losophy you talk of; but I believe neither you nor I shall ever atone to the world for the mischief we have done it.

Alex. Leave me.

-Take off his chains, and use him well. Are we, then, so much alike? Alexander to a robber? - Let me reflect.

Dr. Aiken.

James. Whom do you want, sir, — your coachman or your cook? for I am both one and t' other.

Love. I want my cook.

James. I thought, indeed, it was not your coachman; for you have had no great occasion for him since your last pair of horses were starved; but your cook, sir, shall wait upon you in an instant. [Puts off his coachman's great-coat and appears as a cook.] Now, sir, I am ready for your commands.

Love. I am engaged this evening to give a supper.

James. A supper, sir! I have not heard the word this halfyear; a dinner, indeed, now and then; but, for a supper, I'm almost afraid, for want of practice, my hand is out.

Love. Leave off your saucy jesting, and see that you provide a good supper.

James. That may be done with a good deal of money, sir. Love. Is the mischief in you? Always money! Can you say nothing else but money, money, money? My children, my servants, my relations, can pronounce nothing but money.

James. Well, sir; but how many will there be at table? Love. About eight or ten; but I will have supper dressed but for eight; for if there be enough for eight, there is enough for ten.

James. Suppose, sir, at one end, a handsome soup; at the other, a fine Westphalia ham and chickens; on one side, a fillet of veal; on the other, a turkey, or rather a bustard, which may be had for about a guinea –

my

Love. Zounds! is the fellow providing an entertainment for lord mayor and the court of aldermen ?

James. Then a ragout

Love. I'll have no ragout. Would you burst the good people, you dog?

James. Then pray, sir, what will you have?

Love. Why, see and provide something to cloy their stomachs let there be two good dishes of soup maigre; a large suetpudding; some dainty, fat pork-pie, very fat; a fine, small lean breast of mutton, and a large dish with two artichokes. that's plenty and variety.

Love. Plenty and variety.

James. But, sir, you must have some poultry.

Love. No; I'll have none.

James. Indeed, sir, you should.

There ;

Love. Well, then, kill the old hen, for she has done laying. James. Mercy! sir, how the folks will talk of it; indeed, people say enough of you already.

Love. Eh! why, what do the people say, pray?

James. Oh, sir, if I could be assured you would not be angry. Love. Not at all; for I'm always glad to hear what the world says of me.

James. Why, sir, since you will have it, then, they make a jest of you everywhere; nay, of your servants, on your account. One says, you pick a quarrel with them quarterly, in order to find an excuse to pay them no wages.

Love. Poh! poh!

James. Another says, you were taken one night stealing your own oats from your own horses.

Love. That must be a lie; for I never allow them any.

James. In a word, you are the bye-word everywhere; and you are never mentioned, but by the names of covetous, stingy, scraping, old

Love. Get along, you impudent villain !

James. Nay, sir, you said you would n't be angry.

Love. Get out, you dog! you

Fielding.

CCCXXXVII.

THE LETTER.

SQUIRE EGAN, and his new Irish servant, ANDY.

SQUIRE. Well, Andy, you went to the post-office, as I ordered you?

Andy. Yis, sir.

Squire. Well, what did you find?

Andy. A most imperthinent fellow indade, sir.

Squire. How so?

Andy. Says I, as dacent like as a gentleman, "I want a letther, sir, if you plase." "Who do you want it for?" said the posth-masther, as ye call him. "I want a letter, sir, if you plase," said I. "And whom do you want it for?" said he again. "And what's that to you?" said I.

Squire. You blockhead, what did he say to that?

Andy. He laughed at me, sir, and said he could not tell what letther to give me, unless I told him the direction.

Squire. Well, you told him then, did you?

here,

tions?

Andy. "The directions I got," said I, "was to get a letther that's the directions." "Who gave you the direc"The masther," said I. "And who's your "What consarn is that of yours?" said I. break your head, then?

says he. masther?" said he.

Squire. Did he

Andy. No sir.

"Why, you stupid rascal," said he, “if you don't tell me his name, how can I give you his letther?" "You could give it, if you liked," said I; "only you are fond of axing impident questions, because you think I'm simple." "Get out o' this!" said he. "Your masther must be as great a goose as yourself, to send such a missenger."

Squire. Well, how did you save my honor, Andy?

Andy. "Bad luck to your impidence!" said I. "Is it Squire Egan you dare say goose to?" "O, Squire Egan's your mas"Yes," says I; "Have you anything to say

ther said he

agin it?"

Squire. You got the letter, then, did you?

Andy. "Here's a letther for the squire," says he.

"You

are to pay me eleven pence posthage." "What 'ud I pay 'levenpence for?" said I. "For posthage," said he. "Did n't I see you give that gentleman a letther for four-pence, this blessed minit?" said I; "and a bigger letther than this? Do you think I'm a fool? says I? "Here's a four-pence for you, me the letther."

and give

Squire. I wonder he did n't break your skull, and let some light into it.

Andy. "Go along, you stupid thafe!" says he, because I would n't let him chate your honor.

Squire. Well, well; give me the letter.

Andy. I haven't it, sir. He would n't give it to me, sir.
Squire. Who would n't give it to you?

Andy. That old chate beyant in the town.

Squire. Did n't you pay what he asked?

Andy. Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated, when he was selling them before my face for four-pence a-piece?

Squire. Go back, you scoundrel, or I'll horsewhip you. Andy. He'll murther me, if I say another word to him about the letther; he swore he would.

Squire. I'll do it, if he don't, if you are not back in less than an hour. [Exit.]

Andy. O, that the like of me should be murthered for defending the charrackter of my masther! It's not I'll go to dale with that bloody chate again. I'll off to Dublin, and let the letther rot on his dirty hands, bad luck to him!

Anonymous.

F

CCCXXXVIII.

THE FRENCHMAN'S LESSON.

RENCHMAN. Ha! my friend! I have met one very strange name in my lesson. Vat you call H-o-u-g-h, — eh? Tutor. "Huff."

Fr. Très bien, "huff;" and snuff you spell s-n-o-u-g-h? Tut. Oh no, no! "Snuff" is spelled s-n-u-f-f. In fact, words in o-u-g-h are a little irregular.

Fr. Ah, very good! —'t is beautiful language! H-o-u-g-h

is "huff."

I will remember; and of course, c-o-u-g-h is "cuff."

I have a bad "cuff," — eh?

Tut. No, that is wrong; we say "kauff,”

Fr.

66 Kauff," eh? "Huff," and "kauff;" nez-moi, how you call d-o-u-g-h —

Tut. No, not "duff."

66

duff," eh?

Fr. Not "duff!" Ah, oui; I understand,

eh?

Tut. No; d-o-u-g-h spells "doe."

Fr. "Doe!" It's ver' fine! Wonderful language! It is "doe;" and t-o-u-g-h is "toe," certainement. My beefsteak is very "toe."

Tut. Oh no, no! You should say "tuff."

-how you

Ha! you smile. I see
No? then it is "ploe,"

"ploe!"

Fr. "Tuff!" And the thing the farmer uses, call him, p-l-o-u-g-h, -❝ pluff," is it? that I am wrong; it must be "plaff." like "doe?" It is one beautiful language! ver' fine! Tut. You are still wrong, my friend; it is "plow." "Plow!" Wonderful language! I shall understand Plow," "doe," "kauff; and, one more, r-o-u-g-h, call General Taylor, "Rauff and Ready?" No? then "Row and Ready?"

Fr.

Tut. No; r-o-u-g-h spells "ruff.” Fr. 66 'Ruff," ha? and b-o-u-g-h is "buff,"

Tut. No; "bow."

Let me not forget. R-o-u-g-h is "ruff," - ha ?

Fr. Ah! 't is ver' simple! Wonderful language! But I have had vat you call e-n-o-u-g-h, — ha ? Vat you call him? Ha ha ha!

Anonymous

CCCXXXIX.

MR. H.

HOW TO TELL BAD NEWS.

MR. H.-STEWARD.

Ha! Steward, how are you, my old boy? How do things go on at home?

Steward.

Bad enough, your honor; the magpie's dead. Mr. H. Poor mag! so he's gone. How came he to die?