"The author of The History of Philosophy, and The Philosophy of History,' will not adduce that as a reason why it never should be. That can never be achieved which none have had enterprise to attempt."

Fitzcribb was often Johnsonian in his lan

guage.

66

Why, no; but then I am so nervous!" The very reason why you must ride." "And I shall be followed and hooted at by all the boys in the village..........perhaps pelted."

"Does the lion heed the flies that buzz around him? What great Orator, General, or Statesman, but has been hooted at and even pelted? But if these urchins pelt you, give them a thrashing, if they only shout; when the novelty is over, they will shout no more."

"If you would try it first

"I will," said Fitzcribb, with the devotion of Caius Marius. "Alas! that the cause had

been a nobler one! Friendship would have ranked next to patriotism; but Fitzcribb was

only running a great risk, for a very poor joke.

Grunter had carefully chosen two strong asses and a robust lad; these asses were "a double debt to pay," for Grunter was both to ride them and to drink their milk-choice fare for such an author, of such a work.

The time of trial came. Fitzcribb was very daring; he armed himself with a thick, knotted stick-and, having very short legs, he sat like a tailor on a seat between the two animals, formed of the ropes which united them, and with a very long bridle, he set off, his chargers being impelled by a smart blow from "Jock," the new donkey-boy.

They were very fresh, and trotted valiantly on, so much so that Grunter, fearing to lose an advantage he was paying for, called out that he saw it was feasible, and was ready to mount. But Fitzcribb heeded him not; he was pleased with the success of his novel expedient; the exercise revived, and the bracing air exhilarated him. So far all was well. Grunter was left far behind; vainly he

shouted and raised his stick, to show that he was ready. Fitzcribb had already trotted up the slope of the "Vale of Health," and came suddenly on the road leading to the heath, in the very centre of a crowd of ragged donkey-boys and their four-footed allies.

They no sooner beheld Fitzcribb, than they set up a mingled yell and shout; many left their less asinine quadrupeds, and followed him; but the uproar quickened the pace of his monture; and they had the mortification of being completely distanced.

For

Seeing this, Ben, who owed the new donkeys a grudge for Grunter's desertion of Nell, mounted that spirited animal, and, with a stick, in which he had had the cruelty to insert a sharp nail, goaded the poor creature thus urged, a race commenced. some time the chances were for Fitzcribb, and the ragged tribe betted two-pence to a farthing upon him; but a sharp stroke given to Nell sent her within reach of Fitzcribb's pair. Jock had been left in the distance.

on;

Ben, in his triumph, raised his stick, and

stuck his goad into one of Fitzcribb's donkeys; the animal reared, kicked-and, as they were ascending a hill, threw the rider over his head. Fitzcribb rose in an instant, quite unhurt, caught the bridle of Ben's donkey, dragged off the howling boy, and, with his own knotted stick, gave him so severe a thrashing that the urchin roared for mercy. He then sent him back, desiring him to tell his comates that the same chastisement awaited the first among them who should ever again presume to shout, to follow, or in any other way to annoy the rider of the donkey-pair.

rest.

The fate of Ben was a good lesson to the One example is worth all the threats in the world. Fitzcribb remounted, returned in triumph through the tribe of his abashed assailants; and Grunter the first spirit having departed from his pair-took a long, and though a jolting, a most salubrious ride.

This exercise soon restored his health. Sometimes he was thrown, but never hurt. Practice made him perfect in the management of the "Bucephali," as he pompously

named his two donkeys; and it was very seldom that poor Fitzcribb was allowed the benefit of even a short ride.

However, "The Work" progressed rapidly. Already, in corners of newspapers, appeared mysterious prophecies of "the dawning of a new star on the literary horizon." Already a rich banquet was promised to the classic and scientific epicure. One ran as follows: "We have reason to believe that a Grand Philosophical and Historical work will ere long delight the learned, from the pen of a profound and elegant scholar, who, though he has passed the meridian of life, makes his début in the important publication before alluded to. The researches, the labours, and the well-digested opinions of a sage's life, will be compressed into the noble and original production, the name of which we are not at liberty to make public; indeed, we are, in some degree, betraying the modest author in this slight notice; but our cordial love for the public must be our excuse; knowing what good things are in store for it, we cannot be