Mendoza, Necker, Lord Howe, Milton, a gilt | duced me seven of as pretty pigs as ever you lion, Count Cagliostro, Whitfield, and a green parrot, all check-by-jowl together. The man -oh, you must remember it, Jack-walked under the window, crying, 'Image, image, who'll buy my image?' when you-0, you must recollect-threw a basin of water upon his board. Away floated Whitfield and the green parrot: Mendoza gave Milton a knockdown blow: the gilt lion fell tooth and nail upon Count Cagliostro: and Necker could not find ways and means to keep his place Lord Howe was the only officer who kept the deck." "Yes, yes, now I do remember it," exclaimed Colonel Nightingale, laughing heartily. It would have been better if he had remained serious. The opening of his fauces set Mr. Withers' tongue afloat upon a very ticklish topic. "Why, Jack," exclaimed the relentless clergyman, "you have got a new tooth." The colonel reddened; but the ecclesiastic proceeded. "Well, that's droll enough; you certainly had lost a tooth: I think it was your left eye-tooth."-"Do you retain your wise ones?" inquired the caustic colonel. " Yes, both of them," replied the matter-of-fact divulger of secrets. "You must remember the loss of yours; it was on the left side: Frank Anderson knocked it out with a cricket-ball." There are certain secrets which men keep even from their wives. For "twice ten tedious years" the colonel had been hugging himself in the certainty that the affair in question was confined to Chevalier Ruspini and himself. "Will you take a glass of champaign, sir?" said the master of the mansion. The movement was most dexterous. The Rev. Mr. Withers had made a "god of his belly" too long to allow the thoughts of any teeth, save his own, to cross his Bacchanalian devotions.

saw in your life. Then I've another thing to tell you: I enlarged my pig-sty seven feet four inches: four inches? I really think it was five: yes, it certainly was five. This caused the building to project a little, and but a little, upon the footpath that leads the back way, up town from the Red Lion to Mrs. Marshall's meadow. Well, now, what do you think Tom Austin did? He told Richard Holloway that I had been guilty of a trespass: whereupon Holloway, by advice of Skinner his attorney, pulled down four planks of the new part of the pig-stye, and let the whole litter out into the village! Little Johnny Mears caught one of them-it was the black and white one-and Smithers, the baker, contrived to get hold of five more; but I have never set eyes upon the seventh from that day to this! The poor black sow took on sadly. Dick Holloway ought to be ashamed of himself. He is a fellow of very loose habits, and never sets out his tithes as he should do. But what can you expect from a Presbyterian?" "This bald unjointed chat" made Colonel Nightingale fidget up and down like the right elbow of Mr. Lindley pending the agony of his violoncello accompaniment to the 'Batti Batti" of the now forgotten Mozart. The colonel had hitherto with marvellous patience, from complaisance to his guest, foreborne to mount his own hobby: finding, however, that the latter was in no hurry to dismount, he resolved, coute qui coute, to vault into his own proper saddle. The following dialogue forthwith ensued. I copy it verbatim, as a model of school friendship standing firm, in its community of tastes, amid the wreck of thirty years and upwards. "I am, I own, extremely partial to Rossini's Ricciardo e Zoraide: Garcia in Agorante excels himself: the critics object to his excess of When the summons of "Coffee is ready" ornament; but I own this has always aphad induced the two school friends to rejoin peared to me to be his chief merit."-"When Mrs. Nightingale in the drawing-room, all the black sow litters again, I shall keep a sharp former incidents had been pretty well ex- look-out upon Master Holloway; and if he pulls hausted, and they now proceeded to discuss down any more planks from my pig-sty I "things as they are. But in this species of mean to put him into the Spiritual Court.' duet they by no means chimed harmoni- "Catalani's spiritual concerts are not particuously together. Withers thought Scoresby and larly well attended, and I am not sorry for it: its concerns were the concerns of all mankind; Bochsa has started his oratorios with all the and Nightingale could not imagine that any- talent in town, and therefore ought to be enbody upon earth had anything to think of couraged. By-the-by, Madame Vestris is a save Rossini and his prima donna of a wife, woman of most versatile talent. Her mock Lindley's violoncello, Garcia in Agorante, and Don Giovanni is admirable: not that I approve Catalani in Il Fanatico per la Musica. "I of any mockery of the Italian Opera: profanehave news to tell you," said the country parson ness cannot be too steadily discouraged. But to the frequenter of the Italian opera, "which it is not a little surprising, that a woman who I am sure you will be glad to hear."- "In can act that sprightly comic extravaganza deed, what is it?"-"My black sow has pro- | should be able to depict the jealous and indig20

VOL. L

33

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ship: did you ever see such a vulgar dog—such an idiot too-so blind to his own interest: if he had but held his tongue two minutes, I could have given him my opinion of 'Rossini's Zelmira.' I am one Opera night out of pocket by him, and that is enough to make me detest him to my dying day. Such illiberality too— did you hear him say,- What can you expect from a Presbyterian!-How I hate a man who vilifies a whole tribe for the faults of an individual-I have long thought it, and I now know it-All men who live in the country are

nant Princess Zomira."-"We have a club of
clergymen who meet once a month at Kettering
to shake hands and exchange sermons: last
Friday month I gave one of mine to Doctor
Pringle, whose grandfather was chaplain to the
English factory at Lisbon, and received one of
his in exchange. I intended to look it over on
Sunday morning before church, but "-" How
extremely well Madame Vestris, Camporese,
and Garcia, execute that trio in the first act,
'Sara l'alma delusa schernita:' when Madame
Vestris comes in with her 'O l'indegno qui |
dove perir,' I declare she stands her ground fools."
most womanfully: the fact is, that the sweet-
ness of Italian music "- "But Hannah and I
were busy hunting the black sow out of the
cucumber beds: we were so busy, crying, 'Hey
tig! tig!' that we did not hear the bell toll: so
up I walked into the pulpit without ever once
looking at the sermon"-"Those orange-tawny
stuff curtains are a disgrace to the Opera
house"-"well I began reading it, and to my
great surprise I found that it had been preached
by Doctor Pringle's grandfather immediately
after the great earthquake at Lisbon. I therefore
found myself under the disagreeable necessity
of thus addressing my congregation at Ketter-
ing: When I look around me, and behold the
effects of the late horrid devastation of nature:
trees torn up by the roots; houses toppling
to their foundation; men and cattle ingulfed
in the earth, and the whole horizon rocking
like the ocean in its most tempestuous moments.'
You cannot imagine the sensation I excited:
the women fanned themselves and fainted;
and the men muttered to each other, 'Dear me!
something unpleasant must have occurred since
we entered the church!'-I never preached with
so much effect either before or since."

The regular amble of the Rev. George Withers' hobby had now contrived to distance the curvature and prance of Colonel Nightingale's. The colonel pulled up, and lifting a small gold watch from his right waistcoat pocket, muttered to himself "Ah, the wretch! it is half-past ten, and Catalani must have sung her second Cavatina.-Where do you lodge, Sir?" said the host, coldly to his guest-"At the New Hummums.' "Indeed! are you aware that they close their doors at a quarter past eleven?". "You don't say so?"-"Yes, I do: but you may find very pretty accommodation at the Finish:' the street strollers and market-gardeners speak of it in high terms." This hit told: the Reverend George Withers looked at his watch, and made a rapid retreat. "Well!" cried the colonel the moment the door was closed, "so much for school friend

JAMES SMITH.

THE OCEAN GRAVE.

[Mrs. John Hunter (Anne Home), born in Hull, 1742; died in London, 7th January, 1821. She was the wife of the celebrated anatomist, and the authoress of several songs which have been popular. Of these, Mg Mother Bids me Bind my Hair, is perhaps the best known. A collection of her poems appeared in 180-2.]

Friends! when I die, prepare my welcome grave,
Where the eternal ocean rolls his wave;
Rough though the blast, still let his freeborn breeze,
Which freshness wafts to earth from endless seas,
Sigh o'er my sleep, and let his glancing spray
Weep tear-drops sparkling with a heavenly ray,
A constant mourner then shall watch my tomb,
And nature deepen while it soothes the gloom.

O let that element whose voice had power
To cheer my darkest, soothe my loneliest hour,
Which through my life my spirit loved so well,
Still o'er my grave its tale of glory tell.

The gen'rous ocean, whose proud waters bear
The spoil and produce they disdain to wear,
Whose wave claims kindred with the azure sky
From whom reflected stars beam gloriously;
Emblem of God! unchanging, infinite,
Awful alike in loveliness and might,
Rolls still untiring like the tide of time,

Binds man to man, and mingles clime with clime:
And as the sun, which from each lake and stream
Through all the world, where'er their waters gleim,
Collects the cloud his heavenly ray conceals,
And slakes the thirst which all creation feels,
So ocean gathers tribute from each shore,
To bid each climate know its want no more.

Exiled on earth, a fettered prisoner here,
Barr'd from all treasures which my heart holds dear,
The kindred soul, the fame my youth desired,
Whilst hope hath fled which once each vision fired;
Dead to all joy, still on my fancy glow

Dreams of delight which heavenward thoughts bestow,
Not then in death shall I unconscious be
Of that whose whispers are eternity.

vehement indignation at Malaspini's neglect |
and bad faith, as he termed it, towards his
sister; protesting that it was an insult to be
only washed out with his blood, and with these
expressions he sought to kill him at any ad-
vantage. And no doubt he would have become
a murderer, as well as a dishonest gamester, if
Malaspini's shame and anguish had not drawn
him out of the way; for he had hired a mean
lodging in the suburbs, from which he never
issued but at dusk, and then only to wander in
the most unfrequented places.

It was now in the wane of autumn, when some of the days are fine, and gorgeously decorated at morn and eve by the rich sun's embroideries; but others are dewy and dull, with cold nipping winds, inspiring comfortless fancies and thoughts of melancholy in every bosom. In such a dreary hour Malaspini happened to walk abroad, and avoiding his own squandered estates, which it was not easy to do by reason of their extent, he wandered into a by-place in the neighbourhood. The place was very lonely and desolate, and without any near habitation; its main feature especially being a large tree, now stripped bare of its vernal honours, excepting one dry yellow leaf, which was shak-, ing on a topmost bough to the cold evening wind, and threatening at every moment to fall to the damp, dewy earth. Before this dreary object Malaspini stopped sometime in contemplation, commenting to himself on the desolate tree, and drawing many apt comparisons between its nakedness and his own beggarly condition.

'Alas! poor bankrupt," says he, "thou hast been plucked too, like me; but yet not so basely. Thou hast but showered thy green leaves on the grateful earth, which in another season will repay thee with sap and sustenance; but those whom I have fattened will not so much as lend again to my living. Thou wilt thus regain all thy green summer wealth, which I shall never do; and besides, thou art still better off than I am, with that one golden leaf to cheer thee, whereas I have been stripped even of my last ducat!"

With these and many more similar fancies, he continued to aggrieve himself, till at last, being more sad than usual, his thoughts tended unto death, and he resolved, still watching that yellow leaf, to take its flight as the signal for his own departure.

what upon fortune; and very shortly the leaf being torn away by a sudden blast, it made two or three flutterings to and fro, and at last settled on the earth, at about a hundred paces from the tree. Malaspini interpreted this as an omen that he ought to die; and following the leaf till it alighted, he fell to work on the same spot with his sword, intending to scoop himself a sort of rude hollow for a grave. He found a strange gloomy pleasure in this fanciful design, that made him labour very earnestly: and the soil besides being loose and sandy, he had soon cleared away about a foot below the surface. The earth then became suddenly more obstinate, and trying it here and there with his sword, it struck against some very hard substance; whereupon, digging a little further down, he discovered a considerable treasure.

There were coins of various nations, but all golden, in this petty mine; and in such quantity as made Malaspini doubt, for a moment, if it were not the mere mintage of his fancy. Assuring himself, however, that it was no dream, he gave many thanks to God for this timely providence; notwithstanding, he hesitated for a moment to deliberate whether it was honest to avail himself of the money; but believing, as was most probable, that it was the plunder of some banditti, he was reconciled to the appropriation of it to his own necessities.

Loading himself, therefore, with as much gold as he could conveniently carry, he hastened with it to his humble quarters; and by making two or three more trips in the course of the night he made himself master of the whole treasure. It was sufficient, on being reckoned, to maintain him in comfort for the rest of his life; but not being able to enjoy it in the scene of his humiliations, he resolved to reside abroad; and embarking in an English vessel at Naples, he was carried over safely to London.

It is held a deep disgrace amongst our Italian nobility for a gentleman to meddle with either trade or commerce; and yet, as we behold, they will condescend to retail their own produce, and wine especially,-yea, marry, and with an empty barrel, like any vintner's sign, hung out at their stately palaces. Malaspini perhaps disdained from the first these illiberal prejudices; or else he was taught to renounce them by the example of the London merchants, whom he saw in that great mart of the world, engrossing the universal seas, and enjoying the power and importance of princes,

"Chance," said he, "hath been my temporal ruin, and so let it now determine for me, in my last cast between life and death, which is now all that its malice hath left me.' Thus in his extremity he still risked some- merely from the fruits of their traffic.

At any