to carl'ee, you'll not knoa what two minutes arter vore means in your bed. Sure as ever clock strikes, I'll have 'ec out, danged if I doant! Good night, zur :"-and exit Boots..

66

'And now I'll pack my portmanteau."

It was a bitter cold night, and my bed-room fire had gone out. Except the rush candle, in a pierced tin box, I had nothing to cheer the gloom of a very large apartment, the walls of which (now dotted all over by the melancholy rays of the rushlight, as they struggled through the holes of the box) wore a dark brown wainscot-but one solitary wax taper. There lay coats, trowsers, linen, books, papers, dressing materials, in dire confusion, about the room. In despair, I sat me down at the foot the bed, and contemplated the chaos around me. My energies were paralyzed by the scene. Had it been to gain a kingdom, I could not have thrown a glove into the portmanteau; so resolving to defer the packing till to-morrow, I got into bed.

My slumbers were fitful-disturbed. Horrible dreams, assailed me. Series of watches each pointing to the hour of FOUR, passed slowly before me-then, time-pieces-dials of a larger size—and, at last, enormous steeple-clocks, all pointing to four, four, four

"A change came o'er the spirit of my dream,"

and endless processions of watchmen moved along, each mournfully dinning in my ears, "Past four o'clock." At length I was attacked by the nightmare. Methought I was an hourglass-old Father Time bestrode me-he pressed upon me with unendurable weight—fearfully and threateningly did he wave his scythe above my head-he grinned at me-struck me three blows, audible blows, with the handle of his scythe, on my breast-stooped his huge head, and shrieked in my ear— "Vore o'clock, zur; I zay it be vore o'clock."

It was the awful voice of Boots.

"Well, I hear you," groaned I.

"But I don't hear you. Vore o'clock, zur." "Very well, very well, that 'll do."

"Beggin' your pardon, but it woan't do zur.

up-past vore, zur.

'Ee must get

And here he thundered away at the door; nor did he cease knocking till I was fairly up, and had shown myself to him in order to satisfy him of the fact.

"That'll do, zur; 'ee toald I to carl 'ee, and I ha' carl 'ee properly."

I lit my taper at the rushlight. On opening the window shutter, I was regaled with the sight of a fog, a parallel to which London itself, on one of its most perfect November days, could scarcely have produced. A dirty, drizzling rain was falling. My heart sank within me. It was now twenty minutes past four. I was master of no more than forty disposable minutes, and, in that brief space, what had I to do. The duties of the toilet were indispensable-the portmanteau must be packed—and, run as fast as I might, I could not get to the coach-office in less than ten minutes. Hot water was a luxury not to be procured at that villainous hour, not a human being in the house (nor, do I firmly believe in the universe entire) had risen-my unfortunate self, and my companion in wretchedness, poor Boots, excepted. The water in the jug was frozen; but, by dint of hammering upon it with the handle of the poker, I succeeded in enticing out about as much as would have filled a tea-cup. Two towels which had been left wet in the room, were standing on a chair, bolt upright, as stiff as the poker itself, which you might about as easily have bent. The tooth-brushes were riveted to the glass in which I had left them, and of which (in my haste to disengage them from their strong hold) they carried away a fragment; the soap was cemented to the dish, my shaving brush was a mass of ice. In short, more appalling Discomfort had never appeared on earth. I approached the looking-glass. Even had all the materials for the operation been tolerably thawed, it was impossible to use a razor by such a light. "Who's there?"

"Now, if 'ee please, zur; no time to lose; only twenty-vive minutes of vive."

I lost my self-possession-I have often wondered that morning did not unsettle my mind.

There was no time for the performance of anything like a comfortable toilet. I resolved therefore to defer it altogether til the coach should stop to breakfast. "I'll pack my portmanteau; that must be done." In went whatever happened to come first to hand. In my haste, I had thrust in, among my own things, one of my host's frozen towels. Everything must come out again.

"Who's there?"

"Now, zur; 'ee'll be too late, zur !"

"Coming!"

Everything was now gathered together the portmanteau would not lock. No matter, it must be content to travel to town in a dishabille of straps. Where were my boots? In my hurry, I had packed away both pair. It was impossible to travel to London, on such a day, in slippers. Again was everything to be done.

"Now, zur, coach be going."

The most unpleasant part of the ceremony of hanging (scarcely excepting the closing act) must be the hourly notice given to the culprit of the exact length of time he has to live. Could any circumstance have added much to the miseries of my situation, most assuredly it would have been those unfeeling reminders.

"I'm coming," again replied I, with a groan. "I have only to pull on my boots."

They were both left-footed! Then I must open that rascally portmanteau again.

"Please zur-"

"What in the name of

do you want now ?"

"Coach be gone, please zur."

"Gone! Is there no chance of overtaking it?"

"Bless 'ee! noa zur; not as Jem Robbins do drive. He

be vive miles off by now."

"You are certain of that?"

"I warrant 'ee, zur."

At this assurance I felt a throb of joy, which was almost a compensation for all my sufferings past.

" Boots," said I, "you are a kind-hearted creature, and I will give you an additional half-crown. Let the house be kept perfectly quiet, and desire the chambermaid to call

me

"At what o'clock, zur ?"

"This day three months at the earliest."

A PARODY*—THE SEA.

THE sea! the sea! Oh me! oh me!
The pail-be quick! I quail-I'm sick!
I'm sick as I can be;

I cannot sit-I cannot stand:

I prithee, steward, lend a hand!

To my cabin I'll go, to my berth will I hie,
And like a cradled infant lie.

I'm on the sea-I'm on the sea!

I am where I would never be,

With the smoke above and the steam below,
And sickness wheresoe'er I go :

If a storm should come, no matter I wot;
To the bottom I'd go as soon as not.

I love-oh! how I love to ride

In a neat post chaise, with a couple of bays,
And a pretty girl by my side!

But, oh! to swing amidst fire and foam,
And be steamed like a mealed potato at home,

And to feel that no soul cares more for your woe
Than the paddles that clatter as onward they go!

* On Barry Cornwall's popular song, "The Sea! The Sea " &c.

The ocean's wave I ne'er moved o'er,
But I love my donkey more and more,

And homeward flew to her bony back,
Like a truant boy to his mother's sack;
And a mother she was and is to me,
For I was an ass, to go to sea!

QUIN AND FOOTE.-ANON.

As Quin and Foote

One day walked out,

To view the country round,

In merry mood,
They chatting stood,

Hard by the village pound.

Foote from his poke

A shilling took,

And said, "I'll bet a penny,

In a short space,

Within this place,

I'll make this piece a guinea."

Upon the ground,

Within the pound,

The shilling soon was thrown:

"Behold," says Foote,

"The thing's made out,

For there is one pound one !"

"I wonder not,"

Says Quin, "that thought

Should in your head be found,

Since that's the way

Your debts you pay—

One shilling in the pound!"