Dick. Hang Plato! What of my father? Pang. Don't hang Plato. The bees swarmed round his mellifluous mouth as soon as he was swaddled. 'Cum in cunis apes in labellis consedissent.'-Cicero-Hem! Dick. I wish you had a swarm round yours, with all my heart. Come to the point. Pang. In due time. But calm your choler. 'Ira furor brevis est.'-Horace-Hem! Read this. [Gives a letter. Dick. [Snatches the letter, breaks it open, and reads.] 'DEAR DICK,-This comes to inform you I am in a perfect state of health, hoping you are the same’—ay, that's the old beginning-'It was my lot, last week, to be made ’—ay, a bankrupt, I suppose?-'to be made a '—what?' to be made a P, E, A, R ;'— -a pear!—to be made a pear! What does he mean by that? Pang. A peer !—a peer of the realm. His lordship's orthography is a little loose, but several of his equals countenance the custom. Lord Loggerhead always spells physician with an F. Dick. A peer!-what, my father?-I'm electrified ! Old Daniel Dowlas made a peer! But let me see; [Reads on]— ‘A pear of the realm. Lawyer Ferret got me my tittle’—titt— oh, title!—' and an estate of fifteen thousand per ann.-by making me out next of kin to old Lord Duberly, because he died without-without hair '-'Tis an odd reason, by-the-by, to be next of kin to a nobleman because he died bald. We Pang. His lordship means heir—heir to his estate. shall meliorate his style speedily. 'Reform it altogether.'Shakspeare-Hem ! Dick. 'I send my carrot.'-Carrot ! Pang. He, he, he! Chariot, his lordship means. Dick. With Dr. Pangloss in it.' Pang. That's me. Dick. Respect him, for he's an LL.D., and, moreover, an A. double S.' [They bow. Pang. His lordship kindly condescended to insert that at my request. Dick. And I have made him your tutorer, to mend your cakelology.' Pang. Cacology; from Kakos, 'malus,' and Logos, 'verbum. -Vide Lexicon-Hem! P Dick. Come with the doctor to my house in Hanover Square.'-Hanover Square !—‘I remain your affectionate father, to command.-DUBERLY.' Pang. That's his lordship's title. Dick. Is it? Pang. It is. Dick. Say 'sir' to a lord's son. You have no more manners than a bear! Pang. Bear!-under favour, young gentleman, I am the bear-leader, being appointed your tutor. Dick. And what can you teach me? Pang. Prudence. Don't forget yourself in sudden success. 'Tecum habita.'-Persius-Hem ! Dick. Prudence to a nobleman's son with fifteen thousand a year! Pang. Don't give way to your passions. Dick. Give way!-Zounds !-I'm wild-mad! You, teach me !-Pooh !—I have been in London before, and know it requires no teaching to be a modern fine gentleman. Why, it all lies in a nutshell: sport a curricle—walk Bond Street—play at faro-get drunk-dance reels-go to the opera-cut off your tail-pull on your pantaloons-and there's a buck of the first fashion in town for you. D'ye think I don't know what's going? Pang. Mercy on me! I shall have a very refractory pupil ! Dick. Not at all. We'll be hand and glove together, my little doctor. I'll drive you down to all the races, with my little terrier between your legs, in a tandem. Pang. Doctor Pangloss, the philosopher, with a terrier between his legs, in a tandem ? Dick. I'll tell you what, doctor. I'll make you my long-stop at cricket—you shall draw corks when I'm president—laugh at my jokes before company-squeeze lemons for punch-cast up the reckoning--and woe betide you if you don't keep sober enough to see me safe home after a jollification! Pang. Make me a long-stop, and a squeezer of lemons! Zounds! this is more fatiguing than walking out with the lapdogs! And are these the qualifications for a tutor, young gentleman ? Dick. To be sure they are. 'Tis the way that half the prig parsons, who educate us honourables, jump into fat livings. Pang. 'Tis well they jump into something fat at last, for they must wear all the flesh off their bones in the process. Dick. Come now, tutor, go you and call the waiter. Pang. Go and call! Sir-sir! I'd have you to understand, Mr. Dowlas▬▬ Dick. Ay, let us understand one another, doctor. My father, I take it, comes down handsomely to you for your management of me? Pang. My lord has been liberal. Dick. But 'tis I must manage you, doctor. Acknowledge this, and, between ourselves, I'll find means to double your pay. Pang. Double my— Dick. Do you hesitate? Why, man, you have set up for a modern tutor without knowing your trade! Pang. Double my pay! Say no more-done. 'Actum est.' -Terence-Hem! Waiter! [Bawling.] Gad, I've reached the right reading at last! I've often wished that I had, clear, George Colman. 138. DEATH OF MARIE ANTOINETTE. Is there a man's heart that thinks without pity of those long months and years of slow-wasting ignominy; of thy birth, selfcradled in imperial Schönbrunn, the winds of heaven not to visit thy face too roughly, thy foot to light on softness, thy eye on splendour; and then of thy death, or hundred deaths, to which the guillotine and Fouquier-Tinville's judgment-bar was but the merciful end! Look there, O man born of woman! The bloom of that fair face is wasted, the hair is grey with care; the brightness of those eyes is quenched, their lids hang drooping, the face is stony pale, as of one living in death. Mean weeds, which her own hand has mended, attire the Queen of the World. The death-hurdle where thou sittest pale, motionless, which only curses environ, has to stop; a people, drunk with vengeance, will drink it again in full draught, looking at thee there. Far as the eye reaches, a multitudinous sea of maniac heads, the air deaf with their triumph yell! The living dead must shudder with yet one other pang; her startled blood yet again suffuses with the hue of agony that pale face, which she hides with her hands. There is there no heart to say, God pity thee! O think not of these; think of HIM whom thou worshippest, the crucified-who also treading the wine-press alone, fronted sorrow still deeper; and triumphed over it and made it holy, and built of it a 'sanctuary of sorrow' for thee and all the wretched! Thy path of thorns is nigh ended, one long last look at the Tuileries, where thy step was once so light-where thy children shall not dwell. The head is on the block; the axe rushes-dumb lies the world; that wild-yelling world, and all its madness, is behind thee.-Thomas Carlyle. 139. A SONG FOR THE RAGGED SCHOOLS IN LONDON. Wicked children, with peaked chins, Gambling with a stolen penny. Sickly children, that whine low To themselves and not their mothers, Hoping help or care from others. Healthy children, with those blue I am listening here in Rome, O my sisters! children small, Blue-eyed, wailing through the city; Our own babes cry in them all, Let us take them into pity!-Mrs. E. Browning. 140. THE CHARGE AT BALAKLAVA. The whole brigade scarcely made one effective regiment, according to the numbers of Continental armies; and yet it was more than we could spare. As they rushed towards the front, the Russians opened on them from the guns in the redoubt on the right, with volleys of musketry and rifles. They swept proudly past, glittering in the morning sun in all the pride and splendour of war. We could scarcely believe the evidence of our senses ! Surely that handful of men are not going to charge an army in position? Alas! it was but too true-their desperate valour knew no bounds, and far indeed was it removed from its socalled better part-discretion. They advanced in two lines, quickening their pace as they closed towards the enemy. more fearful spectacle was never witnessed than by those who, A |