The street car engulfed her graceful form, and she was seen no more. But the neighbours say that they heard Mr. Mann charging up and down the house, rushing out of the front door every now and then, shrieking after the unconscious Mrs. Mann, to know where his hat was, and where she put the valise-key, and if she had his clean socks and undershirts, and that there wasn't a linen collar in the house. And, when he went away at last, he left the kitchen door, the side noor, and the front door, all the down-stairs windows, and the there gate, wide open.

Mrs. Mann around the depot were somewhat amused, one side, and, aftas pulling out of sight down in the yards, do, replied, "Thoseerprising man, with his hat on sideways, all mine. Probably and necktie flying, and his grip-sack own drawer." like a demented shutter on a March "I don't see," testily his hand, dash wildly across the couldn't have put my thingmiddle of the track, glaring in ing else to do all the morning mortification at the departing Because," said Mrs. Man pretty woman who was throwtional article of raiment with platform of the last car. put mine out for me. A fair fie

66

Mr. Mann plunged into his sh "Foul!" he shouted in malici

on the neck!"

'HE PILLORY.

Because," said Mrs. Mann, s3.

stare at the fidgeting, impatient mayal Exchange. toned her dress and put eleven pins Toon.

most good," because you have got a neat hand. out."

Prithee

ingerly. I am not used When Mr. Mann slid out of the s softly, softly! That He dropped the shirt three times beent and strangulation. while it was over his head he heard it will do. And have When his head came through he saw No my aspect due vertiends and bows of her necktie. quarter of an hour I

"Where are my shirt studs?" he crad so on till I face the Mrs. Mann went out into another No half-points, I became back with gloves and hat, and sauch elaborate niceties.

They become the shipman's card, but not this mystery. Now leave me a little to my own reflections.

Bless us, what a company is assembled in honour of me! How grand I stand here! I never felt so sensibly before the effect of solitude in a crowd. I muse in solemn silence upon that vast miscellaneous rabble in the pit there. From my private box I contemplate, with mingled pity and wonder, the gaping curiosity of those underlings. There are my Whitechapel supporters. Rosemary Lane has emptied herself of the very flower of her citizens to grace my show. Duke's Place sits desolate. What is there in my face, that strangers should come so far from the east to gaze upon it? [Here an egg narrowly misses him.] That offering was well meant, but not so cleanly executed. By the tricklings, it should not be either myrrh or frankincense. Spare your presents, my friends: I am noways mercenary. I desire no missive tokens of your approbation. I am past those valen. tines. Bestow those coffins of untimely chickens upon mouths that water for them. Comfort your addle spouses with them at home, and stop the mouths of your brawling brats with such Olla Podridas: they have need of them. [A brick is let fly.] Discase not, I pray you, nor dismantle your rent and ragged tenements, to furnish me with architectural decorations, which I can excuse. This fragment might have stopped a flaw against snow comes. [A coal flies.] Cinders are dear, gentlemen. This nubbling might have helped the pot boil, when your dirty cuttings from the shambles at three-ha'pence a pound shall stand at a cold simmer. Now, south about, Ketch. I would enjoy Australian popularity.

What, my friends from over the water! Old benchers, flies of a day - ephemeral Romans, welcome! Doth the sight of me draw souls from limbo? Can it dispeople purgatory? - Ha!

What am I, or what was my father's House, that I should thus be set up a spectacle to gentlemen and others? Why are all faces, like Persians at the sunrise, bent singly on

But

mine alone? It was wont to be esteemed an ordinary visnomy, a quotidian merely. Doubtless these assembled myriads discern some traits of nobleness, gentility, breeding, which hitherto have escaped the common observation, some intimations, as it were, of wisdom, valour, piety, and so forth. My sight dazzles; and, if I am not deceived by the too-familiar pressure of this strange neckcloth that envelops it, my countenance gives out lambent glories. For some painter now to take me in the lucky point of expression! the posture so convenient! the head never shifting, but standing quiescent in a sort of natural frame. these artisans require a westerly aspect. Ketch, turn me. Something of St. James's air in these my new friends. How my prospects shift and brighten! Now, if Sir Thomas Lawrence be anywhere in that group, his fortune is made for I think I see some one taking out of a crayon. I will compose my whole face to a smile, which yet shall not so predominate but that gravity and gayety shall contend, as it were, - you understand me? I will work up my thoughts to some mild rapture, a gentle enthusiasm, which the artist may transfer, in a manner, warm to the canvas. I will inwardly apostrophize my tabernacle.

ever.

Delectable mansion, hail! House not made of every wood! Lodging that pays no rent; airy and commodious; which, owing no window tax, art yet all casement, out of which men have such pleasure in peering and overlooking, that they will sometimes stand an hour together to enjoy thy prospects! Cell, recluse from the vulgar! Quiet retirement from the great Babel, yet affording sufficient glimpses into it! Pulpit, that instructs without note or sermon-book ; into which the preacher is inducted without tenth or firstfruit! Throne, unshared and single, that disdainest a Brentford competitor! Honour without corrival! Or hearest thou, rather, magnificent theatre, in which the speetator comes to see and to be seen? From thy giddy heights I look down upon the common herd, who stand with eyes upturned, as if a winged messenger hovered over them; and

mouths open as if they expected manna. I feel, I feel, the true Episcopal yearnings. Behold in me, my flock, your true overseer! What though I cannot lay hands, because my own are laid; yet I can mutter benedictions. True otium cum dignitate! Proud Pisgah eminence! pinnacle sublime! O Pillory! 'tis thee I sing! Thou younger brother to the gallows, without his rough and Esau palms, that with ineffable contempt surveyest beneath thee the grovelling stocks, which claim presumptuously to be of thy great race! Let that low wood know that thou art far higher born. Let that domicile for groundling rogues and base earth-kissing varlets envy thy preferment, not seldom fated to be the wanton baiting-house, the temporary retreat, of poet and of patriot. Shades of Bastwick and of Prynne hover over thee, Defoe is there, and more greatly daring Shebbeare, from their (little more elevated) stations they look down with recognitions. Ketch, turn me.

I now veer to the north. Open your widest gates, thou proud Exchange of London, that I may look in as proudly! Gresham's wonder, hail! I stand upon a level with all your kings. They and I, from equal heights, with equal superciliousness, o'erlook the plodding money-hunting tribe below, who, busied in their sordid speculations, scarce elevate their eyes to notice your ancient, or my recent, grandeur. The second Charles smiles on me from three pedestals! He closed the Exchequer: I cheated the Excise. Equal our darings, equal be our lot.

Are those the quarters? 'tis their fatal chime. That the ever-winged hours would but stand still! but I must descend, descend from this dream of greatness. Stay, stay a little while, importunate hour-hand! A moment or two, and I shall walk on foot with the undistinguished many. The clock speaks one. I return to common life. Ketch,

let me out.

ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

GOOD people all of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;

And, if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But, when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad

Το

every Christian eye;

And, while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.