artifices as these? The next has no date whatever, which is in itself suspicious. "Dear Mrs. B.: I shall not be at home to-morrow. Slow coach." And then follows this very remarkable expression-"Don't trouble yourself about the warming-pan."

The warming-pan! Why, gentlemen, who does trouble himself about a warming-pan? 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 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 be now very unexpectedly accelerated, and whose wheels, gentlemen, as he will find to his cost, will very soon be greased by you.

But enough of this, gentlemen. It is difficult to smile with an aching heart. My client's hopes and prospects are ruined. It is no figure of speech to say that her “

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tion 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.

But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic oäsis 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 tomato sauce and warming-pans; Pickwick still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has made! Damages, gentlemen, heavy damages, is the only punishment with which. you can visit him; 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! FROM DICKENS.

LIV. THE TENDER HUSBAND.

Lo, to the cruel hand of fate,

My poor dear Grizzle, meek-souled mate,
Resigns her tuneful breath;

Though dropped her jaw, her lip though pale,
And blue each harmless finger-nail,
She's beautiful in death.

As o'er her lovely limbs I weep,
I scarce can think her but asleep;
How wonderfully tame!

And yet her voice is really gone,
And dim those eyes that lately shone
With all the lightning's flame.

Death was, indeed, a daring wight,
To take it in his head to smite;
To lift his dart to hit her;
For as she was so great a woman,
And cared a single fig for no man,

I thought he feared to meet her.

Ah me! indeed I'm much inclined
To think how I may speak my mind,
Nor hurt her dear repose;

Nor think I now with rage she'd roar,
Were I to put my fingers o'er,

And touch her precious nose.

Good sir, good doctor, go away;
To hear my sighs you must not stay,
For this my poor lost treasure;

I thank you for your pains and skill;
When next you come, pray bring your bill;
I'll pay it, sir, with pleasure.

Ye friends who come to mourn her doom,
Gently, oh, gently tread the room,

Nor call her from the blessed!

In softest silence drop the tear,
In whispers breathe the fervent prayer,
To bid her spirit rest.

Good nurses, shroud my lamb with care;
Her limbs, with gentlest fingers, spare,
Her mouth, ah! slowly close;
Her mouth, a magic tongue that held,
Whose softest tone, at times, compelled
To peace my loudest woes.

And, carpenter, for my sad sake,
Of stoutest oak her coffin make;
I'd not be stingy, sure;

Procure of steel the strongest screws;
For who could paltry pence refuse
To lodge his wife secure?

Ye people who the corpse convey,
With caution tread the doleful way,
Nor shake her precious head;
Since Fame reports a coffin tossed,
With careless swing against a post,
Did once disturb the dead.

Farewell, my love, forever lost!
Ne'er troubled be thy gentle ghost,
That I again will woo:

By all our past delights, my dear,
No more the marriage chain I'll wear,
No! hang me if I do!

LV. THE SENTIMENTAL HUSBAND.

POTTLE OF PINES; a basket of pine apples.

'Twas at Christmas, I think, when I met with Miss Chase; Yes, for Morris had asked me to dine;

And I thought I had never beheld such a face,

Or so noble a turkey and chine.

Placed close by her side, it made others quite wild

With sheer envy, to witness my luck;

How she blushed, as I gave her some turtle, and smiled, As I afterward offered some duck,

I looked and I languished, alas! to my cost,
Through three courses of dishes and meats;

Getting deeper in love; but my heart was quite lost,
When it came to the trifle and sweets.

With a rent-roll that told of my houses and land,

To her parents I told my designs;

And then to herself I presented my hand,
With a very fine pottle of pines!

I asked her to have me for weal or for woe,
And she did not object in the least;

I can't tell the date, but we married I know,
Just in time to have game at the feast.

We went to -, it certainly was the sea-side;
For the next, the most bless-ed of morns,
I remember how fondly I gazed at my bride,
Sitting down to a plateful of prawns.

O, never may memory lose sight of that year,
But still hallow the time as it ought!

That season the "greens" were remarkably dear,
And the peas, at a guinea a quart.

A long life I looked for of bliss with my bride,
But then Death! I ne'er dreamt about that!
O, there's naught that is certain in life, as I cried,
When my turbot eloped with the cat!

My dearest took ill at the turn of the year,
But the cause no physician could nab;

But something, it seemed, like consumption, I fear;
It was just after supping on crab.

In vain she was doctored, in vain she was dosed,
Still her strength and her appetite pined;

She lost relish for what she had relished the most,
Even salmon she deeply declined!

For months still I lingered in hope and in doubt,
While her form it grew wasted and thin;
But the last dying spark of existence went out,
As the oysters were just coming in!

She died, and she left me the saddest of men,
To indulge in a widower's moan;

Oh! I felt all the power of solitude then,
As I ate my first turbot alone!

FROM HOOD.

LVI. THE INFLUENCE OF WOMAN.

IT is by the promulgation of sound morals in the community, and, more especially, by the training and instruction. of the young, that woman performs her part toward the preservation of a free government. It is generally admitted, that public liberty rests on the virtue and intelligence of the community which enjoys it. How is that virtue to be inspired, and how is that intelligence to be communicated? Bonaparte once asked Madame de Staël in what manner he could most promote the happiness of France. Her reply is full of political wisdom. She said: "Instruct the mothers of the French people."

Mothers are, indeed, the affectionate and effective teachers of the human race. The mother begins her process of training with the infant in her arms. It is she who directs its first mental and spiritual pulsations. She conducts it along the impressible years of childhood and youth, and hopes to deliver it to the rough contests and tumultuous scenes of life, armed by those good principles which her child has received from maternal care and love.

canvas.

If we draw within the circle of our contemplation the mothers of a civilized nation, what do we see? We behold so many artificers working, not on frail and perishable matter, but on the immortal mind, molding and fashioning beings who are to exist forever. We applaud the artist whose skill and genius present the mimic man upon the We admire and celebrate the sculptor who works out that same image in enduring marble. But how insignificant are these achievements, in comparison with the great vocation of human mothers! They work, not upon the canvas that shall fail, or the marble that shall crumble into dust, but upon mind, upon spirit, which is to last forever, and which is to bear, for good or evil, throughout its duration, the impress of a mother's plastic hand.

Knowledge does not comprise all which is contained in the larger term of education. The feelings are to be disciplined. The passions are to be restrained. True and