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this absurd question, when baby woke; then
the cook came up to ask about dinner; then
Mrs. Fundy slipped over from No. 27, (they
are opposite neighbors, and made acquain
tance through Mrs. Fundy’s macaw;) and a
thousand things happened. Finally, there
was no rhyme to babe, except Tippoo Saib,
(against whom Maj. Gashleigh, Rosa’s grand
father, had distinguished himself,) and so she
ff ave up the little poem about her De Bracy.
Nevertheless, when Fitzroy returned from
Chambers to take a walk with his wife in the
Park, as he peeped through the rich tapestry
hanging which divided the two drawing
rooms, he found his dear girl still seated at
the desk, and writing, writing away with her
ruby pen as fast as it could scribble.
“What a genius that child has’” he said ;
“why, she is a second Mrs. Norton !” and ad
vanced smiling to peep over her shoulder, and
see what pretty Rosa was composing.
It was not poetry, though, that she was
composing, and Fit/, read as follows :
“ Lilliput Street , Tuesday , 22 d May.
“Mr. and Mrs. Fitzroy Tymmyns request
the pleasure of Sir Thomas and Lady Kick
lebury's company at dinner on Wednesday, at
o'clock.”
“My dear!” exclaimed the barrister, pul
ling a long face.
“Law, Fitzroy!” cried the beloved of his
bosom, “how you do startle one !”
“Give a dinner-party with our means!” said
he.
“Ain’t you making a fortune, you miser?”
Rosa said. “Fifteen guineas a day is four
thousand five hundred a year; I’ve calculated
it.” And, so saying, she rose, and, taking
hold of his whiskers, (which are as tine as
those of any man of the circuit,) she put her
mouth close up against his, and did something
to his long face, which quite changed the ex
pression of it; and which the little page
heard outside the door.
“Our dining-room won’t hold ten,” he said.
“We'll only ask twenty,” my love; “ten
are sure to refuse in this season, when every
body is giving parties. Look, here is the
list.”
“ Earl and Countess of Bungay, and Lady
Barbara Saint Mary’s.”
“You are dying to get a Lord into the
house,” Timmins said (he has not altered his
name in Fig-tree Court yet, and therefore I
am not so affected as to call him Tymmyns.)
“ Law, my dear, they are our cousins, and
must be asked,” Rosa said.
“Let us put down my sister and Tom
Crowder, then.”
“ Blanche Crowder is really so very fat,
Fitzroy,” his wife said, “and our rooms are
so very small.”
Fitz laughed. “You little rogue,” he said,
“ Lady Bungay weighs two of Blanche, even
when she’s not in the f ”
“Fiddlestick!” Hose cried out. “Doctor
Crowder really cannot be admitted; he makes
such a noise eating his soup, that it is really
quite disagreeable; and she imitated the gur
gling noise performed by the Doctor while in
hausting his soup, in such a funny way, that
Fitz saw inviting him was out of the question.
“Besides, we mustn’t have too many rela
tions,” Rosa went on. “Mamma, of course,
is coming. She doesn’t like to be asked in
the evening; and she’ll bring her silver bread
basket, and her candle-sticks, which are very
rich and handsome.”
“And you complain of Blanche for being
too stout!” groaned out Timmins.
“Well, don't be in a pet,” said little Rosa.
“ The girls won’t come to dinner; but will
bring their music afterwards.” And she went
on with the list.
“ Sir Thomas and Lady Kicklebury. 2. No
saying no; we must ask them, Charles. They
are rich people, and any room in their house
in Brobdignag Gardens would swallow up our
humble cot. But to people in our position in
society , they w T ill be glad enough to come.
The City people are glad to mix w T ith the old
families.”
“ Very good,” said Fitz, with a sad face of
assent—and Mrs. Timmins went on reading
her list.
“ Mr. and Mrs. Topham Sawyer, Belgra
vine Place.”
“Mrs. Sawyer hasn’t asked you all the
season. She gives herself the airs of an Em
press; and when ”
“One’s Member, you know, my dear, one
must have,” Rosa replied, with muchdignity;
as if the presence of the representative of her
native place would be a protection to her din
ner ; and a note was written and transported
by the page early next morning, to the man
sion of the Sawyers, in Belgravinc Place.
The Topham Sawyers had just come down
to breakfast. Mrs. T. in her large dust-col
ored morning dress and Madonna front, (she
looks rather scraggy of a morning, but I pro
mise you her ringlets and figure will stun you
ILOIf&&&[&¥ © A & & If
iof an evening:) and having read the note, the
: following dialogue passed:
! Mrs. lopham Sawyer. “Well, upon my
i word, I don’t know where things will end.
Mr. Sawyer, the Timminses have asked us to
dinner.”
Mr. Topham Sawyer. “Ask us to dinner!
What d— impudence!”
Mrs. Topham Sawyer. “The most dange
rous and insolent revolutionary principles are
abroad, Mr. Sawyer; and I shall write and
hint as much to these persons.”
Mr. Topham Sawyer. “No, d—it, Joanna,
they are my constituents, and we must go.
Write a civil note, and say we will come to
their party.” (He resumes the perusal of the
“Times,” and Mrs. Topham Sawyer writes) —
“ My Dear Rosa,
“We shall have great pleasure in joining
your little party. I do not reply in the third
person, as ice are old friends , you know,
and country neighbors. I hope your mamma
is well; present my kindest remembrances to
her, and I hope we shall see much more of
each other in the summer, when we go down
to the Sawpits, (for going abroad is out of the
question in these dreadful times,) With a
•hundred kisses to your dear little pet,
“Believe me your attached
“ J. T. S.”
She said Pet , because she did not know
whether Rosa’s child was a girl or boy; and
Mrs. Timmins was very much pleased with
the kind and gracious nature of the reply to
her invitation.
A SHOWER OF NEWSPAPERS.
The French Revolution has not yet pro
duced a poet or a painter, or an historian, or
even a cook or a dancer. It has scarcely
produced anything except a loss of 1,000,000
francs, in carrying out M. Louis Blanc’s fa
vorite, but rather expensive scheme about la
bor. It seems as if there was a conspiracy
against the Revolution, to prevent its being
productive in any way. Yet we are libelling
it in saying that it has not produced anything,
for our library table is groaning, as no table
in the literary or fashionable world ever
groaned before, under a weight of newspa
pers, which have been laid upon it since the
“political horizon” has been thrown open to
competition by the removal of the newspaper
stamp. The Revolution has produced 117
new journals! The Trees of Liberty have
been most prolific since they have been plant
ed, for their branches have been covered with
newspaper leaves, if with nothing else. It is
lucky this accumulation of newspapers has
not lately increased, or else we should have
had “Every Frenchman his own Editor.”
Where the readers, much less the subscribers,
come from is a mystery, only that is a ques
tion that rarely enters the head of a person
about to start anew paper. France seems to
be news-paper-ridden. Waste paper must be
uncommonly cheap at Paris!
(Etlcttic of 111 it.
THE TREADMILL SONG.
BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
The stars are rolling in the sky,
The earth rolls on below,
And we can feel the rattling wheel
Revolving as we go.
Then tread away, my gallant boys,
And make the axle fly ;
Why should not wheels go round about
Like planets in the sky ‘l
Wake up, wake up, my duck-legged man,
And stir your solid pegs;
Arouse, arouse, my gawky friend,
And shake your spider legs ;
What though you’re awkward at the trade,
There’s time enough to learn —
So lean upon the rail, my lad,
And take another turn.
They’ve built us up a noble wall,
To keep the vulgar out;
We’ve nothing in the world to do,
But just to walk about.
So faster now, you middle men,
And try to beat the ends, —
It’s pleasant work to ramble round
Among one’s honest friends.
Here, tread upon that long man’s toes,
He sha’n’t be lazy here —
And punch that little fellow’s ribs,
And tweak that lubber’s ear —
He’s lost them both—don’t pull his hair,
Because he wears a scratch,
But poke him in the further eye,
That isn’t in the patch.
Hark! fellows, there’s the supper-bell,
And so our work is done ;
It’s pretty sport—suppose we take
A round or two for fun !
If ever they should turn me out
When I have better grown,
Now hang me, but I mean to have
A treadmill of my own !
THE ISLAND.
BY THOMAS HOOD.
“ Oh had I some sweet little isle of iny own !”
[ Thomas Moore.
If the author of the Irish Melodies had ev
er had a little isle so much his own as l have
possessed, he might not have found it so
sweet as the song anticipates. It has been
my fortune, like Robinson Crusoe and Alex
ander Selkirk, to be thrown on such a deso
late spot, and I felt so lonely, though 1 had a
follower, that I wish Moore had been there.
I had the honor of being in that tremendous
action off Finisterre, which proved an end of
the earth to many a brave fellow. I was or
dered with a boarding party to forcibly enter
the Santissima Trinidada, but in the act of
climbing into the quarter-gallery, which, how
ever, gave no quarter, was rebutted by the
but-end of a marine’s gun, who remained the
quarter-master of the place. I fell senseless
into the sea, and should no doubt have per
ished in the waters of oblivion, but for the
kindness of John Monday, who picked me up
to go adrift with him in one of the ship’s
boats. All our oars were carried away, that
is to say, we did not carry away any oars,
and while shot was raining, our feeble hail
ing was unheard. In short, as Shakespeare
says, we were drifted off by “the current of
a heady tight.” As may be supposed, our
boat was anything but a jolly-boat, for we
had no provisions to spare in the middle of
an immense waste. We were, in fact, adrift
in the cutter with nothing to cut. We had not
even junk for junketing, and nothing but salt
water, even if the wind should blow fresh.—
Famine indeed seemed to stare each of us in
the face; that is, we stared at one another—
but if men turn cannibals, a great allowance
must be made for a short ditto. We were
truly in a very disagreeable pickle, with
oceans of brine and no beef, and, like Shy
lock, I fancy we would have exchanged a
pound of gold for a pound of flesh. The more
we drifted Nor, the more we sharply inclined
to gnaw, but when we drifted Sow we found
nothing like pork. No bread rose in the East
and in the opposite point we were equally
disappointed. We could not compass a meal
any how, but got mealy-mouth'd, notwith
standing. We could seethe Sea mews to the
eastward, flying over what Byron calls the
Gardens of Gull. We saw plenty of Gram
pus, but they were useless to all intents and
porpusses. and we had no bait for catching a
bottle-nose.
Time hung heavily on our hands, for our
fast days seemed to pass very slowly, and
our strength was rapidly sinking from being
so much afloat. Still we nourished Hope,
though we had nothing to give her. But at
last we lost all prospect of land, if one may
so say when no land was in sight. The
weather got thicker as we were getting thin
ner ; and though we kept a sharp watch, it
wasa very bad look-out. YVecouldsee noth
ing before us but nothing to eat and drink.
At last the fog cleared off, and we saw some
thing like land right a-head, but alas the wind
was in our teeth as well as in our stomachs.
We could do nothing but keep her near, and
as we could not keep ourselves full, we luck
ily suited the course of the boat ; so after a
tedious beating about —for the wind not only
gives blows, but takes a great deal of beating
we came incontinently to an Island. Here
we landed, and our first impulse on coming to
dry land was to drink. There was a little
brook at hand to which we applied ourselves
till it seemed actually to murmur at our inor
dinate thirst. Our next care was to look for
some food, for though our hearts were full at
our escape, the neighboring region was dread
fully empty. We succeeded in getting some
natives out of their bed, and ate them, poor
things, as fast as they got up, but with some
difficulty in getting them open ; a common
oyster knife would have been worth the price
of a sceptre. Our next concern was to look
out for a lodging, and at last we discovered
an empty cave, reminding me of an old in
scription at Portsmouth, “The hole of this
place to let.” We took the precaution of roll
ing some great stones to the entrance, for
fear of last lodgers,—that some bear might
come home from business, or a tiger to tea. —
Here, under the rock, we slept without rock
ing, and when, through the night’s failing, the
day broke, we saw with the first instalment
of light, that we were upon a small desert Isle,
now for the first time an Isle of Man. Ac
cordingly, the birds in this wild solitude were
so little wild, that a number of boobies and
noddies allowed themselves to be taken by
hand, though the asses were not such asses
as to be caught. There was an abundance
of rabbits, which we chased unremittingly, as
Hunt runs Warren; and when coats and
trowsers fell short, we clothed our skins with
theirs, till, as Monday said, we each represent
ed a burrow. In this work Monday was the
tailor, for like the maker of shadowy rabbits
and cocks upon the wall, he could turn his
hand to anything. He became a potter, a car
penter, a butcher, and a baker—that is to say,
a master butcher and a master baker, for I
became merely his journeyman. Reduced to
a state of nature, Monday’s favourite phrase
for our condition, I found my being an officer
fulfilled no office; to confessthe truth, I made
a very poor sort of savage, whereas Monday,
I am persuaded, would have been made a
chief by any tribe whatever. Our situations
in life were completely reversed; he became
the leader, and I the follower, or rather, to do
justice to his attachment and ability, he be
came like a strong big brother to a helpless
little one.
We remained in a state of nature five years,
when at last a whaler of Hull—though the
hull was not visible, showed her masts on the
horizon, an event which was telegraphed by
Monday, who began saying his prayers and
dancing the College Hornpipe at the same
time with equal fervour. We contrived by
lighting a lire, literally a feu-de-joie, to make
a sign of distress, and a boat came to our sig
nal deliverance. We bad a prosperous pas
sage home, where the reader may anticipate
the happiness that awaited us; but not the
trouble that was in store for me and Monday.
Our parting was out of the question; we would
rather have parted from our sheet anchor.—
We attempted to return to our relative rank,
but we had lived so long in a kind of liberty
and equality, that we could never resume our
grades. The state of nature remained upper
most with us both, and Monday still watched
over and tendeed me like Dominie Sampson
with the boy Harry Bertram; go where I
would, he followed with the dogged pertina
city of Tom Pipes; and do what I might, he
interfered with the resolute vigour of John
Dory in Wild Oats. This disposition involv
ed us daily, nay, hourly, in the most embar
rassing circumstances; and how the connex
ion might have terminated I know not, if it
had not been speedily dissolved in a very un
expected manner. One morning poor Mon
day was found on his bed in a sort of convul
sion, which barely enabled him to grasp my
hand, and to Halter out “Good-by, I am go —
going—hack—to a state of nature.”
Newspaper Analects.
THE ROMANCE OF ROMANCE.
The history of the liaison of Mirabeau, the
French revolutionist, with the Marchioness de
Monnior is more romantic than romance.—
The parties, “saw, and looked, and loved.”
Mirabeau seduced and carried her oil’; she
was seized and thrown into a convent ; he es
caped into Switzerland ; he was tried and con
victed of contumacy and sentenced to lose his
head ; the lady escaped and rejoined him:
they passed into Holland; there, after a time,
they were seized; she was again immured in
a convent, and he was consigned to the castle
of Vincennes, where he remained three years
and a half. After his liberation he obtained
anew trial; pleaded his own cause; produced
a lock of her hair, steeped in poison, of which
she was in possession of a counterpart, for
their mutual destruction should he fail; and.
by the impassioned power of his all com
manding eloquence, he terrified the court and
his persecutors, melted the audience into tears,
obtained a reversal of his sentence, and even
threw the costs of the suit upon the plaintiff’!
MAJOR ANDRE.
It is certainly a singular circumstance, that
Andre should, in a very satirical poem, have
foretold his own fate. It was called the Cow
Chase, and was published by Rivington, at
New York, in consequence of the failure of
an expedition undertaken by Wayne, for the
purpose of obtaining cattle. Great liberties are
taken with the American officers employed on
the occasion, with
“Harry Lee and his dragoons, and Proctor,
with his cannon.”
But the point of his irony seemed particu
larly aimed at Wayne, whose entire baggage,
he asserts, was taken, containing
“ His congress dollars, and his prog,
His military speeches ;
His cornstalk whiskey for his grog,
Black stockings and blue breeches.”
And concludes by observing that it is ne
cessary to check the currant of satire,
“ Lest the same warrior-drover Wayne,
Should catch, and hang the poet.”
He was actually taken by a party from the
division of the army immediately under the
command of Wayne.
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