Which seem'd as if a grudge they bore

To Stubbs; for often in a trice,

Down on the nail he was compell'd to pay

All that his hammer brought him in the day,
And sometimes more.

Thus, like a male Penelope, our wight,
What he had done by day undid at night;

No wonder, therefore, if, like her,

He was beset by clamorous brutes, Who crowded round him to prefer Their several suits.

One Mr. Snipps, the tailor, had the longest
Bill for many suits-of raiment,

And naturally thought he had the strongest
Claim for payment.

But debts of honour must be paid,

Whate'er becomes of debts of trade;

And so our stylish auctioneer,

From month to month throughout the year,
Excuses, falsehoods, pleas alleges,

Or flatteries, compliments, and pledges.

When in the latter mood one day,

He squeezed his hand, and swore to pay,

But when?' ⚫ Next month. You may depend on't,

My dearest Snipps, before the end on't.

Your face proclaims in every feature,

You wouldn't harm a fellow-creature

You're a kind soul, I know you are, Snipps.'

Aye, so you said six months ago;

But such fine words, I'd have you know,

Butter no parsnips.'

This said, he bade his lawyer draw

A special writ,

Serve it on Stubbs, and follow it

Up with the utmost rigour of the law.

This lawyer was a friend of Stubbs

That is to say,

In a civic way,

Where business interposes not its rubs;

For where the main chance is in question,

Damon leaves Pythias to the stake,;

Pylades and Orestes break,

And Alexander cuts Hephæstion;

But when our man of law must sue his friends,
Tenfold politeness makes amends.

So when he met our auctioneer,

Into his outstretch'd hand he thrust his
Writ, and said with friendly leer,

'My dear, dear Stubbs, pray do me justice;
In this affair I hope you see

No censure can attach to me

Don't entertain a wrong impression;

I'm doing now what must be done

In my profession.'

'And so am I,' Stubbs answered with a frown:
So crying, 'Going-going-gone!'

He knock'd him down!

LIBERTY AND SLAVERY.

DISGUISE thyself as thou wilt, still, SLAVERY! still thou art a bitter draught; and though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. It is thou, LIBERTY! thrice sweet and gracious goddess, whom all in public or in private worship, whose taste is grateful, and ever will be so, till nature herself shall change-no tint of words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron- -With thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exiled. Gracious Heaven! grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion; and shower down thy mitres, if it seems good unto thy divine providence, upon those heads which are aching for them.

Pursuing these ideas, I sat down close to my table, and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imgination.

I was going to begin with the millions of my fellow-creatures born to no inheritance but slavery; but finding, however affecting the picture was, that I could not bring it nearer me, and that the multitude of sad groups in it did but distract me

-I took a single captive, and having first shut him up in his dungeon, I then looked through the twilight of his grated door to take his picture.

I beheld his body half wasted away with long expectation and confinement, and felt what kind of sickness of the heart it was which arises from hope deferred. Upon looking nearer, I saw him pale and feverish in thirty years the western breeze

had not once fanned his blood-he had seen no sun, no moon, in all that time-nor had the voice of friend or kinsman breathed through his lattice. His children

But here my heart began to bleed-and I was forced to go on with another part of the portrait.

He was sitting upon the ground upon a little straw, in the farthest corner of his dungeon, which was alternately his chair and bed a little calendar of small sticks were laid at the head, notched all over with the dismal days and nights he had passed there he had one of these little sticks in his hand, and with a rusty nail he was etching another day of misery to add to the heap. As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door, then cast it down-shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle-He gave a deep sigh-I saw the iron enter into his soul-I burst into tears-I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn.

THE TWO STAMMERERS.

WHILE others fluent verse abuse,
And prostitute the comic muse;

In less indecent manner, I

Her Comic Ladyship will try:

Oh! let my prayer, bright maid, avail!
Grant inspiration to my tale!

A tale both comical and new,

And with a swinging moral too.

In a small quiet country town,

Liv'd Hob, a blunt, but honest clown;
Who, spite of all the schools could teach,
From habit, stammer'd in his speech;
And second nature soon, we're sure,
Confirm'd the case beyond a cure.
Ask him to say, hot rolls and butter;
'A hag-a-gag,' and 'splitter-splutter,'
Stopp'd every word he strove to utter.
It happen'd once upon a time-
I word it thus to suit my rhyme;
For all our country neighbours know,
It can't be twenty years ago-
Our sturdy ploughman, apt to strike,
Was busy delving at his dyke;

Which, let me not forget to say,
Stood close behind a public way;
And, as he lean'd upon his spade,
Reviewing o'er the work he'd made;
A youth, a stranger in that place,
Stood right before him, face to face.
'P-p-p-p-pray,' says he,

'How f-f-f-far may't be,

To-o'-the words would not come out'T-o Boroughbridge, or thereabout?'

Our clown took huff; thrice hemm'd upon't, Then smelt a kind of an affront.

Thought he 'This bluff, fool-hardy fellow, A little crack'd perhaps, or mellow, Knowing my tongue an inch too short, Is come to fleer and make his sport. Wauns! if I thought he meant to quarrel, I'd hoop the roynish rascal's barrel! If me he means, or dares deride, By all that's good, I'll tan his hide! I'll dress his vile calf's skin in buff; And thrash it tender where 'tis tough.' Thus full resolved he stood aloof, And waited mute, for farther proof; While t'other, in a kind of pain, Applied him to his tongue again'Speak, friend; c-c-c-c-can you, pray, Sh-sh-sh-show me-on my-way; Nay, spe-e-ak!-I'll smoke thy bacon! You have a tongue; or I'm mistaken.'

'Yes, th-th-that I-I-I have; But not for y-y-you-you knave;'

'What!' cried the stranger; wh-wh-what? D'ye mock me? T-t-take you that!'

'Huh! you mock-me!' qouth Hob amain, 'So t-t-take you-that again!'

Then to't they fell, in furious plight;

While each one thought himself i' the right;

And, if ye dare believe my song,

They likewise thought each other wrong.
The battle o'er-and somewhat cool-

Each half suspects himself a fool;

For, when to choler folks incline 'em,
Your argumentum baculinum,
Administer'd in dose terrific,
Was ever held a grand specific !

Each word the combatants now utter'd
Conviction brought that both dolts stutter'd,
And each assumed a look as stupid,
As, after combat, looks Don Cupid;
Each scratch'd his silly head, and thought,
He'd argue ere again he fought.

Hence I this moral shall deduce-
Would anger deign to sign a truce,
Till reason could discover truly,
Why this mad Madam were unruly,
So well she would explain her words,
Men little use could find for swords.

JUNIUS BRUTUS OVER THE DEAD BODY OF
LUCRETIA.

YES, noble lady, I swear by this blood, which was once so pure, and which nothing but royal villany could have polluted, that I will pursue Lucius Tarquinius the Proud, his wicked wife, and their children, with fire and sword: nor will I ever suffer any of that family, or of any other whatsoever, to be king in Rome. Ye gods, I call you to witness this my oath !-There, Romans, turn your eyes to that sad spectacle-the daughter of Lucretius, Collatinus' wife-she died by her own hand. See there a noble lady, whom the lust of a Tarquin reduced to the necessity of being her own executioner, to attest her innocence. Hospitably entertained by her as a kinsman of her husband's, Sextus, the perfidious guest, became her brutal ravisher. The chaste, the generous Lucretia, could not survive the insult. Glorious woman! But once only treated as a slave, she thought life no longer to be endured, Lucretia, a woman, disdained a life that depended on a tyrant's will; and shall we, shall men, with such an example before our eyes, and after five-and-twenty years of ignominious servitude, shall we, through a fear of dying, defer one single instant to assert our liberty? No, Romans, now is the time; the favourable moment we have so long waited for is come. Tarquin is not at Rome. The Patricians are at the head of the enterprise. The city is abundantly pro vided with men, arms, and all things necessary. There is nothing wanting to secure the success, if our own courage does not fail us. Can all those warriors, who have ever been so brave when foreign enemies were to be subdued, or when conquests were to be made to gratify the ambition and avarice of Tarquin, be then only cowards, when they are to deliver them