Sir R. So has a duck-pond. He was a bit of still life; a chip; weak water-gruel; a tame rabbit, boiled to rags, without sauce or salt. He received men's arguments with his mouth open, like a poor's-box gaping for half-pence; and, good or bad, he swallowed them all, without any resistance. We couldn't disagree, and so we parted.

Dob. And the poor, meek gentleman went to Russia for a quiet life.

Sir R. A quiet life! Why, he married the moment he got there; tacked himself to the shrew relict of a Russian merchant; and continued a speculation with her in furs, flax, pot-ashes, tallow, linen and leather. And what's the conse

quence? Thirteen months ago, he broke. Poor Job! now he's in distress, I mustn't neglect his son.

(Frederick is heard singing without.

Dob. Here comes his son-that's Mr. Frederick.

Enter FREDERICK.

Fre. Ah! my dear uncle, good morning! Your park is nothing but beauty.

Sir R. Who bid you caper over my beauty? I told you to stay in doors till I got up.

Fre. Eh? Egad, so you did. I had as entirely forgotten it as

Sir R. And, pray, what made you forget it?

Fre. The sun.

Sir R. The sun?-He's mad! You mean the moon, I believe.

Fre. Oh, my dear sir! you don't know the effect of a fine spring morning upon a young fellow just arrived from Russia. The day looked bright-trees budding-birds singing-the park was gay-so, egad! I took a hop, step, and a jump, out of your old balcony; made your deer fly before me like the wind; and chased them all round the park to get an appetite, while you were snoring in bed, uncle!

Sir R. Ah! so the effect of an English sun upon a young Russian, is to make him jump out of a balcony, and worry my deer?

Fre. I confess it had that influence upon me.

Sir R. You had better be influenced by a rich old uncle, unless you think the sun likely to leave you a fat legacy. Fre. Sir, I hate fat legacies.

Sir R. Sir, that's mighty singular. They are pretty solid tokens of kindness, at least.

Fre. Very melancholy tokens, uncle; they are the posthumous despatches Affection sends to Gratitude, to inform us we have lost a generous friend.

Sir R. (Aside.) How charmingly the dog argues!

Fre. But I own my spirits ran away with me this morning. I will obey you better in future; for they tell me you are a very worthy, good sort of old gentleman.

Sir R. Now, who had the familiar impudence to tell you that?

Fre. Old Rusty, there.

Sir R. Why, Humphrey, you didn't?

Dob. Yes, but I did, though.

Fre. Yes, he did; and, on that score, I shall be anxious to show you obedience;-for 'tis as meritorious to attempt sharing in a good man's heart, as it is paltry to have designs upon a rich man's money. A noble nature aims its attentions full breast high, uncle; a mean mind levels its dirty assiduities at the pocket.

Sir R. (Embracing him.) Jump out of every window I have in my house! hunt my deer into high fevers, my fine fellow Ay, sir, this is spunk and plain speaking. Give me a man who is always plumping his dissent to my doctrine smack in my teeth!

Fre. I disagree with you there, uncle.

Dob So do I.

Fre. You, you forward puppy! If you were not so old, I'd knock you

down.

Sir R. I'll knock you down, if you do! I won't have my servants thumped into dumb flattery.

Dob. Come, you're ruffled. Let's go to the business of the morning.

Sir R. Hang the business of the morning! Don't you see we're engaged in discussion? I hate the business of the morning!

Dob. No you don't.

Sir R. And why not?

Dob. Because 'tis charity.

Sir R. Psha!-Well, we musn't neglect business. If there be any distresses in the parish, read the morning list, Humphrey.

Dob. (Taking out a paper, and looking over it.) Jonathan Huggins, of Muck Mead, is put into prison.

Sir R. Why, 'twas but last week, Gripe, the attorney, recovered two cottages for him by law, worth sixty pounds.

Dob. And charged a hundred and ten for his trouble. So seized the cottages for part of his bill, and threw Jonathan in gaol for the remainder.

Sir R. A harpy!—I must relieve the poor fellow's distress.
Fre. And I must kick his attorney.

Dob. (Looking at the list.) The curate's horse is dead.
Sir R. Psha ! there's no distress in that.

Dob. Yes there is, to a man who must go twenty miles every Sunday to preach three sermons, for thirty pounds a year.

Sir R. Why won't Punmock, the vicar, give him another nag? Dob. Because 'tis cheaper to get another curate ready mounted.

Sir R. What's the name of the black pad I purchased last Tuesday at Tunbridge?

Dob. Beelzebub.

Sir R. Send Beelzebub to the curate, and tell him to work him as long as he lives.

Fre. And if you have a tumble-down nag, send him to the vicar, to give him a chance of breaking his neck.

Sir R. What else?

Dob. Somewhat out of the common. There's one Lieutenant Worthington, a disabled officer and a widower, come to lodge at Farmer Harrowby's, in the village. He's plaguy poor

indeed, it seems, but more proud than poor, and more honest than proud.

Fre. That sounds like a noble character.

Sir R. And so he sends to me for assistance?

Dob. He'd see you hanged first! Harrowby says, he'd sooner die than ask any man for a shilling. There's his daughter, and his dead wife's aunt, and an old corporal that has served in the wars with him; he keeps them all upon his half-pay.

Sir R. Starves them all, I am afraid, Humphrey.

Fre. (Crossing.) Uncle, good morning.

Sir R. Where are you running now?

Fre. To talk to Lieutenant Worthington.

Sir R. And what may you be going to say to him? Fre. I can't tell till I encounter him; and then, uncle, when I have an old gentleman by the hand, who is disabled in his country's service, and struggling to support his motherless child, a poor relation, and a faithful servant, in honorable indigence, impulse will supply me with words to express my sentiments. (Hurrying off.

Sir R. Stop, you rogue-I must be before you in this business.

Fre. That depends upon who can run fastest. So start fair, uncle; and here goes! (Exit hastily. Sir R. Stop! why, Frederick !-A jackanapes! to take my department out of my hands! I'll disinherit the dog for his assurance!

Dob. No you won't.

Sir R. Won't I? Hang me, if I-but we'll argue that point as we go. Come along, Humphrey !

(Exeunt.

ART OF BOOK-KEEPING.-HOOD.

How hard, when those who do not wish to lend, thus lose,

their books,

Are snared by anglers,-folks that fish with literary Hooks,

Who call and take some favorite tome, but never read it

They thus complete their set at home, by making one at you.

I, of my "Spenser" quite bereft, last winter sore was shaken; Of "Lamb" I've but a quarter left, nor could I save my "Bacon";

And then I saw my " Crabbe" at last, like Hamlet, backward go; And, as the tide was ebbing fast, of course I lost my "Rowe".

My Mallet" served to knock me down which makes me thus a talker;

And once when I was out of town, my "Johnson" proved a "Walker".

While studying o'er the fire one day, my "Hobbes", amidst the smoke,

They bore my "Colman" clean away, and carried off my "Coke".

They picked my "Locke", to me far more than Bramah's patent worth,

And now my losses I deplore, without a "Home" on earth.
If once a book you let them lift, another they conceal,
For though I caught them stealing "Swift", as swiftly went
my "Steele".

"Hope" is not now upon my shelf, where late he stood elated; But what is strange, my "Pope" himself is excommunicated. My little "Suckling" in the grave is sunk to swell the ravage; And what was Crusoe's fate to save, 'twas mine to lose,-a "Savage".

Even "Glover's" works I cannot put my frozen hands upon, Though ever since I lost my "Foot", my "Bunyan" has been gone.

My "Hoyle" with Cotton" went oppressed; my "Taylor" too, must fail;

To save my

"Bayle".

"Goldsmith" from arrest, in vain I offered