Stand in front of our human cages; Behind the dismal curtain which hangs, Where Remorse, the devil, infixes his fangs, Inflicting on Earth infernal pangs,

As instalments of Satan's wages.

Behindhand always, and want before,
And a surly voice crying out " no more!"
For the Rumseller never chalks up a score,

When he knows the last cent's expended.

No eye to pity-no hand to save,

As the victim is tossed upon misery's wave, Leaving nothing behind when he seeks the grave, But the tale of a tragedy ended.

Behind his coffin no mourners go,

And when the clods on his corse they throw, Folks cry." I thought it would be just so "— Then that the Toper fell to thinking :