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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. 53