pulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen), the lonely and desolate widow dried her tears, furnished her first floor, caught her innocent boy to her maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her parlour-window. Did it remain there long? No. The serpent was on the watch, the train was laid, the mine was preparing, the sapper and miner was at work. Before the bill had been in the parlour-window three days-three days, gentlemen-a Being, erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward semblance of a man, and not of a monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell's house. He inquired within; he took the lodgings; and on the very next day he entered into possession of them. This man was Pickwick-Pickwick, the defendant.

Of this man Pickwick I will say little; the subject presents but few attractions; and I, gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentlemen, the men, to delight in the contemplation of revolting heartlessness, and of systematic villany.

"I say systematic villany, gentlemen, and when I say systematic villany, let me tell the defendant Pickwick, if he be in court, as I am informed he is, that it would have been more decent in him, more becoming, in better judgment, and in better taste, if he had stopped away. Let me tell him, gentlemen, that any gestures of dissent or disapprobation in which he may indulge in this court will not go down with you; that you will know how to value and how to appreciate them; and let me tell him further, as my lord will tell you, gentlemen, that a counsel, in the discharge of his duty to his client is neither to be intimidated nor bullied, nor put down; and that any attempt to do either the one or the other, or the first or the last, will recoil on the head of the attempter, be he plaintiff or be he defendant, be his name Pickwick, or Ñoakes, or Stoakes, or Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson.

"I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two years Pickwick continued to reside constantly, and without interruption or intermission, at Mrs. Bardell's house. I shall show you that Mrs. Bardell, during the whole of that time, waited on him, attended to his comforts. cooked his meals, looked out his linen for the washerwoman when it went abroad, darned, aired, and prepared it for wear, when it came home, and, in short, enjoyed his fullest trust and confidence. I shall show you that, on many occasions, he gave halfpence, and on some occasions even sixpences, to her little boy; and I shall prove to you, by a witness whose testimony it will be impossible for my learned friend to weaken or controvert, that on one occasion he patted the boy on the head, and, after inquiring whether he had won any alley tors or commoneys lately (both of which I understand to be a particular species of marbles much prized by the youth of this town), made use of this remarkable expression- How should you like to have another father ?' I shall prove to you, gen tlemen, that about a year ago, Pickwick suddenly began to absent himself from home, during long intervals, as if with the intention of gradually breaking off from my client; but I shall show you also, that his resolution was not at that time sufficiently strong, or that

his better feelings conquered, if better feelings he has, or that the charms and accomplishments of my client prevailed against his unmanly intentions; by proving to you, that on one occasion, when he returned from the country, he distinctly, and in terms offered her marriage: previously, however, taking special care that there should be no witnesses to their solemn contract; and I am in a situation to prove to you, on the testimony of three of his own friends-most unwilling witnesses, gentlemen-most unwilling witnesses-that on that morning he was discovered by them holding the plaintiff in his arms, and soothing her agitation by his caresses and endearments. "And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters have passed between these parties, letters which are admitted to be in the handwriting of the defendant, and which speak volumes indeed. These letters, too, bespeak the character of the man. They are not open, fervent, eloquent epistles, breathing nothing but the languag of affectionate attachment. They are covert, sly, underhanded communications, but, fortunately, far more conclusive than if couched in the most glowing language and the most poetic imagery-letters that must be viewed with a cautious and suspicious eyeletters that were evidently intended at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third parties into whose hands they might fall. Let me read the first:- Garraway's, twelve o'clock. Dear Mrs. B. -Chops and Tomata sauce. Yours, PICKWICK.' Gentlemen, what does this mean? Chops and Tomata sauce. Yours, PICKWICK! Chops! Gracious heavens! and Tomata sauce! Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away, by such shallow artifices as these? The next has no date whatever, which is in itself suspicious-'Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at home till to-morrow. Slow coach!' And then follows this very, very remarkable expression-Don't trouble yourself about the warming-pan. The warming-pan! Why, gentlemen, who does trouble himself about a warming-pan? When was the peace mind of man or woman broken or disturbed by a warming-pan, which is in itself a harmless, a useful, and I will add, gentlemen, a comforting article of domestic furniture? Why is Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about this warming-pan, unless (as is no doubt the case) it is a mere cover for hidden fire-a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of correspondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick with a view to his contemplated desertion, and which I am not in a condition to explain? And what does this allusion to the slow coach mean? For aught I know, it may be a reference to Pickwick himself, who has most unquestionably been a criminally slow coach during the whole of this transaction, but whose speed will now be very unexpectedly accelerated, and whose wheels, gentlemen, as he will find to his cost, will very soon be greased by you!

of

"But enough of this, gentlemen; it is difficult to smile with an aching heart; it is ill jesting when our deepest sympathies are awakened. My client's hopes and prospects are ruined, and it is

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no figure of speech to say that her occupation is gone indeed. The bill is down-but there is no tenant. Eligible single gentlemen pass and repass-but there is no invitation for them to inquire within, or without. All is gloom and silence in the house; even the voice of the child is hushed; his infant sports are disregarded when his mother weeps; his alley tors' and his commoneys' are alike neglected: he forgets the long familiar cry of 'knuckle down,' and at tip-cheese, or odd and even, his hand is out. But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis in the desert of Goswell-street-Pickwick, who has choked up the well, and thrown ashes on the sward-Pickwick, who comes before you to-day with his heartless tomata sauce and warming-pans— Pickwick still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made. Damages, gentlemenheavy damages is the only punishment with which you can visit nim; the only recompense you can award to my client. And for those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a contemplative jury of her civilized countrymen." With this beautiful peroration, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz sat down, and Mr. Justice Stareleigh woke up.

(By permission of the Author.)

MONSIEUR TONSON.

JOHN TAYLOR.

[John Taylor was grandson of the famous Chevalier John Taylor, oculist to the principal sovereigns of Europe. In 1795, he published a poem, entitled "The Stage." In 1811, "Poems on Several Occasions," and in 1827, "Poems on Various Subjects," 2 vols. Mr. Taylor was connected with the periodical press for upwards of half a century, and was the original editor and one of the proprietors of the Sun newspaper. Born 1756; died 1832.]

THERE lived, as fame reports, in days of yore,
At least some fifty years ago, or more,

A pleasant wight on town, yclep'd Tom King,
A fellow that was clever at a joke,
Expert in all the arts to tease and smoke,

In short, for strokes of humour quite the thing.
To many a jovial club this King was known,
With whom his active wit unrivall'd shone-
Choice spirit, grave freemason, buck and blood,
Would crowd his stories and bon mots to hear,
And none a disappointment e'er could fear,

His humour flow'd in such a copious flood.

To him a frolic was a high delight—
A frolic he would hunt for day and night,
Careless how prudence on the sport might frown;

If e'er a pleasant mischief sprang to view,
At once o'er hedge and ditch away he flew,
Nor left the game till he had run it down.

One night our hero, rambling with a friend,
Near fam'd St. Giles's chanced his course to bend,
Just by that spot, the Seven Dials hight;
'Twas silence all around, and clear the coast,
The watch, as usual, dozing on his post,

And scarce a lamp display'd a twinkling light.

Around this place there lived the num❜rous clans
Of honest, plodding, foreign artizans,

Known at that time by the name of refugees-
The rod of persecution from their home,
Compell'd the inoffensive race to roam,

And here they lighted like a swarm of bees.

Well, our two friends were saunt'ring through the street,
In hopes some food for humour soon to meet,
When in a window near a light they view;
And, though a dim and melancholy ray,
It seem'd the prologue to some merry play,

So tow'rds the gloomy dome our hero drew.

Straight at the door he gave a thund'ring knock (The time we may suppose near two o'clock),

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"I'll ask," says King, "if Thompson lodges here." Thompson ?" cries t'other, "who the devil is he ?" "I know not," King replies, "but want to see What kind of animal will now appear."

After some time a little Frenchman came,
One hand display'd a rushlight's trembling flame,
The other held a thing they call culotte;
An old striped woollen nightcap graced his head,
A tatter'd waistcoat o'er one shoulder spread,

Scarce half awake, he heaved a yawning note.

Though thus untimely roused, he courteous smiled,
And soon address'd our wag in accents mild,
Bending his head politely to his knee-
"Pray, sare, vat vant you, dat you come so late?
I beg your pardon, sare, to make you vait :
Pray, tell me, sare, vat your commands vid me ?"
"Sir," replied King, "I merely thought to know,
As by your house I chanced to-night to go-

But, really, I disturb'd your sleep, I fear-
I say, I thought, that you perhaps could tell,
Among the folks who in this street may dwell,
If there's a Mr. Thompson lodges here ?"

The shiv'ring Frenchman, though not pleased to find The business of this unimportant kind,

Too simple to suspect 'twas meant in jeer,

Shrugg'd out a sigh that thus his rest should break, Then, with unaltered courtesy, he spake,

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'No, sare, no Monsieur Tonson lodges here."

Our wag begg'd pardon, and toward home he sped,
While the poor Frenchman crawled again to bed;
But King resolved not thus to drop the jest,
So the next night, with more of whim than grace,
Again he made a visit to the place,

To break once more the poor old Frenchman's rest.

He knock'd-but waited longer than before:
No footstep seem'd approaching to the door,
Our Frenchman lay in such a sleep profound;
King, with the knocker, thunder'd then again,
Firm on his post determined to remain;

And oft, indeed, he made the door resound.

At last King hears him o'er the passage creep, Wond'ring what fiend again disturb'd his sleep. The wag salutes him with a civil leer : Thus drawling out to heighten the surprise (While the poor Frenchman rubbed his heavy eyes), "Is there a Mr. Thompson-lodges here?"

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The Frenchman falter'd, with a kind of fright-
Vy, sare, I'm sure I told you, sare, last night-
(And here he labour'd with a sigh sincere)

No Monsieur Tonson in de varld I know,
No Monsieur Tonson here--I told you so;
Indeed, sare, dare no Monsieur Tonson here!"

Some more excuses tender'd, off King goes,
And the old Frenchman sought once more repose.
The rogue next night pursued his old career-
'Twas long, indeed, before the man came nigh,
And then he utter'd, in a piteous cry,

"Sare, 'pon my soul, no Monsieur Tonson here!”

Our sportive wight his usual visit paid,

And the next night came forth a prattling maid,
Whose tongue, indeed, than any jack went faster-
Anxious she strove his errand to inquire,

He said, ""Tis vain her pretty tongue to tire,
He should not stir till he had seen her master."

The damsel then began, in doleful state,
The Frenchman's broken slumbers to relate,
And begg'd he'd call at proper time of day.