for it, and if she had none, she was right not to take the trouble. However, she attempted to carry the point by a coup de main. Snatching up one of the boxes, she motioned the housemaid to do the like, exclaiming in a shrill treble key,-" Here's a pretty work indeed, about a paltry shilling! If it's worth having, it's worth calling again for, and I suppose Vespasian House is not going to run away!"

"But may be I am," said the inflexible coachman, seizing a trunk with each hand.

"John, I insist on being let out," screamed the lady in the coach. "I shall be too late for dinner," roared the Thunderer in the dickey. As for the passenger on the box, he had made off during the latter part of the altercation.

"What shall we do?" said the English Classical Usher.

"God and his goodness only knows!" said the housemaid.
"I am a stranger in this country," said the Frenchman.
"You must pay the money," said the coachman.

"And here it is, you brute," said Mrs. Plummer, who had made a trip to the house in the mean time; but whether she had coined it, or raised it by a subscription among the pupils, I know no more than

"Well, said, old Mole! canst work i' the dark so fast? a worthy pioneer!-HAMLET.

WELL! -Monsieur Brunel,

How prospers now thy mighty undertaking,
To join by a hollow way the Bankside friends
Of Rotherhithe, and Wapping,-

Never be stopping,

But poking, groping, in the dark keep making
An archway, underneath the Dabs and Gudgeons,
For Collier men and pitchy old Curmudgeons,
To cross the water in inverse proportion,
Walk under steam-boats under the keel's ridge,
To keep down all extortion,

And without sculls to diddle London Bridge!
In a fresh hunt, a new Great Bore to worry,
Thou didst to earth thy human terriers follow,
Hopeful at last from Middlesex to Surrey,

To give us the "View hollow."

In short it was thy aim, right north and south,
To put a pipe into old Thames's mouth;
Alas! half-way thou hadst proceeded, when
Old Thames, through roof, not water-proof,
Came, like "a tide in the affairs of men;"
And with a mighty stormy kind of roar,
Reproachful of thy wrong,
Burst out in that old song

Of Incledon's, beginning "Cease, rude Bore"

Sad is it, worthy of one's tears,

Just when one seems the most successful, To find one's self o'er head and ears

In difficulties most distressful!

Other great speculations have been nursed,
Till want of proceeds laid them on a shelf;
But thy concern was at the worst,

When it began to liquidate itself!

But now Dame Fortune has her false face hidden,
And languishes thy Tunnel,-so to paint,
Under a slow incurable complaint,

Bed-ridden!

Why, when thus Thames-bed-bother'd-why repine!
Do try a spare bed at the Serpentine !

Yet let none think thee daz'd, or craz'd, or stupid;
And sunk beneath thy own and Thames's craft;
Let them not style thee some Mechanic Cupid,
Pining and pouting o'er a broken shaft!
I'll tell thee with thy tunnel what to do ;
Light up thy boxes, build a bin or two,
The wine does better than such water trades:
Stick up a sign-the sign of the Bore's Head;
I've drawn it ready for thee in black lead,
And make thy cellar subterrane,-Thy Shades!

THE DEATH OF THE DOMINIE.

"Take him up, says the master."-OLD SPELLING BOOK.

My old Schoolmaster is dead. He "died of a stroke;" and I wonder none of his pupils have ever done the same. I have been flogged by many masters, but his rod, like Aaron's, swallowed up all the rest. We have often wished that he whipped on the principle of Italian penmanship,-up strokes heavy and down strokes light; but he did it in English round hand, and we used to think with a very hard pen. Such was his love of flogging, that for some failure in English composition, after having been well corrected I have been ordered to be revised. I have heard of a road to learning, and he did justice to it; we certainly never went a stage in education without being well horsed. The mantle of Dr. Busby descended on his shoulders, and on ours. There was but one tree in the play-ground—a birch, but it never had a twig or leaf upon it. Spring or summer it always looked as bare as if the weather had been cutting at the latter end of the year. Pictures they say are incentives to learning, and certainly we never got through a page without cuts; for instance, I do not recollect a Latin article without a tail-piece. All the Latin at that school might be comprised in one line

"Arma virumque cano."

An arm, a man, and a cane. It was Englished to me one day in school hours, when I was studying Robinson Crusoe instead of Virgil, by a storm of bamboo that really carried on the illusion, and made me think for the time that I was assaulted by a set of savages. He seemed to consider a boy as a bear's cub, and set himself literally to lick him into shape. He was so particularly fond of striking us with a leather strap on the flats of our hands that he never allowed them a day's rest. There was no such thing as a Palm Sunday in our calendar. In one word, he was disinterestedly cruel, and used as industriously to strike for nothing as other workmen strike for wages. Some of the elder boys, who had read Smollett, christened him Roderick, from his often hitting like Random, and being so partial to Strap.

His death was characteristic. After making his will he sent for Mr. Taddy, the head usher, and addressed him as follows: "It is all over, Mr. Taddy-I am sinking fast-I am going from the terrestrial globe-to the celestial-and have promised Tomkins a flogging-mind he has it—and don't let him pick off the buds—I have asked Aristotle" -(here his head wandered)—" and he says I cannot live an hour-I don't like that black horse grinning at me-cane him soundly for not knowing his verbs-Castigo te, non quod odio habeam-Oh, Mr. Taddy, it's breaking up with me-the vacation's coming-There is that black horse again-Dulcis moriens reminiscitur-we are short of canes

-Mr. Taddy, don't let the school get into disorder when I am goneI'm afraid, through my illness-the boys have gone back in their flogging -I feel a strange feeling all over me-Is the new pupil come-I trust I have done my duty-and have made my will-and left all ”— (here his head wandered again)—" to Mr. Souter, the school bookseller -Mr. Taddy, I invite you to my funeral-make the boys walk in good order-and take care of the crossings.-My sight is getting dim-write to Mrs. B. at Margate-and inform her-we break up on the 21st.The school-door is left open-I am very cold-where is my ruler gone -I will make him feel-John, light the school lamps-I cannot see a line-O Mr. Taddy-venit hora-my hour is come-I am dying-thou art dying-he-is dying.-We-are-dying-you-are-dy". voice ceased. He made a feeble motion with his hands, as if in the act of ruling a copy-book-"the ruling passion strong in death”—and expired.

-The

An epitaph, composed by himself, was discovered in his desk,-with an unpublished pamphlet against Tom Paine. The Epitaph was so stuffed with quotations from Homer and Virgil, and almost every Greek or Latin author beside, that the mason who was consulted by the Widow declined to lithograph it under a Hundred Pounds. The Dominie consequently reposes under no more Latin than HIC JACET;— and without a single particle of Greek, though he is himself a Long Homer.