THEN AG'IN Jim Bowker, he said ef he'd had a fair show, He'd fill the world full of the sound of his name, I dunno: Jest so, it might been; But he had dreadful luck; everythin' went ag'in him, Ef he'd had a fair show, you couldn't tell where he'd come, An' the feats he'd a-done, and the heights he'd a clumb. It may have been so; I dunno; Jest so, it might been; But we're all like Jim Bowker, thinks I, more or less, Ef it hadn't been for luck and misfortune and sich, I dunno; Jest so, it might been; A SERMON FOR THE SISTERS. IRWIN RUSSELL. I nebber breaks a colt afore he's old enough to trabble; I nebber digs my taters till dey plenty big to grabble; An' when you sees me risin' up to structify in meetin', I's fust clumb up de knowledge-tree and done some apple-eatin'. I sees some sistahs pruzint, mighty proud 'o whut dey wearin', It's well you isn't apples, now, you better be declarin'! For when you heerd yo' markit-price 't'd hurt yo' little feelin's; You wouldn't fotch a dime a peck, for all yo' fancy peelin's. O sistahs-leetle apples (for you're r'ally mighty like 'em) I lubs de ol'-time russets, dough it's suldom I kin strike 'em; An' so I lubs you, sistahs, for yo' grace, an' not yo' graces I don't keer how my apple looks, but on'y how it tas'es. Is dare a Sabbaf-scholah heah? Den let him 'form his mudder How Jacob-in-de-Bible's boys played off upon dey brudder! Dey sol' him to a trader-an' at las' he struck de prison: Dat comed of Joseph's struttin' in dat streaked coat ob his'n. My Christian fren's, dis story proobes dat eben men is human He'd had a dozen fancy coats ef he'd 'a' bin a 'ooman! De cussidness ob showin' off, he foun' out all about it; An' yit he wuz a Christian man, as good as ebber shouted. It larned him! An' I bet you when he come to git his riches, Dey didn't go for stylish coats nor Philadelphy breeches; He didn't was'e his money when experunce taught him better, But he went aroun' a-lookin' like he's waitin' for a letter! Now, sistahs, won't you copy him? Say, won't you take a lesson, An' min' dis sollum wahnin' 'bout de sin ob fancy dressin'? How much you spen' upon yo'se'f! I wish you might remember Yo' preacher ain't bin paid a cent sence somewhar in November. I better close. I sees some gals dis sahmon's kinder hittin' A-whisperin', an' 'sturbin' all dat's near whar dey's a-sittin'; To look at dem, an' lis'en at dey onrespectful jabber, SAMUEL WELLER VISITS HIS MOTHER-IN LAW. CHARLES DICKENS. There still remaining an interval of two days before the time agreed upon for the departure of the Pickwickians to Dingley Dell, Mr. Weller sat himself down in a back room at the George and Vulture, after eating an early dinner, to muse on the best way of disposing of his time. It was a remarkably fine day; and he had not turned the matter over in his mind ten minutes, when he was suddenly stricken filial and affectionate; and it occurred to him so strongly that he ought to go down and see his father, and pay his duty to his mother-in-law, that he was lost in astonishment at his own remissness in never thinking of this moral obligation before. Anxious to atone for his past neglect without another hour's delay, he straightway walked up stairs to Mr. Pickwick, and requested leave of absence for this laudable purpose. "Certainly Sam, certainly," said Mr. Pickwick, his eyes glistening with delight at the manifestation of filial feeling on the part of his attendant; "certainly Sam." Mr. Weller made a grateful bow. "I am very glad to see that you have so high a sense of your duties as a son, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick. "I always had, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "That's a very gratifying reflection, Sam." said Mr. Pickwick, approvingly. "Wery, sir," replied Mr. Weller; "if ever I wanted anythin' o' my father, I always asked for it in a wery 'spectful and obligin' manner. If he didn't give it me, I took it, for fear I should be led to do anythin' wrong, through not havin' it. I saved him a world o' trouble in this vay, sir." "That's not precisely what I meant, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, shaking his head, with a slight smile. "All good feelin', sir-the wery best intentions, as the gen'lm'n said ven he run away from his wife 'cos she seemed unhappy with him," replied Mr. Weller. "You may go, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick. "Thank'ee, sir," replied Mr. Weller; and having made his best bow, and put on his best clothes, Sam planted himself on the top of the Arundel coach, and journeyed on to Dorking. The Marquis of Granby in Mrs. Weller's time was quite a model of a road-side public-house of the better class-just large enough to be convenient, and small enough to be snug. On the opposite side of the road was a large sign-board on a high post representing the head and shoulders of a gentleman with an apoplectic countenance, in a red coat with deep blue facings, and a touch of the same blue over his three-cornered hat, for a sky. Over that again were a pair of flags; beneath the last button of his coat were a couple of cannon; and the whole formed an expressive and undoubted likeness of the Marquis of Granby of glorious memory. The bar window displayed a choice collection of geranium plants, and a well-dusted row of spirit phials. The open shutters bore a variety of golden inscriptions, eulogistic of good beds and neat wines; and the choice group of countrymen and hostlers lounging about the stable-door and horse-trough, afforded presumptive proof of the excellent quality of the ale and spirits which were sold within. Sam Weller paused, when he dismounted from the coach, to note all these little indications of a thriving business, with the eye of an experienced traveller; and having done so, stepped in at once, highly satisfied with everything he had observed. "Now, then!" said a shrill female voice the instant Sam thrust his head in at the door, "what do you want, young man?” Sam looked around in the direction whence the voice proceeded. It came from a rather stout lady of comfortable appearance, who was seated beside the fire-place in the bar, blowing the fire to make the kettle boil for tea. She was not alone; for on the other side of the fire-place, sitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair, was a man in threadbare black clothes, with a back almost as long and stiff as that of the chair itself, who caught Sam's most particular and especial attention at once. He was a prim-faced, red-nosed man, with a long, thin countenance, and a semi-rattlesnake sort of eyerather sharp, but decidedly bad. He wore very short trousers, and black-cotton stockings, which, like the rest of his apparel, were particularly rusty. His looks were starched, but his white neckerchief was not, and its long limp ends straggled over his closely-buttoned waistcoat in a very uncouth and unpicturesque fashion. A pair of old, worn beaver gloves, a broad-brimmed |