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never mind, only recollect, I am one upon your Tibby, for this, that's all.'

Now the parson wished his parishioners to believe that he was a very learned and clever man, and that, although he had a book before him, it was, in fact, of little use to him, and that he generally delivered his discourses extempore, which, by the by, the clerk knew was no such thing, for Mr. Parson had a secret niche cut in his desk, into which he put his book. On the following Sunday, Muggins made a point of being at church first, and espying the parson's book in the old place, he made no bones of whipping out one of the leaves : shortly after the parson arrived, the service commenced, and went on as usual; the parson mounted his pulpit to deliver his sermon, and proceeded in his usual apparently inspired manner, till he came to the place where the leaf was torn out. And lo and behold, Moses[missing the leaf] and behold-and, as I before said, and lo! and behold, Moses- -and-and behold, Moses [scratching his head, and turning over the leaves of his book confusedly.] say, Mr. Clerk, Mr. Clerk,' said the parson, looking down upon him ; 'Mr. Clerk, what's become of my Moses ?' “Why, [said Muggins, looking up archly at him,] Why, he has got sore eyes, and can't come to church to day, sir.'

GREECE.

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime;
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime?
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine ;
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom :
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute;
Where the tints of the earth and the hues of the sky,
In colour though varied in beauty may vie,
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all save the spirit of man is divine ?
"Tis the clime of the east-'tis the land of the sun,-
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?
Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.

BYRON.

JEWISH MUTTON.

(An original Recitation, by P. T.) MANY strange things may happen in a life, Some men die old, yet never know a wife: Some perish early, as the flowers in spring, Fall swift as dew-drops from the eagle's wing.

Some folks do this, and others that,

As some love lean and others fat;
Such is the cursory quick step of fate,
We scarcely live to know how much we hate.
But one thing I've discover'd, be it known,

While some like pudding, others beef,
Some aiming for a tyrant's throne,

Sly as a London pocket-picking thief;
That most, nay, all agree in liking
The rags, which, mill’d to lawful paper,
For which some knaves on nothing caper,
Who imitate the ONE a whit too striking !
You know that what I mean-that trifle funny,
Which banks have christen'd creditable money.
Yes, 'tis too oft mortality's sad lot,
To like the thing forbidden it should not;
The apple-juice of the first Adam's wife
Runs in the blood of all her sons of life,
As you shall witness in the story true,
I'm now to prattle, of a wealthy Jew.
Some say that Charity begins at home,'
Yet from it beggars in the causeway roam ;
As, knowing the old proverb was a liar,
They entertain'd its roaming spirit higher ;
For many who had cheated all the day

Their brethren on the Stock Exchange,
May two-pence to the passing beggar pay

To balance and content their conscience strange ; And think, with satisfied sufficient grin, • Charity covers up a mass of sin.' Thus, the great people who have daily dined,

Turn charitable yearly to be sure; And being in a feeding cue inclined, Give annually dinners to the poor ;

At which they stuff,

And breathe and puff,
Like pouter-pigeons, till their craws

Fill'd to the full,

As country gull,
At London sights, that please the Johnny Raws,

Open all generous, their pockets willing,
To furnish to the poor their one pound shilling.
At such a gay illustrious feast,

A Jew, a Sheva the benevolent;
Who rul'd the lord and master of the East,
Had annually his "golden ointment sent,

And fed as inclination sway'd,
At whatsoe'er before him laid;
But what he generally choose

I would not, for a crown, the Rabbi knows.
The fact was, Sheva knew the waiter well;
Had himself been a native of Duke's Place,
And that by tipping, he would never tell
Aught that should bring his patron to disgrace ;
And so, of a long tale to make short work,

I'll tell each wicked grinner,

When Sheva came to dinner,
He always dined him of the rich roast pork.
But then the waiter, all remorse to save,
(A witty and a gentlemanly knave,)
And hide the sinning of the Jewish glutton,
Had always christen'd it 'a leg of mutton.'
You see the Israelite had thoughts within,
His charity might swallow up the sin.
How like the worthies of gay Regent-street,
Near Philip's Chapel, and the Argyle-rooms,
Wrapt in the latter's drowsy concert fumes ;
Delight their ears from Saturday to Monday;

And then to wipe away the devil's scores,
And clear for the next week's carouse to treat,

Besiege the other's open chapel doors, To have two hours of piety on Sunday ; For Jews and Christians now no conscience feel, But bear disgraces like the turncoat Neele. Well, let me thus much of my Sheva say, He was a more than Christian in his way; A good Samaritan, who willing gave A helping hand that fallen wretch to save; And staunch'd the bosoms that with sorrow bleed, Without inquiring their religious creed ; He was not miserly in charity, The which you'll deem a rarity; Nor mean, nor loth his station to uphold, As German princes stuff'd with English gold. On this day year-I mark'd it very well

Because when talking of a person's feasts,

Like grocers, I'm particular in my dates--
One ought to know the inch of every ell

Then my friend Sheva, went him out to dine, And lush the capital “old London' wine.

High smoked the dishes,

All was gay,
Every one's wishes

Found the way
To satisfy their craving, and their hunger,

Making the under jaw

Fight all the munching war;
Much like a beggar, or a costard-monger ;
For eating, I have found, beneath the sun,
In fashion is the same to every one.

0, woe is me! the saddest, saddest sight,

Was Sheva !-Sheva, the benignly kind, Sat in terrible alarming plight,

Because his favour'd joint he could not find! Why, he look'd as dull amid the gay house, As Thomas Flowers' ill-lighted playhouse,

For you must know,

To cause his woe, The waiter, his old friend, had ta'en a flight, And no more pander'd to his appetite.

Well, Sheva blush'd,

Was nearly speaking ;
Then conscience hush'd

His tongue from speaking.
At length, high-couraged as a racer,
To give the worst a facer,
Dle beckon'd to the waiter,

With knowing wink,

At which, I think,
His visage seem'd to grow elater,
As, licking lips like any glutton,
Bring me,' he cried, 'de lovely mutton.'

Off went the waiter, speedy as a shot,
Unlike Winchilsea's pistol, which did not;

The mutton sought,

Which sought, he brought. Enrag'd was Sheva, when he saw The mutton was not to his maw; For it had never happen'd to his thinking, The waiter might not understand his winking.

So, Sheva, most supremely curst,
Thus taught his meaning, with a burst
Of passion, such as the Apostle Paul
Might give to Barnabas, when they'd a squall,

G

• You dog! you'd cure de devil of de vapours,

You give my heart more grieving than a bunion ;
I did not mean de mutton wid de capers,

But de roast mutton wid de sage and onion.'
The enlighten'd waiter read the cheat,
Swift as Mercury he brought the meat;
Sheva attack'd the pork with tooth and nail,
And finish'd both his dinner and—my tale.

THE SPEECH OF BRUTUS ON THE DEATH OF

CÆSAR.

ROMANs, countrymen, and lovers ! hear me for my cause : and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honour, and have a respect to mine honour, that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any near friend of Cæsar's, to him I say that Brutus's love to Cæsar was no less than his. If then that friend demand, why Brutus rose against Cæsar, this is my answer : Not that I loved Cæsar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Cæsar were living, and die all slaves ; than that Cæsar were dead, to live all freemen? As Cæsar loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him ; but as he was ambitious, I slew him. There are tears for his love, joy for his fortune, honour for his valour, and death for his ambition. Who's here so base, that would be a bond-man? If any speak ; for him have I offended. Who's here so rude, that would not be a Roman! If any speak ; for him have I offended. Who's here so vile, that will not love his country ? If any, speak ; for him have I offended— I pause for a reply.

None?-then none have 1 offended. - I have done no more to Cæsar than you should do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol ; his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy ; nor his offences enforced, for which he suffered death.

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony; who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this I depart, that as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death.

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