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"So what?" inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement. "So lonely, sir-so very lonely," cried the child. body hates me. Oh! sir, don't be cross to me. I feel as if I had been cut here, sir, and it was all bleeding away;" and the child beat his hand upon his heart, and looked into his companion's face with tears of real agony.

Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look with some astonishment for a few seconds, hemmed three or four times in a husky manner, and, after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bid Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy; and, once more taking his hand, walked on with him. in silence.

The undertaker had just put up the shutters of his shop, and was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriately dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.

"Aha!" said the undertaker, looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; "is that you, Bumble?"

"No one else, Mr. Sowerberry," replied the beadle. "Here, I've brought the boy." Oliver made a bow.

"Oh! that's the boy, is it?" said the undertaker, raising the candle above his head to get a full glimpse of Oliver. "Mrs. Sowerberry! will you come here a moment, my dear ?"

Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance.

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My dear," said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, "this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of." Oliver bowed again.

"Dear me !" said the undertaker's wife, "he's very small." "Why, he is rather small," replied Mr. Bumble, looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he wasn't bigger; "he is small,—there's no denying it. But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry, he'll grow."

"Ah! I dare say he will," replied the lady pettishly, “on our victuals, and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they're worth: however, men always think they know best. There, get down stairs, little bag o' bones." With this, the undertaker's wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark, forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated "the kitchen," wherein sat a slatternly girl in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair.

"Here, Charlotte," said Mrs. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, "give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip: he hasn't come home since the morning, so he may go without 'em. I dare say he isn't too dainty to eat 'em, -are you, boy?"

Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and

who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him.

I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him, whose blood is ice, and whose heart is iron, could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected, and witnessed the horrible avidity with which he tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine:-there is only one thing I should like better; and that would be to see him making the same sort of meal himself, with the same relish.

"Well," said the undertaker's wife, when Oliver had finished his supper, which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his future appetite, "have you done?"

There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the affirmative.

"Then come with me," said Mrs. Sowerberry, taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and leading the way up stairs; "your bed's under the counter. You won't mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose ?-but it doesn't much matter whether you will or not, for you won't sleep any where else. Come; don't keep me here, all night."

Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress.

A REMNANT OF THE TIME OF IZAAK WALTON.

VENATOR, AMATOR, EBRIOLUS.

Venator.

GOOD morrow, good morrow! say whither ye go,—

To the chase above, or the woods below?

Brake and hollow their quarry hold,
Streams are bright with backs of gold:
"Twere shame to lose so fair a day,-
So, whither ye wend, my masters, say.
Amator.

The dappled herd in peace may graze,
The fish fling back the sun's bright rays;
I bend no bow, I cast no line,

The chase of Love alone is mine.

Ebriolus.

Your venison and pike

Ye may get as ye like,

They grace a board right well;

But the sport for my share

Is the chase of old Care,

When the wine-cup tolls his knell.

Venator.

Give ye good-den, my masters twain,
I'll flout ye, when we meet again :
Sad lover, lay thee down and pine;

Go thou, and blink o'er thy noon-day wine;
I'll to the woods. Well may ye fare
With two such deer, as Love and Care.

THE "ORIGINAL" DRAGON.

A LEGEND OF THE CELESTIAL EMPIRE.

Freely translated from an undeciphered MS. of Con-fuse-us,* and dedicated to Colonel Bolsover, (of the Horse Marines,) by C. J. Davids, Esq.

I.

A DESPERATE dragon, of singular size,

(His name was Wing-Fang-Scratch-Claw-Fum,)— Flew up one day to the top of the skies,

While all the spectators with terror were dumb.

The vagabond vow'd, as he sported his tail,

He'd have a sky lark, and some glorious fun;

For he'd nonplus the natives that day without fail,
By causing a total eclipse of the sun ! †

He collected a crowd by his impudent boast,

(Some decently dress'd-some with hardly a rag on,)

Who said that the country was ruin'd and lost,

Unless they could compass the death of the dragon.

II.

The emperor came with the whole of his court,-
(His majesty's name was Ding-Dong-Junk)—
And he said to delight in such profligate sport,
The monster was mad, or disgracefully drunk.
He call'd on the army: the troops to a man
Declar'd-though they didn't feel frighten'd the least—
They never could think it a sensible plan

To go within reach of so ugly a beast.

So he offer'd his daughter, the lovely Nan-Keen,
And a painted pavilion, with many a flag on,
To any brave knight who would step in between
The solar eclipse and the dare-devil dragon.

III.

Presently came a reverend bonze,

(His name, I'm told, was Long-Chin-Joss,)——
With a phiz very like the complexion of bronze;
And for suitable words he was quite at a loss.
But, he humbly submitted, the orthodox way
To succour the sun, and to bother the foe,
Was to make a new church-rate without more delay,
As the clerical funds were deplorably low.
Though he coveted nothing at all for himself,
(A virtue he always delighted to brag on,)
He thought, if the priesthood could pocket some pelf,
It might hasten the doom of this impious dragon.

* "Better known to illiterate people as Confucius."-WASHINGTON IRVING. + In China (whatever European astronomers may assert to the contrary) an eclipse is caused by a great dragon eating up the sun.

To avert so shocking an outrage, the natives frighten away the monster from his intended hot dinner, by giving a morning concert, al fresco; consisting of drums, trumpets, cymbals, gongs, tin-kettles, &c.

IV.

The next that spoke was the court buffoon,-
(The name of this buffer was Whim-Wham-Fun,)—
Who carried a salt-box, and large wooden spoon,
With which, he suggested, the job might be done.
Said the jester, "I'll wager my rattle and bells,
Your pride, my fine fellow, shall soon have a fall:
If you make many more of your damnable yells,
I know a good method to make you sing small!”
And, when he had set all the place in a roar,

As his merry conceits led the whimsical wag on,
He hinted a plan to get rid of the bore,

By putting some salt on the tail of the dragon!

At length appear'd a brisk young knight,—
(The far-fam'd warrior, Bam-Boo-Gong,)—
Who threaten'd to burke the big blackguard outright,
And have the deed blazon'd in story and song.
With an excellent shot from a very long bow

He damag'd the dragon by cracking his crown;
When he fell to the ground (as my documents show)
With a smash that was heard many miles out of town.
His death was the signal for frolic and spree-

They carried the corpse in a common stage-waggon; And the hero was crown'd with the leaves of green tea, For saving the sun from the jaws of the dragon.

VI.

A poet, whose works were all the rage,

(This gentleman's name was Sing-Song-Strum,)— Told the terrible tale on his popular page:

(Compar'd with his verses, my rhymes are but rum!)

The Royal Society claim'd, as their right,

The spoils of the vanquish'd-his wings, tail, and claws; And a brilliant bravura, describing the fight,

Was sung on the stage with unbounded applause.
"The valiant Bam-Boo was a favourite toast,
And a topic for future historians to fag on,
Which, when it had reach'd to the Middlesex coast,
Gave rise to the legend of " George and the Dragon."

A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF BEAUMARCHAIS.

BY GEORGE HOGARTH.

M. DE BEAUMARCHAIS, the celebrated French dramatist, was one of the most remarkable men of his time, though his fame now rests in a great measure on his two comedies, Le Barbier de Seville, and Le Mariage de Figaro; and even these titles are now-a-days much more generally associated with the names of Rossini and Mozart, than with that of Beaumarchais. Few comedies, however, have been more popular on the French stage than these delightful productions. The character of Susanna was the chef d'œuvre of the fascinating Mademoiselle Contat; and has preserved its attractions, almost down to the present time, in the hands of her evergreen successor, the inimitable Mars. The Count and Countess Almaviva, Susanna, Figaro, and Cherubino, have now become the property of Italian singers; and, in this musical age, even the French public have been content to give up the wit, satire, point, and playfulness of the original comedies, for those meagre outlines which have been made the vehicles for the most charming dramatic music in the world. Not that Il Barbiere di Siviglia and Le Nozze di Figaro are not lively and amusing, considered as operas; but the vis comica of Beaumarchais has almost entirely evaporated in the process of transmutation.

None of the other dramatic works of Beaumarchais are comparable to these. Some of them bear marks of immature genius; and his last play, La Mère Coupable, the conclusion of the history of the Almaviva family, was written after a long interval, and when advanced age, and a life of cares and troubles, appear to have extinguished the author's gaiety, and changed the tone of his feelings. The play is written with power, but it is gloomy, and even tragical; succeeding its lively and brilliant precursors as a sunset of clouds and darkness closes a bright and smiling day. It painfully disturbs the agreeable associations produced by the names of its characters; and, for the sake of these associations, every one who reads it must wish to forget it.

But it is not so much to the writings of Beaumarchais, as to himself, that we wish at present to direct the attention of our readers. His life was anything but that of a man of letters. He possessed extraordinary talents for affairs; and, during his whole life, was deeply engaged in important pursuits both of a private and public nature. Extensive commercial enterprises, lawsuits of singular complication, and missions of great moment as a political agent, withdrew him from the walks of literature, and probably prevented him (as one of his biographers has remarked) from enriching the French stage with twenty dramatic masterpieces, instead of two or three. In this respect he resembled our Sheridan, as well as in the character of his genius; for we know of no plays that are more akin to each other, in many remarkable features, than The School for Scandal and Le Mariage de Figaro.

It is a remarkable circumstance in the history of Beaumarchais, that a considerable portion of his literary fame was derived from a species of composition from which anything of the kind could hardly have been expected,-the pleadings, or law-papers, in the various

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