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When the hour was over, the mechanic
insisted on a second hour, in consequence of the
slowness of the workit had not been a fair
hour's labour. In vain the officer protested,
was angry, and exhaustedhad the heartburn
pains in his back and limbsand declared
itwould kill him. The mechanic was
inexorable. 'If it does kill you, said he, 'then
you will only be where you would have been
if I had not stopped you.' So the officer
was compelled to continue his work with an
inflamed face, and the perspiration pouring
down over his cheeks and chin.

At last he could proceed no longer, come
what would of it, and sank back in the arms
of his persecuting preserver. The mechanic
now placed before him his own breakfast,
composed of a twopenny loaf of brown bread,
and a pint of small beer; the whole of which
the officer disposed of in no time, and then
sent out for more.

Before the boy who was despatched on this
errand returned, a little conversation had
ensued; and as the officer rose to go, he
smilingly placed his purse, with his card, in
the hands of the mechanic. The poor ragged
man received them with all the composure of
a physician, and with a sort of dry, grim
humour which appeared peculiar to him, and
the only relief of his otherwise rough and
rigid character, made sombre by the constant
shadows and troubles of life.

But the moment he read the name on the
card, all the hard lines in his deeply-marked
face underwent a sudden contortion. Thrusting
back the purse and card into the officer's
hand, he seized him with a fierce grip by one
armhurried him, wondering, up the dark
broken stairs, along the narrow passagethen
pushed him out at the door!

'You are the fine gentleman who tempted
my daughter away!' said he.

'Iyour daughter!' exclaimed the officer.

'Yes, my daughter; Ellen Brentwood!'
said the mechanic. 'Are there so many men's
daughters in the list, that you forget her
name?'

'I implore you,' said the officer, 'to take
this purse.Pray take this purse! If you
will not accept it for yourself, I entreat you
to send it to her!'

'Go and buy a lathe with it,' said the
mechanic. 'Work, man! and repent of your
past life!'

So saying, he closed the door in the officer's
face, and descended the stairs to his daily
labour.
  

GOOD VERSES OF A BAD POET.

Few things in Dryden or Pope are finer than these lines
by a man whom they both continually laughed at;—Sir
Richard Blackmore.

EXHAUSTED travellers, that have undergone
The scorching heats of Life's intemperate zone,
Haste for refreshment to their beds beneath,
And stretch themselves in the cool shades of Death.

PERFECT FELICITY.

IN A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW.

I AM the Raven in the Happy Familyand
nobody knows what a life of misery I lead!

The dog informs me (he was a puppy about
town before he joined us; which was lately)
that there is more than one Happy Family on
view in London. Mine, I beg to say, may
be known by being the Family which contains
a splendid Raven.

I want to know why I am to be called
upon to accommodate myself to a cat, a mouse,
a pigeon, a ringdove, an owl (who is the
greatest ass I have ever known), a guinea-pig,
a sparrow, and a variety of other creatures
with whom I have no opinion in common. Is
this national education? Because, if it is, I
object to it. Is our cage what they call
neutral ground, on which all parties may
agree? If so, war to the beak I consider
preferable.

What right has any man to require me to
look complacently at a cat on a shelf all day?
It may be all very well for the owl. My
opinion of him is that he blinks and stares
himself into a state of such dense stupidity
that he has no idea what company he is in.
I have seen him, with my own eyes, blink
himself, for hours, into the conviction that he was
alone in a belfry. But I am not the owl. It
would have been better for me, if I had been
born in that station of life.

I am a Raven. I am, by nature, a sort of
collector, or antiquarian. If I contributed, in
my natural state, to any Periodical, it would
be The Gentleman's Magazine. I have a
passion for amassing things that are of no use
to me, and burying them. Supposing such a
thingI don't wish it to be known to our
proprietor that I put this case, but I say,
supposing such a thingas that I took out
one of the Guinea-Pig's eyes; how could I
bury it here? The floor of the cage is not an
inch thick. To be sure, I could dig through
it with my bill (if I dared), but what would
be the comfort of dropping a Guinea-Pig's eye
into Regent Street?

What I want, is privacy. I want to make
a collection. I desire to get a little property
together. How can I do it here? Mr.
Hudson couldn't have done it, under
corresponding circumstances.

I want to live by my own abilities, instead
of being provided for in this way. I am stuck
in a cage with these incongruous companions,
and called a member of the Happy Family;
but suppose you took a Queen's Counsel out
of Westminster Hall, and settled him board
and lodging free, in Utopia, where there
would be no excuse for 'his quiddits, his
quillets, his cases, his tenures, and his tricks,'
how do you think he'd like it? Not at all.
Then why do you expect me to like it, and
add insult to injury by calling me a 'Happy'
Raven!

This is what I say: I want to see men do

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