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of this mighty empire,—he, the conqueror of so fair a portion of the East, who, by arms and policy, knit another mighty empire to this, —or he—' the stricken deer,' who sought the shades, the arrow rankling in his side—who dwelt apart, in * blest seclusion from a jarring world,' and who, as his sole memorial and trophy, has left us
'This single volume paramount.'"
And Mr Dodsley lifted Sophia's small and elegant copy of Cowper'a works, and gave it into the hand of the youth next him.
An animated discussion now arose; and when Miss Harding collected the votes, she found the young gentlemen were equally divided between Hastings and Thurlow. The young ladies were, however, unanimous for Cowper; and the curate gave his suffrage with theirs, repeating,
'' Blessings be with them, and eternal praise,
BY THE AUTHOR OF "CORN-LAW RHYMES," &C.
The day was fair, the cannon roared,
Cold blew the bracing north,
Their little captives forth.
All in their best they paced the street,
All glad that they were free
But from their lips the rose had fled,
Like "death-in-Ufe" they smiled;
Alas! is that a child?
Flags waved, and men—a ghastly crew—
Marched with them, side by side;
They moved—a living tide.
* The painful picture which the eloquent author of " Corn-Law Rhymes" has here painted, ii "taken from the life." Those who are acquainted with the state of our manufacturing towns will readily recognize its truth. May it have the effect of directing the attention of tho Benevolent to the dreadful condition of" Slaves at Home!"—Editor of' Tke Amukt.'
Thousands and thousands—oh, so while!
With eyes so glazed and dull I Alas! it was indeed a sight
Too sadly beautiful!
And, oh, the pang their voices gave
Refuses to depart I "This is a wailing for the grave!''
I whispered to my heart.
It was as if, where roses blushed,
A sudden, blasting gale
And turned the roses pale.
It was as if, in glen and grove,
The wild birds sadly sung;
And every thrush its young.
It was as if, in dungeon-gloom,
Where chained despair reclined,
And hymned the passing wind.
And while they sang, and though they smiled,
My soul groaned heavily—
A mother who would be!
You ask me, where I would be laid,
In what beloved spot
You ask me, if this heart would like
Some one to trace my name, On the memorial-stone of grief— 'lis all the same.
But stayl me thinks I'd like to sleep
By Irvine's gentle flow—
J. B. T.
After my sleigh-ride last winter, and the slippery trick I was served by Patty Bean, nobody would suspect me of hankering after the women again in a hurry. To hear me jump and swear, and rail out against the whole feminine gender, you would have taken it for granted that I should never so much as look at one of them again to all eternity. O, but I was wicked! Tear out their eyes, says I; blame their skins, and torment their hearts; finally, I took an oath, that if I ever meddled, or had any thing to do with them again, I might be hung and choked.
But swearing off from women, and then going into a meetinghouse choke full of gals, all shining and glistening in their Sunday clothes and clean faces, is like swearing off from liquor and going into a grog-shop—it's all smoke.
I held out and kept firm to my oath for three whole Sundays— forenoons, afternoons, and intermissions complete. On the fourth, there were strong symptoms of a change of weather. A chap about my size was seen on the way to the meeting house, with a new patent hat on; his head hung by the ears upon a shirt-collar; his cravat had a pudding in it, and branched out in front into a doublebow knot. He carried a straight back and a stiff neck, as a man ought to do when he has his best clothes on; and every time he spit, he sprang his body forward like a jack-knife, in order to shoot clear of the ruffles.
Squire Jones's pew is next but two to mine, and when I stand up to prayers, and take my coat-tail under my arm, and turn my back to the minister, I naturally look right straight at Sally Jones. Now Sally has got a face not to be grinned at in a fog. Indeed, as regards beauty, some folks think she can pull an even yoke with Patty Bean. For my part, I think there is not much boot between them. Any how, they are so nigh matched that they have hated and despised each other, like rank poison, ever since they were school girls.
Squire Jones had got his evening fire on, and set himself down to reading the great Bible, when he heard a rap at his door. "Walk in. Well, John, how der do? Get out, Pompey."—" Pretty well, I thank ye, Squire, and how do you do?"—"Why so as to becrawling —ye ugly beast, will ye hold your yop? Haul up a chair and sit down, John."
* This amusing sketch originally appeared in a New England newspaper, bat we are iudebted for our knowledge of it to "Chambers' Edinburgh Journal."
"How do you do, Mrs Jones?"—" O, middlin'; how's yer marm? Don't forget the mat there, Mr Beedle." This put me in mind that I had been off soundings several times in the long muddy lane; and my boots were in a sweet pickle.
It was now old captain Jones's turn, the grandfather. Being roused from a doze, by the bustle and racket, he opened both his eyes, at first with wonder and astonishment. At last he began to halloo so loud that you might hear him a mile; for he takes it for granted that every body is just exactly as deaf as he is.
"Who is it? I say, who in the world is it?" Mrs Jones going close to his ear, screamed out, " It's Johnny Beedle."—" Ho, Johnny Beedle, I remember he was one summer at the siege of Boston.''— "No, no, father, bless your heart, that was his grandfather, that's been dead and gone this twenty year."—"Ho; but where does he come from?"—" Daown taown."—" And what does he follow for a livin'?" And he did not stop asking questions, after this sort, till all the particulars of the Beedle family were published and proclaimed in Mrs Jones's last screech. He then sunk back into his doze again.
The dog stretched himself before one handiron; the cat squat down upon the other. Silence came on by degrees like a calm snow storm, till nothing was heard but a cricket under the hearth, keeping tune with a sappy yellow-birch forcstiek. Sally sat up prim, as ifshe were pinned to the chair-back—her hands crossed genteelly upon her lap, and her eyes looking straight into the fire. Mammy Jones tried to straighten herself too, and laid her hands across in her lap; but they would not lie still. It was full twenty-four hours since they had done any work, and they were out of patience with keeping Sunday. Do what she would to keep them quiet, they would bounce up now and then, and go through the motions in spite of the fourth commandment. For my part, I sat looking very much like a fool. The more I tried to say something, the more my tongue stuck fast. I put my right leg over the left, and said "hem." Then I changed, and put the left over the right. It was no use—the silence kept coming on thicker and thicker. The drops of sweat began to crawl all over me. I got my eye upon my hat, hanging on a peg, on the road to the door—and then I eyed the door. At this moment, the old captain all at once sung out, "Johnny Beedle!" It sounded like a clap of thunder, and I started right up on end.
"Johnny Beedle, youH never handle sich a drumstick as your father did, if yer live to the age of Methusaler. He would toss up his drumstick, and while it was whirlin' in the air, take off a gill er rum, and then ketch it as it come down, without losin' a stroke in the tune. What d'ye think of that, ha? But skull your chair round, close er long side o' me, so yer can hear. Now, what have you come a'ter?"—" I after? O, jest talrin' a walk."—" Pleasant walkin', I guess."—" I mean jest to see how you all do."—" Ho !— That's another lie. You've come a-courtin', Johnny Beedle—you're a'ter our Sal. Say, now, d'ye want to marry, or only to court?"
This was what I call a choker. Poor Sally made but one jump, and landed in the middle of the kitchen; and then she skulked in the dark corner, till the old man, after laughing himself into a whooping cough, was put to bed.
Then came apples and cider; and the ice being broke, plenty chat with Mammy Jones, about the minister and the" sarmon." I agreed with her to a nicety upon all the points of doctrine; but I had forgot the text, and all the heads of the discourse but six. Then she teased and tormented me to tell who I accounted the best singer in the gallery that day. But, mum—there was no getting that out of me. "Praise to the face is often disgrace," says I, throwing a sly squint at Sally.
At last, Mrs Jones lighted t'other candle; and after charging Sally to look well to the fire, she led the way to bed, and the Squire gathered up his shoes and stockings, and followed.
Sally and I were left sitting a good yard apart, honest measure. For fear of getting tongue-tied again, I set right in with a steady stream of talk. I told her all the particulars about the weather that was past, and also some pretty 'cute guesses at what it was likely to be in future. At first I gave a hitch up with my chair at every full stop. Then, growing saucy, I repeated it at every comma and semicolon; and at last it was hitch, hitch, hitch, and I planted myself fast by her side.
"I vow, Sally, you looked so plaguy handsome to-day that I wanted to eat you up."—" Pshaw, git along you," says she. My hand had crept along, somehow upon its fingers, and began to scrape acquaintance with hers. She sent it home again with a desperate jerk. "Try it agin "—no better luck. ''Why, Miss Jones, you're gettin' upstropulous—a little old maidish, I guess."—" Hands off is fair play, Mr Beedle."
It is a good sign to find a girl sulky. I knew where the shoe pinched. It was that 'ere Patty Bean business. So I went to work to persuade her that I had never had any notion after Patty, and to prove it I fell to running her down at a great rate. Sally could not help chiming in with me, and I rather guess Miss Patty suffered a few. I now not only got hold of her hand without opposition, but managed to slip an arm round her waist. But there was no satisfying me—so I must go to poking out my lips after a buss. I guess I rued it. She fetched me a slap on the face that made me see stars, and my ears rung like a brass kettle for a quarter of an