GREG. I'll beat her when I please; and will not beat her when I do not please. She's my wife, and not yours.

SQ. ROB. Certainly, certainly, beat her

DOR. [very much enraged]. Give me the stick, dear husband. SQ. ROB. Well, if ever I attempt to part husband and wife again, may I be beaten myself! [Exit.]

SCENE 3.

GREG. Come, my dear, let us be friends.

DOR. [pouting]. What, after beating me so?

GREG. "Twas but in jest.

DOR. [indignant]. I desire you will crack your jests on your own bones, not on mine!

GREG. Pshaw! you know you and I are one; and I beat onehalf of myself when I beat you.

DOR. Yes; but for the future I desire you will beat the other half of yourself.

GREG. [caressingly]. Come, my pretty dear, I ask pardon; sorry fort. Forgive, and I promise-

I am

DOR. Never to do so again? Well, for once I pardon you; but you shall pay for't.

GREG. Pshaw! pshaw! child; these are only little affairs, necessary in friendship; four or five good blows with a cudgel between very fond couples only tend to heighten the affections I'll now to the wood, and I promise thee to make a hundred fagots before I come home. [Exit.]

DOR. [shaking fist at him as he goes]. If I am not revenged on those blows of yours, niy name is not Dorcas! Oh, that I could but think of some method to be revenged on him! Hang the rogue, he is quite insensible! Oh, that I could find out some invention to get him well drubbed, and be even with him! I will! I will! [Leaves in great excitement.]

THE COUNCIL OF THE RATS.

JEAN DE LA FONTAINE.

LD Rodillard, a certain cat,

OLD

Such havoc of the rats had made

'Twas difficult to find a rat

With nature's debt unpaid.

The few that did remain,

To leave their holes afraid,
From usual food abstain.

Now, on a day, this dread rat-eater
Who had a wife, went out to meet her;
And while he held his caterwauling,
The unkilled rats, their chapter calling,
Discussed the point, in grave debate,
How they might shun impending fate.
Their dean, a prudent rat,

Thought best, and better soon than late,
To bell the fatal cat,

That, when he took his hunting round,
The rats, well cautioned by the sound,
Might hide in safety under ground:
Indeed, he knew no other means;
And all the rest,

At once confessed

Their minds were with the dean's.

No better plan they all believed
Could possibly have been conceived;

No doubt the thing would work right well,

If any one would hang the bell.

But, one by one, said every rat:

"I'm not so big a fool as that!"
The plan knocked out in this respect,

The council closed without effect.

Then, cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,

In order to their stations leap,

And Music's power obey.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony,

This universal frame began;

From harmony to harmony,

Through all the compass of the notes it ran,

The diapason closing full in man.

What passion cannot music raise and quell?

When Jubal struck the chorded shell,

His listening brethren stood around,

And, wondering, on their faces fell

To worship that celestial sound.

Less than a god they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell,

That spoke so sweetly and so well,

What passion cannot music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangor

Excites us to arms,

With shrill notes of anger,

And mortal alarms.

The double, double, double beat

Of the thundering drum

Cries, "Hark, the foes come!

Charge, charge ! 'tis too late to retreat."

The soft, complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hapless lovers,

Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim

Their jealous pangs, and desperation,

Fury, frantic indignation,

Depth of pains and height of passion,

For the fair, disdainful dame.

But O! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,

Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees uprooted left their place,
Sequacious of the lyre;

But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher,
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
An angel heard, and straight appeared,

Mistaking earth for Heaven.

As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,

And sung the great Creator's praise
To all the blessed above;

So, when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.

JONATHAN SWIFT.

IN ancient times, as story tells,

The saints would often leave their cells
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.
It happened on a winter's night,
As authors of the legends write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguised in tattered habits, went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where in the strollers' canting strain,
They begged from door to door in vain.
Our wandering saints in woful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,

Having through all the village passed,
To a small cottage came at last

t;

Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman,
Called in the neighborhood Philemon,
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night.
And then the hospitable sire
Bid goodly Baucis mend the fire;