The crows like a knot of lawyers at the funeral of a rich man, were hovering near. They threatened to engross the whole skin, and make away with the personal property by conveyance.

The deceased they knew could not resist their charge, nor did they apprehend their bills would be taxed by the master.

Alack-alack! that he who had stoutly carried many a bushel, should thus fall beneath their peck. The well worn saddle, like many a better, had gone to back some other favourite of the race. The reins, too, were gone-yes, his disconsolate master, like a drunken man, had-slipped off the curb !

Wo, wo! but what avails it crying“ Wo!" unto a dead donkey? Were I thy master I would have thy portrait taken. How many an A-double-S is drawn by an R...! There is a placid docility about thy head that might supply Gall or Spurzheim with a lecture. But no cast remains to immortalize thee-albeit thy master, in thy life made many an impression with whacks !

Like a card-player, thou hast cut the pack, and left it in the hands of the dealer.

Unlike thy ragged brethren that run loose upon the common, exposing their ribs (as vulgar husbands do their wives in general company) there is a plumpness and rotundity in thy appearance, that plainly proves thee no common donkey. The smoothness of thy coat, too, shows thine owner's care. He, doubtless, liked thee (as Indians do their food) well curried !

Farewell, Edward, I exclaimed—too serious on the occasion to use the familiar epithet of Neddy.

I heard footsteps: I saw a man approaching the spot I had just quitted: he was a tall raw-boned-looking gipsey. Concealed from observation by the intervening hedge, I watched his motions.

I saw him stride across the animal. Drawing a clasp-knife from his breast, he looked wistfully around him. I had often heard of famished Russians devouring their horses. What did he meditate.

Keen hunger was depicted in his sharp countenance.

The vagrant wielded his knife-I stood breathless—the next moment I saw him cut a huge stake.

“ From the donkey ?”
No, Madam : from the adjoining hedge.


AT Number One dwelt Captain Drew,
George Benson dwelt at Number Two,

(The street we'll not now mention) The latter stunn'd the King's Bench bar, The former, being lamed in war,

Sung small upon a pension.

Tom Blewit knew them both-than he
None deeper in the mystery

Of culinary knowledge ;
From Turtle soup to Stilton cheese
Apt student, taking his degrees

In Mrs. Rundell's College.

Benson to dine invited Tom :
Proud of an invitation from

A host who 'spread' so nicely, Tom answer'd, ere the ink was dry, • Extremely happy-come on Fri

day next, at six precisely.'

Blewit, with expectation fraught,
Drove up at six, each savoury thought

Ideal turbot rich in ;
But, ere he reach'd the winning post,
He saw a haunch of ven'son roast

Down in the next-door kitchen.

Hey . zounds! what's this ? a haunch at Drew's ?
I must drop in ; I can't refuse;

To pass were downright treason:
To cut Ned Benson's not quite staunch ;
But the provocative-a baunch !

Zounds! it's the first this season !

• Ven'son, thou'rt mine! I'll talk no more'Then, rapping thrice at Benson's door,

John, I'm in such a hurry! Do tell your master that my aunt. Is paralytic, quite aslant,

I must be off for Surrey.'

Now Tom at next door makes a din
• Is Captain Drew at home?'- Walk in.'

Drew, how d'ye do?'—What! Blewit!'
“Yes, I-you've ask'd me many a day,
To drop in, in a quiet way,
So now I'm come to do it.'

'I'm very glad you have,' said Drew, I've nothing but an Irish stew'

Quoth Tom, aside, 'No matter, 'Twon't do-my stomach's up to that,'Twill lie by, till the lucid fat

Comes quiv’ring on the platter.'

"You see your dinner, Tom,' Drew cried,
• No, but I don't though,' Tom replied:

I smok'd below'-'What?'- Venson-
A haunch.''Oh! true, it is not mine;
My neighbour had some friends to dine.'-

* Your neighbour! who ?- George Benson,

His chimney smoked ; the scene to change,
I let him have my kitchen range,

While his was newly polish'd :
The Ven'son you observed below
Went home just half an hour ago :

I guess it's now demolish'd.
Tom, why that look of doubtful dread?
Come, help yourself to salt and bread,

Don't sit with hands and knees up;
But dine, for once, off Irish stew,
And read the Dog and Shadow through,

When next you open Æsop.'


If ever you should come to Modena,
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And numerous fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you ; but before you go,
Enter the house,- forget it not, I pray you, -
And look awhile upon a picture there.
'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family.

She sits, inclining forward as to speak;
Her lips half-open, and her finger up,
As though she said, "Beware !-her vest of gold,
Broider'd with flowers, and clasp'd from head to foot,
An emerald stone in every golden clasp ;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,

A coronet of pearls.--Alone it hangs
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor ;
(That, by the way-it may be true or false)
But don't forget the picture;-and you will not,
When you have heard the tale they tell you there.

She was an only child-her name Ginevra ; The joy, the pride of an indulgent father. She was all gentleness, all gaiety. Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue : And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand, and her heart with it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast, When all sat down, the bride herself was wanting ; Nor was she to be found! Her father cried, “ 'Tis but to make trial of our love," And fill'd his glass to all; but his hand shook; And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back, and flying still Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. -But now, alas ! she was not to be found; Nor from that hour could any thing be guess'd, But that she was not.

Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and embarking, Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Orsini lived ;-and long you might have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something, Something he could not find,-he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remain'd awhile Silent and tenantless,—then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgottenWhen on an idle day, a day of search 'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, “Why not remove it from its lurking place ?" 'Twas done as soon as said ; but, on the way, It burst-it fell ;--and lo, a skeleton ! With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. All else had perish'd-save a wedding-ring And a small seal, her mother's legacy,

Engraven with a name, the name of both-

There, then, had she found a grave!
Within that chest had she conceal'd herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy :
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fasten'd her down for ever!


I'm a dapper little shaver,
Who in manners and behaviour,
Bear the bell from all the trade.
I'm descended from the Razors,
Who, as most people say, sirs,
A fortune should have made.
For be it known, my father
Such numbers used to lather,
And so briskly plied his trade,
And so briskly plied his trade,
That, by hair dressing and shaving,
Though his family was craving,
He a decent living made.

Spoken.] Mr. Razor, says my poor deceased mother; My duck, says my father. Vy, lovy, I've been thinking as how ve should send Tony to a larned seminary, for I likes Latin-A little larning is a dangerous thing—drink deep, or a fig for larning, says my father ; or if he larns any thing, let him larn to shave, and as to drinking deep, he'll larn that of his father. So instead of being a man of letters, I can barely tell them, and am left with all my imperfections on my head, to shave, dress hair, comb wigs, and retail Day and Martin's blacking, Russia oil, pomatum, and powder, and instead of wearing a counsellor's wig, to be constantly employed in keeping it in curl, while the only bar I ever pleaded at is the bar of old Score'em, though I generally contrive to pay my way; I wish every tradesman could put his hand to his heart and say as much—we should then see fewer dividends of a shilling in the pound, and the credit of old England keep up its ancient vigour.

So, with scissors, comb, and lather
I a sufficient harvest gather,
To keep open the barber's shop,

The barber's shop,

The barber's shop,
To keep open the barber's shop.

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