unwonted symptoms of vocality. Her first notes fell on the astonished ear of the solemn clerk, and served him as the ghost of Banquo did Macbeth— pushed him from his stool. He hurried to the stair-head, marvelling what musical coil could be going on in the still-room. He next applied his oblique eye to the key-hole, and,-seeing is believing,-beheld the locomotive old lass rehearsing a minuet before the mirror, to the chromatic accompaniment of her wiry falsetto. Big with the portentous discovery, he bustled to Mr. Bosky, to whom, after unpacking his budget of strange news, he proposed the instant holding of a commission of lunacy, for the due and proper administration of her few hundreds in long annuities, two large boxes, and a chest of drawers, full of old-fashioned finery, besides sundry trinkets, the spoils of three courtships. A few days after, the carolling of Mrs. Norah surprised Uncle Timothy, who recognising the real culprit in the eccentric muse of Mr. Benjamin Bosky, he took the laureat to task for putting his wardrobe into metre, hitching his Christian name into ludicrous rhyme, and turning the head and untuning the voice of the hitherto anti-musical Norah Noclack. Mr. Bosky exhibited deep contrition, but as Mr. Bosky's contrition bore considerable resemblance to Mr. Liston's tragedy, Uncle Timothy always dreaded to encounter it when anything serious was in the case. And so completely did the old chantress inoculate the solemn clerk with her musical mania, that one evening, when called upon for a toast and a song at the club1 of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, held in an ancient trophied chamber over the venerable gateway of the Priory, he startled his brother knights with his unwonted enthusiasm. "Uncle Timothy! Sound trumpets! wave banners! shout voices!" This was the longest public oration that Mr. Fixture had made in his life. Certainly the only song that he was ever known to have sung was the old-fashioned housekeeper's 1 This club consists of more than fifteen hundred members. Their orgies are celebrated every Monday evening throughout the year. The chair is taken at nine, and vacated at twelve. APOTHEOSIS OF UNCLE TIM'S BRAN NEW BUTTONS AND BLUE. If I had my widow or maiden's whim— I know who-I know who It should be! Why, Uncle Tim, In his bran new buttons and blue. Tim's a middle ag'd gentleman sleek, Like other blythe folk; A Christmas carol, A cup from the barrel, And a glass of old wine seven days in the week! Hear him sing, and hear him talk, Daintily dress'd Like a buck in his best! Loyal and true As his holiday blue ! With black silk stock and embroider'd vest; In Wellingtons trim Struts Uncle Tim! With beaver and cane, And smart gold chain- Stuck under his chin All Little Britain Were never so smitten! We ne'er shall look on his like again! Heigho! my heart is low! Devils blue As Tim's bran new! Fidgets, fumes, Mops and brooms ! Tantrums all from top to toe! Heigho! Such a quiz! such a beau! Twice twenty thousand; If it only were for Uncle Timothy's sake! CHAPTER IX. GENTLE Reader! we promised thee at the outset of our journey pleasant companions by the way, and as an earnest of that promise, we have introduced Benjamin Bosky and Uncle Tim. We would now bespeak thy courtesy for others that are soon to follow. In passing happily through life, half the battle depends upon the persons with whom we may be associated. And shall we carry spleen into the closet?-grope for that daily plague in our books, when it elbows and stares us in the face at every turn? To chronicle the "Painful Peregrinations" of Uncle Timothy through this livelong day, would exhibit him, like 66 Patience," not sitting on a monument, smiling at grief," but lolling in Mr. Bosky's britschka, laughing (in his sleeve!) at the strange peculiarities of the Muffs, and listening with mild en |