Imatges de pàgina
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saw he was a strapper-stout and tall; then put this question— "P-p-pray, sir, what d'ye want?" Says Toby-"I want nothing, sir, at all." Want nothing, sir!-you've pulled my bell, I vow, as if you'd jerk it off the wire." Quoth Toby-gravely making him a bow "I pulled it, sir, at your desire." "At mine!"-"Yes, yours; I hope I've done it well: high time for bed, sir; I was hastening to it; but, if you write up-Please to ring the bell,' common politeness makes me stop, and do it!"

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A FELLOW, in a market-town, most musical cried "Razors !" up and down, and offered twelve for eighteen-pence; which certainly seemed wondrous cheap, and, for the money, quite a heap, as every man should buy-with cash and sense. A country bumpkin the great offer heard: poor Hodge! who suffered by a thick, black beard, that seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose; with cheerfulness the eighteenpence he paid, and proudly to himself, in whispers, said, "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose! No matter, if the fellow be a knave, provided that the razors shave, it sartinly will be a monstrous prize." So, home the clown with his good fortune went, smiling in heart and soul content, and quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes. Being well lathered from a dish or tub, Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, just like a hedger cutting furze: 'twas a vile razorthen the rest he tried all were impostors "Ah!" Hodge sighed, "I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse!" In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, he cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore; brought blood and danced, gaped, grinned, and made wry faces, and hacked the razors' edges o'er and o'er! His muzzle, formed of opposition stuff, firm as a statesman, would not lose its ruff; so kept it-laughing at the steel and suds: Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws, vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws, on the vile cheat that sold the goods. "Razors! a vile confounded dog! not fit to scrape a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow-found him, and began :-"Perhaps, Mas ter Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun, that people flay themselves out of their lives: you rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing, with razors just like oyster knives. Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave, to cry up razors tha can't shave." "Friend," quoth the razor-merchant, "I'm no knave as for the razors you have bought, upon my word I never thought that they would shave." "Not think they'd shave!" cried Hodge, with wondering eyes, and voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "what were they made for, then, you dog?" he cries. "Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile,—“to sell.”

V. THE CONFESSION.-Anon.

THERE'S somewhat on my breast, ladies, there's somewhat on my breast! The livelong day I sigh, ladies, at night I cannot rest. I cannot take my rest, ladies, though I would fain do so: a weary weight oppresseth me, the weary weight of woe! 'Tis not the lack of gold, ladies, the lack of worldly gear; my lands are broad and fair

to see, my friends are kind and dear; my kin are leal and true, ladies, they mourn to see my grief-but, oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand can give my heart relief. "Tis not my love is false, ladies, 'tis not that she's unkind; though busy flatterers swarm around, I know her constant mind:-'tis not her coldness, ladies, that pains my labouring breast:-'tis that confounded cucumber I ate, and can't digest!

VI. THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.-Colman.

A MAN in many a country town we know, professing openly with Death to wrestle; entering the field against the grimly foe, armed with a mortar and a pestle. Yet some affirm, no enemies they are; but meet just like prize-fighters in a fair, who first shake hands before they box, then give each other plaguy knocks, with all the love and kindness of a brother. So,-many a suffering patient saith,-though the Apothecary fights with Death, still they're sworn friends to one another.- -A member of this Esculapian line, lived at Newcastleupon-Tyne: no man could better gild a pill, or make a bill, or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister, or draw a tooth out of your head, or chatter scandal by your bed, or spread a plaster. His fame full six miles round the country ran; in short, in reputation he was solus: all the old women called him "A fine man!"-his name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, though in trade,-which oftentimes will genius fetter,-read works of fancy, it is said, and cultivated the Belles Lettres. And why should this be thought so odd? can't men have taste who cure a phthisic? Of poetry, though patron god, Apollo patronises physic. Bolus loved verse; and took so much delight in't, that his prescriptions he resolved to write in't. No opportunity he e'er let pass of writing the directions on his labels, in dapper couplets-like Gay's Fables, or rather like the lines in Hudibras. Apothecary's verse!-and where's the treason? "Tis simple honest dealing-not a crime: when patients swallow physic without reason, it is but fair to give a little rhyme.

He had a patient lying at death's door, some three miles from the town-it might be four; to whom one evening Bolus sent an article, in pharmacy that's called cathartical; and on the label of the stuff, he wrote this verse (which one would think was clear enough, and terse) "When taken; to be well shaken.". -Next morning, early, Bolus rose; and to the patient's house he goes upon his pad, which a vile trick of stumbling had: it was indeed a very sorry hack; but that's of course: for what's expected from a horse, with an apothecary on his back?

Bolus arrived, and gave a doubtful tap, between a single and a double rap. Knocks of this kind are given by gentlemen who teach to dance, by fiddlers, and by opera-singers: one loud, and then a little one behind, as if the knocker fell, by chance, out of their fingers.-The servant let him in with dismal face, long as a courtier's out of place-portending some disaster: John's countenance as rueful looked and grim, as if the apothecary had physicked him, and not his master. "Well, how's the patient?" Bolus said. John shook his head. "Indeed?-hum:-ha!-that's very odd! he took the draught?"John gave a nod. "Well-how?-What then?-Speak out, you dunce!" " "Why, then," says John, "we shook him once." "Shook him!-how?" Bolus stammered out. "We jolted him about."

"What! shake a patient, man?-a shake won't do."

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'No, sir-and so we gave him two.' Two shakes!-odds curse! 'twould make the patient worse." "It did so, sir--and so a third we tried." "Well, and what then?"-"Then, sir, my master-died!"

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VIL-HODGE AND THE VICAR.-Anonymous.

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HODGE, a poor honest country lout, not over-stocked with learning, chanced on a summer's eve to meet the Vicar, home returning. Ah! Master Hodge," the Vicar cried, "what, still as wise as ever? the people in the village say that you are wondrous clever." Why, Measter Parson, as to that I beg you'll right conceive me; I do na brag, but yet I knaw a thing or two, believe me "We'll try your skill," the Parson cried, "for learning what digestion: and this you'll prove or right or wrong, by solving me a question. Noah, of old, three babies had, or grown-up children rather: Shem, Ham, and Japhet they were called;-now who was Japhet's father?" "Rat it!" cried Hodge, and scratched his head; "that does my wits belabour: but howsomde'er, I'll homeward run, and ax old Giles my neighbour." To Giles he went and put the case, with circumspect intention: "Thou fool," cried Giles, "I'll make it clear to thy dull comprehension. Three children has Tom Long, the smith, or cattle-doctor rather; Tom, Dick, and Harry, they are called: now who is Harry's father?" 66 Adzooks, I have it," Hodge replied, "right well I know your lingo; who's Harry's father?-stop--here goes,--why Tom Long Smith, by jingo."

Away he ran to find the priest, with all his might and main; who with good humour instant put the question once again. "Noah, of old, three babies had, or grown-up children rather; Shem, Ham, and Japhet they were called: now who was Japhet's father?" "I have it now," Hodge grinning cried, "I'll answer like a proctor: who's Japhet's father? now I know; why Long Tom Smith, the Doctor."

VIII.-A CHEAP DINNER.-Planché.

Two "Messieurs" lately from old France come over, half-starved, but toujours gai, (no weasels e'er were thinner,) trudged up to town from Dover, their slender store exhausted in the way; extremely puzzled how to get "von dinner." From morn till noon, from noon till dewy eve, our Frenchmen wandered on their expedition; great was their need, and sorely did they grieve-stomach and pocket in the same condition! At length, by mutual consent they parted, and different ways on the same errand started. This happened on a day most dear to epicures, when general use sanctions the roasting of a savoury goose! Towards night, one Frenchman, at a tavern near, stopped, and beheld the glorious cheer! while greedily he snuffed the luscious gale in, that from the kitchen-windows was exhaling. He instant set to work his busy brain, and snuffed, and longed, and longed, and snuffed again! Necessity's the mother of invention, (a proverb I've heard many mention;) so now one moment saw his plan completed, and our sly Frenchman at a table seated. The ready Waiter at his elbow stands- "Sir, will you favour me with your commands? we've roast and boiled, Sir; choose you those or these?""Sare! you are very good, Sare! Vat you please!"

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Quick at the word, upon the table smokes the wished-for bird! No time in talking did he waste, but pounced pell-mell upon it; drumstick and merry-thought he picked in haste, exulting in the merrythought that won it! Pie follows goose, and after pie comes cheese:-"Stilton or Cheshire, Sir?"- -“Ah, vat you please!"- And now our Frenchman, having ta'en his fill, prepares to go, when"Sir, your ittle bill." "Ah, vat, you're Bill! vell, Mr. Bill, good day! Bon jour, good Villiam."- No, Sir, stay! my name is Tom, Siryou've this bill to pay." Pay, pay, ma foi! I call for noting, Sare-pardonnez moi! you bring me vat you call your goose, your sheese; you ask-a me to eat-I tell you, Vat you please!" Down came the Landlord; each explained the case, the one with anger, t'other with grimace; but Boniface, who dearly loved a jest, although sometimes he dearly paid for it, and finding nothing could be done (you know, that when a man has got no money, to make him pay some would be rather funny) of a bad bargain made the best, acknowledged much was to be said for it; took pity on the Frenchman's meagre face, then, Briton-like, forgave a fallen foe, laughed heartily, and let him go.

Our Frenchman's hunger thus subdued, away he trotted in a merry mood; when, turning round the corner of a street, who but his countryman he chanced to meet? To him, with many a shrug and many a grin, he told how he had taken Jean Bull in! Fired with the tale, the other licks his chops, makes his congée, and seeks this shop of shops. Entering, he seats himself just at his ease. "What will you take, Sir?". "Vat you please!". -The Waiter looked as pale as Paris plaster, and, upstairs running, thus addressed his master: "These vile Mounseers come over sure in pairs; Sir, there's another 'vat you please' down stairs!". This made the Landlord rather crusty; "Too much of one thing"--the proverb's somewhat musty: once to be done his anger didn't touch; but when a second time they tried the treason --it made him crusty, Sir, and with good reason:-you would be crusty were you done so much.

There is a kind of instrument which greatly helps a serious argument, and which, when properly applied, occasions some most unpleasant tickling sensations!-'twould make more clumsy folks than Frenchmen skip, 'twould strike you presently-a stout horsewhip. This instrument our Maitre d'hote most carefully concealed beneath his coat; and, seeking instantly the Frenchman's station, addressed him with the usual salutation. Our Frenchman, bowing to his threadbare knees, determined while the iron's hot to strike it, quick with his lesson answers" Vat you please!" But scarcely had he let the sentence slip, when round his shoulders twines the pliant whip. "Sare, Sare! ah, misericorde! parbleu! oh dear! Monsieur! vat make you use me so? Vat you call dis?"- "Ah, don't you know, that's what I please," says Bony, "how d'ye like it? Your friend, though I paid dearly for his funning, deserved the goose he gained, Sir, for his cunning; but you, Monsieur, or else my time I'm wasting, are goose enough-and only wanted basting."

IX. THE SPIRIT OF CONTRADICTION.—Lloyd.

THE very silliest things in life create the most material strife what scarce will suffer a debate, will oft produce the bitterest hate. "It

is!" you say,-I say, "'Tis not!" Why, you grow warm-and I am hot. Thus each alike with passion glows, and words come firstand after, blows.

Friend Jerkin had an income clear, some fifty pounds or more a year; and rented, on the farming plan, grounds at much greater sums per ann. A man of consequence no doubt, 'mongst all his neighbours round about: he was of frank and open mind, too honest to be much refined; would smoke his pipe, and tell his tale, sing a good song, and drink his ale.

His wife was of another mould; her age was neither young nor old; her features, strong, yet somewhat plain; her air, not bad, but rather vain; her temper, neither new nor strange; a woman's very apt to change: what she most hated was-CONVICTION; what she most loved-FLAT CONTRADICTION! A charming housewife, ne'ertheless; tell me a thing she could not dress: soups, hashes, pickles, puddings, pies, nought came amiss she was so wise! for she, bred twenty miles from town, had brought a world of breeding down, and Cumberland had seldom seen a farmer's wife with such a mien. She could not bear the sound of Dame; no ;--"Mistress Jerkin" was her

name.

Once on a time, the season fair for exercise and cheerful air, it happened in his morning's roam he killed some birds, and brought them home. 66 Here, Cicely, take away my gun; how shall we have these starlings done?" "Done! what, my love? your wits are wild! starlings, my dear! they're thrushes, child."--"Nay, now, but look, consider, wife; they're starlings."-" No, upon my life! sure I can judge as well as you, I know a thrush and starling too."-" Who was it shot them, you or I? they're starlings!"--"Thrushes!"--" Wife, you lie.". "Pray, Sir, take back your dirty word, I scorn your language as your bird; it ought to make a husband blush, to treat a wife so 'bout a thrush."--"Thrush, Cicely!"-"Yes."—"A starling!" "No."--The lie again, and then the blow. Blows carry strong and quick conviction, and mar the powers of contradiction. Peace soon ensued, and all was well: it were imprudence to rebel, or keep the ball up of debate, against these arguments of weight.

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A year rolled on in perfect ease; 'twas, "As you like!" and, "What you please!"-At length returned, in annual flight, the day of this most fowlish fight: quoth Cicely-" Ah, this charming life, no tumults now, no blows, no strife! what fools we were this day last year! Law! how you beat me then, my dear! Sure it was idle and absurd, to wrangle so about a bird, a bird not worth a single rush""A starling."- 'No, my love, a thrush! that I'll maintain."- "That I'll deny." "You're wrong, good husband."-"Wife, you lie!" Again the self-same wrangle rose, again the lie, again the blows. Thus, every year, (true man and wife,) ensues the same domestic strife: thus every year their quarrel ends they argue, fight, and kiss, and friends; 'tis "Starling!"-" Thrush!"--and "Thrush!"-and "Starling!”"You dog!"—"You cat!”—“My dear !"—" My darling!"

X. THE THREE BLACK CROWS.-Dr. Byrom.

Two honest tradesmen, meeting in the Strand, one shook the other briskly by the hand: "Hark you," said he, "'tis an odd story this, about the crows!"_"I don't know what it is,"-replied his friend.

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