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She calls for Portia's red-hot coal, the dagger of

Lucretia, And bawls for Rosamonda's bowl of rhubarb and

magnesia!

Tom felt a sympathetic twinge, and try'd a gentle

lenitive; “ Your bumps, queer file, 0," quoth Deville, “ are

call'd philo-progenitive! To conquer this amativeness dewelop'd on your

cranium, With Wilhelmina go succeed, for she's your suc

cedaneum.”

shall meet hereafter free and unfettered. But thou wilt live out thy time upon earth. Fulfil then thy destiny, and act with energy. Salute all whom I loved, and who loved me in return. Till, in all eternity we meet, thy

CHARLOTTE.' “ This heroic lady felt that nothing but a real and lasting sorrow could give another direction to her husband's thoughts, and save him from madness, and she offered herself a willing sacrifice to his happiness! The novel experiment has been crowned with success! Since her death he has quite recovered; he feels himself able and willing to fulfil her last declared wishes, and has written some verses addressed to her friends, in which he explains her motives and conduct, and its influences on himself!”

Tom tipp'd a wink, and scamper'd off like winkin,

in high feather; The parson fee'd—the wedding folks had all a feed

together!

His room with friends was over-run, his

сир of bliss run over; He took to moping-mops and brooms !-his wife

took him to DoverThe doctor recommended air, and exercise, and

jauntingQuoth Tom,“ Hang exercise and air! when, zounds!

the right heir's wanting !"Away they tripp'd to Bagnigge Wells, to Turnham

Green, and Chelsea ; Sad Wilhelmina sigh’d, My Love I never more

shall well see!”

'Twas Fair time, and St. Bartlemy had got a merry

touch for him; But rattles, jews-harps, salt-boxes, horns, muffs,

might be too much for him! He quite forgot his chronic pains, among his gay

old cronies; And munch'd his supper in the pens, of mustard

and polonies;

The beer bred wit and bravery, and he resolv’d to

thump any That cross'd him as he homeward reel'd, and roar'd

“ Whitbread and Company!"

He reach'd his room at two o'clock, the candles in

the casement, Foretold the livers by their lights, were all in queer

amazement ! Such hurry, scurry, mobbing, sobbing, down stairs,

ay, and tearing up! “ Here's h-ll and Tommy now to do;" cries Tom,

“my wife is flaring up!" Ah! what a sight did he behold, how ghostily and

dreadful, When peeping through the door, he threw his

peepers on the bed full.

There Wilhelmina Shuttle lay, poor lamb, as dead

as mutton ! Her cheek much whiter than the gown so lily-white

she'd put on; A bodkin stuck fast in her side, a letter penn'd so

neatly In German Text! bespoke her death, and told the

cause completely ;

“Dear Tom, you run stark mad for joy, now try a

touch of sadness; You'll find in grief a great relief-I die, to cure

your madness !”

Tom stood aghast—“ 'Tis love! 'tis love! how furious,

fond, and fickle hers !" And then he wrote her dad in rhyme the full and

true partic'lars; Soon after this felo-de-se, among the prime odd

fellows, His spirits rose, he rose to sing,.“ Old Rose, and

burn the bellows !" He cut the loom, a stroller turn'd, and in the Tale

of Mystery, He courts Miss Tree!—and so concludes our strange,

eventful Hist'ry.

SAM TWIST.

A LEGEND OF ST. BENNET-FINK.

Which may be chanted to the Tune of “ My Love

is but a Lassie yet.”

Sam Twist was a tailor in Threadneedle-street,

His spirits were low, and his fever was high; He lost all his gumption, by a gallopping con

sumption, And though he didn't like it, he was like to die!

“I dispose of, I'm so indispos'd, to my rib,

All the goods in my shop, and the money in my till; Though oft, common case! I'd her claws in my face, I sha'n't scratch her off, by a clause in

my

will!

My dear, I'll be dress'd like a buck, in my best, Charon won't care a rap, if I'm wrapp'd in a

shroud; I'll march to his boat in my blue Sunday coat,

For fear Mr. Twist should be lost in the crowd !

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