than. "What scope for description!" cried the first. “What scope for improvement!" returned the second.

As we returned we passed the cottage of the peasant whom we had seen at his plough in the morning. The family were busily engaged in their several domestic occupations. One little chubby-faced rogue was conducting Dobbin to his stable, another was helping his sister to coop up the poultry, and a third was incarcerating the swine, who made a vigorous resistance against their youthful antagonist. "Tender!" cried Rhyme; he was listening to the nightingale. "Very tender!" replied Reason; he was looking at the pigs.

As we drew near home, we met an old gentleman walking with his daughter, between whom and Charles a reciprocal attachment was said to exist. The lateness of the evening prevented much conversation, but the few words which were spoken again brought into contrast the opposite tempers of my friends. “A fine evening, madam," said the man of sense, and bowed. "I shall see you to-morrow, Mary!” said the lover, and pressed her hand. We looked back upon her as she left us. After a pause-" She is an angel!" sighed Charles. "She is an heiress," observed Jonathan. “She has ten thousand perfections!” cried Rhyme. “She has ten thousand pounds," said Reason.

We left them the next morning, and spent some days in speculations on the causes which enabled such union of affections to exist with such diversities of taste. For ourselves, we must confess that, while Reason has secured our esteem, Rhyme has run away with our hearts; we have sometimes thought with Jonathan, but we have always felt with Charles. "Essays."

My Partner

Ar Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill
Of folly and cold water,

I danced, last year, my first quadrille
With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter.
Her cheek with summer's rose might vie,
When summer's rose is newest;

Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky,
When autumn's sky is bluest;

And well my heart might deem her one
Of life's most precious flowers,
For half her thoughts were of its sun,
And half were of its showers.

I spoke of novels: "Vivian Gray"
Was positively charming,
And "Almack's" infinitely gay,

And "Frankenstein" alarming;
I said "De Vere" was chastely told,

Thought well of "Herbert Lacy,"
Called Mr. Banim's sketches "bold,"
And Lady Morgan's "racy";

I vowed the last new thing of Hook's
Was vastly entertaining;

And Laura said, "I dote on books,
Because it's always raining!"

I talked of music's gorgeous fane,
I raved about Rossini,

Hoped Ronzo would come back again,
And criticised Paccini;

I wished the chorus singers dumb,
The trumpets more pacific,
And eulogised Brocard's aplomb
And voted Paul “terrific."
What cared she for Medea's pride.

Or Desdemona's sorrow? "Alas!" my beauteous listener sighed, "We must have storms to-morrow!"

I told her tales of other lands;
Of ever-boiling fountains,

Of poisonous lakes, and barren sands,
Vast forests, trackless mountains;

I painted bright Italian skies,

I lauded Persian roses,

Coined similes for Spanish eyes,

And jests for Indian noses;
I laughed at Lisbon's love of mass,
And Vienna's dread of treason;
And Laura asked me where the glass
Stood at Madrid last season.

I broached whate'er had gone its rounds, The week before, of scandal;

What made Sir Luke lay down his hounds
And Jane take up her Handel;
Why Julia walked upon the heath,
With the pale moon above her;
Where Flora lost her false front teeth,
And Anna her false lover;

How Lord de B. and Mrs. L.

Had crossed the sea together; My shuddering partner cried, "Oh, Lord! How could they, in such weather?"

Was she a blue? I put my trust
In strata, petals, gases;

A boudoir pedant? I discussed
The toga and the fasces;

A Cockney muse? I mouthed a deal
Of folly from Endymion;

A saint? I praised the pious zeal
Of Messrs. Way and Simeon;
A politician? It was vain

To quote the morning paper.
The horrid phantoms come again:
Rain, hail, and snow, and vapour.

Flat flattery was my only chance,
I acted deep devotion,

Found magic in her every glance,
Grace in her every motion;
I wasted all a stripling's lore,

Prayer, passion, folly, feeling;
And wildly looked upon the floor,
And wildly on the ceiling;

I envied gloves upon her arm,
And shawls upon her shoulder;

And when my worship was most warm,


She never found it colder."

I don't object to wealth or land;
And she will have the giving
Of an extremely pretty hand,
Some thousands, and a living.
She makes silk purses, broiders stools,
Sings sweetly, dances finely,

Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday-schools,
And sits a horse divinely.

But to be linked for life to her!

The desperate man who tried it,

Might marry a barometer,

And hang himself beside it!

The Vicar

His talk was like a stream which runs
With rapid change from rocks to roses;
It slipped from politics to puns;

It passed from Mohammed to Moses;
Beginning with the laws which keep

The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep

For dressing eels or shoeing horses.

He was a shrewd and sound divine,
Of loud dissent the mortal terror;
And when, by dint of page and line,

He 'stablished truth, or started error,
The Baptist found him far too deep;
The Deist sighed with saving sorrow;


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