no figure of speech to say that her occupation is gone indeed. The bill is down-but there is no tenant. Eligible single gentlemen pass and repass-but there is no invitation for them to inquire within, or without. All is gloom and silence in the house; even the voice of the child is hushed; his infant sports are disregarded when his mother weeps; his alley tors' and his commoneys' are alike neglected: he forgets the long familiar cry of 'knuckle down,' and at tip-cheese, or odd and even, his hand is out. But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis in the desert of Goswell-street-Pickwick, who has choked up the well, and thrown ashes on the sward-Pickwick, who comes before you to-day with his heartless tomata sauce and warming-pansPickwick still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made. Damages, gentlemenheavy damages is the only punishment with which you can visit him; the only recompense you can award to my client. And for those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a contemplative jury of her civilized countrymen." With this beautiful peroration, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz sat down, and Mr. Justice Stareleigh woke up.

(By permission of the Author.)

4.-MONSIEUR TONSON.

JOHN TAYLOR.

[John Taylor was grandson of the famous Chevalier John Taylor, oculist to the principal sovereigns of Europe. In 1795, he published a poem, entitled "The Stage." In 1811, "Poems on Several Occasions," and in 1827, "Poems on Various Subjects," 2 vols. Mr. Taylor was connected with the periodical press for upwards of half a century, and was the original editor and one of the proprietors of the Sun newspaper. Born 1756; died 1832.]

THERE lived, as fame reports, in days of yore,

At least some fifty years ago, or more,

A pleasant wight on town, yclep'd Tom King,
A fellow that was clever at a joke,
Expert in all the arts to tease and smoke,

In short, for strokes of humour quite the thing.

To many a jovial club this King was known,
With whom his active wit unrivall'd shone-
Choice spirit, grave freemason, buck and blood,
Would crowd his stories and bon mots to hear,
And none a disappointment e'er could fear,

His humour flow'd in such a copious flood.

To him a frolic was a high delight—
A frolic he would hunt for day and night,

Careless how prudence on the sport might frown;

If e'er a pleasant mischief sprang to view,
At once o'er hedge and ditch away he flew,
Nor left the game till he had run it down.

One night our hero, rambling with a friend,
Near fam'd St. Giles's chanced his course to bend,
Just by that spot, the Seven Dials hight;
'Twas silence all around, and clear the coast,
The watch, as usual, dozing on his post,

And scarce a lamp display'd a twinkling light.

Around this place there lived the num'rous clans
Of honest, plodding, foreign artizans,

Known at that time by the name of refugees-
The rod of persecution from their home,
Compell'd the inoffensive race to roam,

And here they lighted like a swarm of bees.

Well, our two friends were saunt'ring through the street,
In hopes some food for humour soon to meet,
When in a window near a light they view;
And, though a dim and melancholy ray,
It seem'd the prologue to some merry play,

So tow'rds the gloomy dome our hero drew.

Straight at the door he gave a thund'ring knock (The time we may suppose near two o'clock),

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"I'll ask," says King, "if Thompson lodges here."
Thompson?" cries t'other, "who the devil is he ?"
"I know not," King replies, "but want to see
What kind of animal will now appear."

After some time a little Frenchman came,
One hand display'd a rushlight's trembling flame,
The other held a thing they call culotte;

An old striped woollen nightcap graced his head,
A tatter'd waistcoat o'er one shoulder spread,

Scarce half awake, he heaved a yawning note.

Though thus untimely roused, he courteous smiled,
And soon address'd our wag in accents mild,
Bending his head politely to his knee-
"Pray, sare, vat vant you, dat you come so late?
I beg your pardon, sare, to make you vait :

Pray, tell me, sare, vat your commands vid me ?"

Sir," replied King, "I merely thought to know, As by your house I chanced to-night to go

But, really, I disturb'd your sleep, I fearI say, I thought, that you perhaps could tell, Among the folks who in this street may dwell, If there's a Mr. Thompson lodges here?"

LL

The shiv'ring Frenchman, though not pleased to find The business of this unimportant kind,

Too simple to suspect 'twas meant in jeer,

Shrugg'd out a sigh that thus his rest should break, Then, with unaltered courtesy, he spake,

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No, sare, no Monsieur Tonson lodges here."

Our wag begg'd pardon, and toward home he sped,
While the poor Frenchman crawled again to bed;
But King resolved not thus to drop the jest,
So the next night, with more of whim than grace,
Again he made a visit to the place,

To break once more the poor old Frenchman's rest.

He knock'd-but waited longer than before:
No footstep seem'd approaching to the door,
Our Frenchman lay in such a sleep profound;
King, with the knocker, thunder'd then again,
Firm on his post determined to remain;

And oft, indeed, he made the door resound..

At last King hears him o'er the passage creep,
Wond'ring what fiend again disturb'd his sleep.
The wag salutes him with a civil leer :
Thus drawling out to heighten the surprise
(While the poor Frenchman rubbed his heavy eyes),
"Is there a Mr. Thompson-lodges here ?"

The Frenchman falter'd, with a kind of fright-
"Vy, sare, I'm sure I told you, sare, last night—
(And here he labour'd with a sigh sincere)
No Monsieur Tonson in de varld I know,
No Monsieur Tonson here-I told you so;
Indeed, sare, dare no Monsieur Tonson here!"

Some more excuses tender'd, off King goes,
And the old Frenchman sought once more repose.
The rogue next night pursued his old career-
'Twas long, indeed, before the man came nigh,
And then he utter'd, in a piteous cry,

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Sare, 'pon my soul, no Monsieur Tonson here!"

Our sportive wight his usual visit paid,

And the next night came forth a prattling maid, Whose tongue, indeed, than any jack went fasterAnxious she strove his errand to inquire,

He said, ""Tis vain her pretty tongue to tire,

He should not stir till he had seen her master."

The damsel then began, in doleful state,
The Frenchman's broken slumbers to relate,
And begg'd he'd call at proper time of day.

King told her she must fetch her master down,
A chaise was ready, he was leaving town,

But first had much of deep concern to say.

Thus urged, she went the snoring man to call,
And long, indeed, was she obliged to bawl,

Ere she could rouse the torpid lump of clay.
At last he wakes, he rises, and he swears,
But scarcely had he totter'd down the stairs
When King attacks him in his usual way.

The Frenchman now perceived 'twas all in vain
To this tormentor mildly to complain,

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And straight in rage his crest began to rearSare, vat the devil make you treat me so ? Sare, I inform you, sare, three nights ago,

I swear no Monsieur Tonson, lodges here!"

True as the night, King went, and heard a strife
Between the harass'd Frenchman and his wife,
Which would descend to chase the fiend away;
At length to join their forces they agree,
And straight impetuously they turn the key,
Prepared with mutual fury for the fray.

Our hero, with the firmness of a rock,
Collected to receive the mighty shock,

Utt'ring the old inquiry, calmly stood-
The name of Thompson raised the storm so high,
He deem'd it then the safest plan to fly,

With "Well, I'll call when you're in gentler mood."

In short, our hero, with the same intent,
Full many a night to plague the Frenchman went—
So fond of mischief was the wicked wit;
They threw out water, for the watch they call,
But King expecting, still escapes from all-
Monsieur, at last, was forced his house to quit.

It happen'd that our wag about this time,
On some fair prospect sought the Eastern clime.
Six ling'ring years were there his tedious lot.
At length, content, amid his rip'ning store,
He treads again on Britain's happy shore,
And his long absence is at once forgot.

To London with impatient hope he flies,
And the same night, as former freaks arise,

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He fain must stroll the well-known haunt to trace. Ah, here's the scene of frequent mirth," he said,

'My poor old Frenchman, I suppose, is deadΙ

Egad, I'll knock, and see who holds his place."

With rapid strokes he makes the mansion roar,
And while he eager eyes the op'ning door,

Lo! who obeys the knocker's rattling peal?
Why, e'en our little Frenchman, strange to say!
He took his old abode that very day-

Capricious turn of sportive Fortune's wheel!

Without one thought of the relentless foe,
Who, fiendlike, haunted him so long ago,

Just in his former trim he now appears;
The waistcoat and the nightcap seem'd the same,
With rushlight, as before, he creeping came,
And King's detested voice, astonish'd, hears.

As if some hideous spectre struck his sight,
His senses seem'd bewilder'd with affright,

His face, indeed, bespoke a heart full sore,
Then starting, he exclaim'd in rueful strain,
Begar! here's Monsieur Tonson come again!"
Away he ran-and ne'er was heard of more!

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5.-THE QUAKER AND THE ROBBER.

SAMUEL LOVER.

[Samuel Lover was born in Dublin in 1797, his father being a member of the Stock Exchange in that city. He commenced his career as a miniature painter, and was elected an Academician of the Royal Hibernian Society of Arts in 1828. In 1837 he removed to London, devoting himself to literature, and published his "Irish Sketches" in two vols. In 1838 his best known novel "Handy Andy" was commenced in " Bentley's Miscellany;" "Rory O'More," "The Happy Man," and "The White Horse of the Peppers," followed in succession. These works were dramatized by their author, and proved highly successful. As a song writer Mr. Lover's reputation will be enduring; "The Angel's Whisper," "The Four-leaved Shamrock," and hundreds of others, of which he supplied the music as well as the words, have obtained a popularity surpassing even that of Moore's Melodies. Died at Jersey, July 6, 1868, and was buried at Kensal Green cemetery, London.]

A TRAVELLER wended the wilds among,
With a purse of gold and a silver tongue;

His hat it was broad, and all drab were his clothes,
For he hated high colours-except on his nose :
And he met with a lady, the story goes.

The damsel she cast him a merry blink,
And the traveller was nothing loth, I think!
Her merry black eye beamed her bonnet beneath,
And the Quaker he grinn'd, for he'd very good teeth;
And he asked, "Art thou going to ride on the heath ?"