For Solomon's maxim,

That pinches and whacks him, Is certainly far from a wise one!

Now here, and now there,

Like a dog in a fair!

All bustle and smoke, for the fact is,
So much I profess,

You may easily guess,

I'm quite in arrears in my practice !

A droll, and a dreamer,

A politic schemer,

Who knows how to varnish his dross over;

A mountebank spouter,

An infidel doubter,

We now-a-days call a-philosopher!

My son, who, in sooth,

Is a sensible youth,

A chip of th' old block, you'll suppose is ;
He now and then chimes,

Quantum suff. in "The Times,"
Which the true leading journal, God knows, is!

Of fame he bids fair

To come in for his share;

(I don't know who else can, if not him ;)

The cunning young shaver
Has brass in his favour!
A pretty plain proof I begot him!

I tried, verbum sat.

To illuminate Pat,

Full thrice did I lecture before him;

But Pat, who loves whiskey,

Is rarely in this key,

And cried," Blood and 'Ouns!" not to bore him.

So I walk'd off my buff,

In high dudgeon enough— I'm expected at Liverpool daily, To join for a trip,

An American ship,

To civilize Jonathan-Vale!

TOM SHUTTLE.

66

A LAMENTABLE TRAGEDY, MIXED FULL OF

PLEASANT MIRTH."

TUNE-" Miss Bailey."

TOM SHUTTLE* kept in Spital-fields a ready-furnish'd room there;

The bards of Greece and Rome, and-Brougham! illum'd him at his loom there

* This tragical story bears a remarkable resemblance to the following catastrophe that occurred on the continent a short time since :

“Dr. H— S—, custos of the Royal Library at Berlin, distinguished as a scholar and a poet, married an accomplished and amiable young lady, Miss W-, of Leipzig. They lived happily together, but had no family. Her whole time and attentions therefore were devoted to him: his success, his fame, his happiness, engrossed all her thoughts. They travelled together through Russia, and returned to Berlin delighted with the scenes they had passed through, and full of enthusiasm and new literary projects. But soon after the husband was taken ill. His disorder was peculiar, and the physicians expressed their

He read the Penny Magazine, and talk'd of Thames

and Tiber;

Of the Mechanics' Institute a regular subscriber! He to the march of intellect, quick marching, bade defiance;

A

merry cull-a miracle of poetry and science.

Miss Wilhelmina Snooks, the daughter of a stout and tall bum

Bailiff in the bottom floor, presented Tom her Album,

To draw a head, or write a tale as tragical as Werter,

Something pretty-natural, on purpose to divert her!

fears that his mind would be ultimately affected. They visited together the Baths of Rissingen, but he did not derive from them the benefit anticipated. A friend had often spoken to them of the beautiful environs of Jena, and they resolved to spend the next summer there. This was especially her plan; and in arranging for, and talking over, the contemplated change, the time passed until the 29th of December, 1834, when the Doctor went to a public concert. He expressed his intention of leaving it before a symphony of Beethoven's should be performed, fearing that it would be too much for him, and try his weak nerves too severely. His wife persuaded him to the contrary: he remained, was gratified and cheered by it, and returned home full of his plans for the next summer. When he entered his lodgings

Tom ow'd her one, and wrote an ode, brimful of love and sentiment;

'Twas so sublime you couldn't tell, no, what one word in twenty meant.

Miss Snooks made caps, and furbelows, and frills for Mister Harvey,

And carried them to Ludgate Hill, safe band-box'd in a jarvey;

Now, over head and ears in love, she rants like poor Queen Dido,

And ev'ry stitch she lays aside, for one that's in her side, O!

he found all in confusion. During his absence, she, having previously dressed herself all in white, had killed herself; she had pointed a dagger to her heart, and with a resolved spirit struck a sure blow, and expired instantly! The following letter, written with a firm hand, lay upon the table:

"More unhappy than thou hast been, thou canst not be, my most beloved; happier thou mayst become with real misfortune. There is often a wonderful blessing in misfortune-you will surely find it so. We suffered together one sorrow: thou knowest how I suffered in silence: no reproach ever came from you-much, much hast thou loved me. It will be better for thee-much better. Why? I feel, but have not words to express what I feel. We