I am aware that some people have thought otherwise, owing, of course, to the peculiar views which Mr. Burke held on the [Rumbleton looked doubtfully at Mr. Burke, and coughed]— |—on the subject,” he said, as if disgorging an alligator, "of providing bodies for the Edinburgh doctors."

Edinburgh doctors! I got a shock like the shock of a voltaic battery. Bodies for the Edinburgh doctors! What! Did the idiot think it was Burke the murderer?

A deathly stillness had fallen suddenly upon the company. Mr. Burke's face turned fiery red. Every eye was turned on Rumbleton with an awful expression. Rumbleton saw the change, seemed surprised, but evidently felt that he had a strong case to go upon.

"I cannot but think, gentlemen," he said in a tone of expostulation, "that these peculiar views of Mr. Burke's had a doubtful look-at least to some people,-mark me, I say only to some people!" "Stop, man, stop!" I whispered, twitching his coat-tail. "That was another person altogether!"

"A different person!" exclaimed Rumbleton, looking round at me in utter bewilderment, while the company began to break into uproar. "Oh, now I see; yes, yes, you mean the other man!"

"One moment, gentlemen!" he cried. "Hear me for a moment, gentlemen! I said, to some people they had a doubtful look; but why, gentlemen, why? Because these people are shamefully ignorant of the circumstances of the case. But my own opinion is, and I think I may assure Mr. Burke that the opinion of this entire company is, that it was a different person altogether!—that Burke was not the man, though he suffered for it!—that it was the other man -the scoundrel Hare-that did the business!"

(156.) ADVICE TO CHILDREN.

Theodore Hook, b. 1788, d. 1841, humorist, novelist, and playwright, remarkable in youth for his beauty, sweet voice, and intelligence. Educated at Harrow, a great joker, and intimate friend of the Prince Regent. As editor of John Bull, a Tory newspaper, he wrote so vituperously against Queen Caroline that the Whig party instituted proceedings against him. He was arrested and imprisoned for two years. He was the author of about thirty novels.

My little dears, who learn to read, pray early learn to shun that very silly thing indeed which people call a pun. Read Entick's rules, and 'twill be found how simple an offence it is to make the selfsame sound afford a double sense. For instance, ale may make you ail, your aunt an ant may kill, you in a vale may buy a veil, and Bill may pay the bill. Or if to France your bark you steer, at Dover

it may be a peer appears upon the pier, who blind, still goes to sea. Thus one might say when to a treat good friends accept our greeting, 'tis meet that men who meet to eat, should eat their meat when meeting. Brawn on the board's no bore indeed, although from boar prepared, nor can the fowl on which we feed foul feeding be declared. Most wealthy men good manors have, however vulgar they, and actors still the harder slave the oftener they play; so poets can't the baize obtain unless their tailors choose, while grooms and coachmen not in vain each evening seek the mews. The dyer who by dying lives, a dire life maintains; the glazier, it is known, receives his profits from his panes; by gardeners thyme is tied, 'tis true, when Spring is in its prime, but time or tide won't wait for you, if you are tied for time.

(157.) THE CHILDREN.

Charles M. Dickenson, an American schoolmaster, lays claim to the following poem, which was said to have been found in the desk of Dickens after his death.

When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And the school for the day is dismissed,
And the little ones gather around me,
To bid me good-night and be kissed;
Oh, the little white arms that encircle
My neck in a tender embrace!

Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven,

Shedding sunshine of love on my face!
And when they are gone I sit dreaming
Of my childhood too lovely to last:
Of love that my heart will remember,
When it wakes to the pulse of the past,
Ere the world and its wickedness made me
A partner of sorrow and sin,

When the glory of God was above me,
And the glory of gladness within.

Oh, my heart grows weak as a woman's,
And the fountains of feeling will flow,
When I think of the paths, steep and stony,

Where the feet of the dear ones must go;
Of the mountains of sins hanging o'er them,
Of the tempest of fate blowing wild;
Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy,
As the innocent heart of a child!

They are idols of hearts and of households,
They are angels of God in disguise;

His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,
His glory still gleams in their eyes;

Oh! those truants from home and from heaven,
They have made me more manly and mild!
And I know how Jesus could liken

The Kingdom of God to a child.

Seek not a life for the dear ones,

All radiant as others have done,

But that life may have just enough shadow
To temper the glare of the sun;

I would pray God to guard them from evil,
But my prayer would bound back to myself.
Ah! a seraph may pray for a sinner,
But a sinner must pray for himself.

The twig is so easily bended,

I have banished the rule and the rod; I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, They have taught me the goodness of God; My heart is a dungeon of darkness,

Where I shut them from breaking a rule;

My frown is sufficient correction;
My love is the law of the school

I shall leave the old house in the autumn,
To traverse its threshold no more;
Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear ones,
That meet me each morn at the door!
I shall miss the "good-nights" and the kisses,
And the gush of their innocent glee,
The group on the green and the flowers
That are brought every morning to me.
I shall miss them at morn and at eve,
Their song in the school and the street:
I shall miss the low hum of their voices
And the tramp of their delicate feet.
When the lessons and tasks are all ended,

And Death says, "The school is dismissed!"

May the little ones gather around me,

To bid me good-night and be kissed.

(158.) THE PLUM-CAKES.

Hannah More, born at Stapleton, Gloucestershire, 1745; died 7th September, 1833.
One of the most prominent of authors at the beginning of this century.
She was

the daughter of a schoolmaster, and at the age of seventeen she published her first work, a pastoral drama, entitled The Search after Happiness, which attracted considerable attention. Johnson greatly admired her works, and considered her the best of the female poets.

A farmer who some wealth possest, with three fine boys was also blest. Tom, Will, and Jack, like other boys, loved tops and marbles, sport and toys. The farmer scouted the false plan, that money only makes the man; and to the best of his discerning was bent on giving them good learning; so with good care a school he sought, where his young sons might well be taught. Twelve days before the closing year, when Christmas holidays were near, the father called to see the boys, and asked how each his time employs; then from a basket straight he takes a goodly number of plum-cakes; twelve cakes he gives to each dear son, who each expected only one; and then with many a kind expression, he leaves them to their own discretion, resolved to mark the use each made, of what he to their hands conveyed. The twelve days past, he comes once more, and brings their ponies to the door; as home with them his ride he takes, he asks the history of the cakes.

Says Will, "Dear father, life is short, so I resolved to make quick sport; the cakes were all so nice and sweet, I thought I'd have a jolly treat; so, snugly by myself I fed when every boy was gone to bed; I ate them all, both paste and plum, and did not spare a single crumb; but, oh! they made me, to my sorrow, as sick as death upon the morrow."

Quoth Tom, "I was not such a dunce to eat my plum-cakes all at once; and though the whole were in my power, did I a single cake devour? thanks to the use of keys and locks, they're all now snug within my box." The mischief was, by hoarding long they grew so mouldy and so strong that none of them were fit to eat, and so he lost his father's treat.

"Well, Jack," the anxious parent cries, "how did you manage?"— Jack replies, "I thought each day its wants would have, and appetite again would crave; so every day I took but one, but never ate my cake alone; with every needy boy I shared, and more than half I always spared. One every day 'twixt self and friend has brought my dozen to an end. Tom called me spendthrift not to save, Will called me fool because I gave, but when our last day came I smiled,

for Will's were gone, and Tom's were spoiled; not hoarding much, nor eating fast, my cakes were good unto the last."

These tales the father's thoughts employ; "By these,” said he, "I know each boy. Yet Tom, who hoarded what he had, the world will call a frugal lad; and selfish gormandizing Will will meet with friends and favourers still; while moderate Jack, so wise and cool, the mad and vain will deem a fool. But I his sober plan approve, and Jack has gained a father's love."

(159.) THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, one of the most eminent of American poets, b. 1807, d. 1881. Originally intended for the law, his literary tastes led him to seek the more genial profession of a poet. Travelling through Europe he attained proficiency in the European languages, and became professor of modern languages in the college in which he had formerly been a student. His verse is polished and refined, his sympathies universal. His disposition was singularly amiable, and his simple unostentatious life childlike in its purity.

There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,

And, with his sickle keen,

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he;
"Have nought but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me
I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,

He kissed their drooping leaves;

It was for the Lord of Paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
The Reaper said, and smiled;

"Dear tokens of the earth are they,

Where he was once a child.

"They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care;

And saints upon their garments white
These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
The flowers she most did love;

She knew she should find them all again
In the fields of light above.