Oily. Our Vegetable Extract moistens it.
Jones. I like it dry.

Oily. But, Sir, the hair, when dry,

Turns quickly gray.

Jones. That colour I prefer.

Oily. But hair, when gray, will rapidly fall off, And baldness will ensue.

Jones. I would be bald.

Oily. Perhaps, you mean to say you'd like a wig. We've wigs so natural, they can't be told

From real hair.

Jones. Deception I detest.

Oily. We've brushes, soaps, and scent, of every kind. Jones. I see you have. [Pays 6d.] I think you'll find that right.

Oily. If there is nothing I can shew you, Sir

Jones. No: nothing. Yet, there may be something, too, That you may shew me.

Oily. Name it, Sir.

Jones. The door.

[Exit Jones.]

Oily [to his man]. That's a rude customer, at any rate. Had I cut him as short as he cut me,

How little hair upon his head would be!

I DON'T CARE.

OLD "Don't Care" is a murderer foul,
Yes, a murderer foul is he;
He beareth a halter in his hand,
And his staff is the gallows-tree;
And slyly he follows his victim on,
Through high degree and low,

And strangles him there when least aware,
And striketh the fatal blow,-
Hanging his victim high in the air,
A villain strong is old "DON'T CARE!"

He looks on the babe at its mother's breast,
And blighteth that blossom fair;

For its young buds wither, and fade, and die,
'Neath the gaze of old "Don't Care!"
And in place of these there springeth up
Full many a poisonous weed,

And their tendrils coil around the victim's heart,

A rank and loathsome breed:

Blighting the spirit young and fair,

A villain in truth is old "DON'T CARE!"

He meeteth bold manhood on his way,
And wrestleth with him there;
He falls a sure and an easy prey

To the strength of old "Don't Care:"
Then he plants his foot on the victim's breast
And shouteth with demon joy,

And treadeth the life from his panting heart,
And exulteth to destroy,—
Crushing bold manhood everywhere;
A villain indeed is old "DON'T CARE!"

THE FOOT'S COMPLAINT.

"It's really too bad," cried the Foot in a fever,
"That I am thus walking and walking forever :
My mates are to honour and indolence thrust,
While here I am doomed to the mud and the dust.

"There's the Mouth,-he's the fellow for all the nice things,
And the Ear only wakes when the dinner bell rings;
The Hand with his rings decks his fingers so white;
And as to the Eye-he sees every fine sight."

"Stay, stay," said the Mouth; "don't you know, my dear brother,

We all were intended to help one another?

And surely you can't be thought useless and mean,
On whom all the rest so entirely must lean.

"Consider, my friend, we are labouring too,
And toiling-nay, don't interrupt me-
for you;
Indeed, were it not for the Hand, Mouth, and Eye,
Of course, you know well, you would falter and die.
"I eat, but 'tis only that you may be strong;
The Hand works for you, friend, all the day long;
And the Eye-he declares he shall soon lose his sight,
So great are his efforts to guide you aright."

The Foot in reply could find nothing to say,
For he felt he had talked in a culpable way,

And owned the reproof was both wise and well-meant,
For, wherever we are, we should there be content.

BLANCHE OF DEVAN.-PART II.

FITZ-JAMES'S mind was passion toss'd,
When Ellen's hints and fears were lost;
But Murdoch's shout, suspicion wrought,
And Blanche's song, conviction brought.
Not like a stag that spies the snare,
But lion of the hunt aware,

He waved at once his blade on high,—
"Disclose thy treachery, or die!"
Forth at full speed the clansman flew,
But in his race his bow he drew.
The shaft just grazed Fitz-James's crest,
And thrilled in Blanche's faded breast.
Murdoch of Alpine! prove thy speed,
For ne'er had Alpine's son such need!
With heart of fire, and foot of wind,
The fierce avenger is behind!
Fate judges of the rapid strife-
The forfeit death-the prize is life!
Thy kindred ambush lies before,
Close couch'd upon the heathery moor;
Them couldst thou reach !—it may not be-
Thine ambush'd kin thou ne'er shalt see,
The fiery Saxon gains on thee!
Resistless speeds the deadly thrust,
As lightning strikes the pine to dust;

With foot and hand Fitz-James must strain

Ere he can win his blade again.

Bent o'er the fall'n, with falcon eye,
He grimly smiled to see him die;
Then slower wended back his way,
Where the poor maiden bleeding lay.

She sate beneath the birchen tree,
Her elbow resting on her knee;
She had withdrawn the fatal shaft,
And gazed on it, and feebly laugh'd;
Her wreath of broom and feathers gray,
Daggled with blood, beside her lay.

The knight to stanch the life-stream tried,—
Stranger, it is in vain!" she cried.

66

"This hour of death has given me more

Of reason's

power than

years before.

For, as these ebbing veins decay,
My frenzied visions fade away.
A helpless injured wretch I die.
And something tells me in thine eye,
That thou wert mine avenger born.

Seest thou this tress?-Oh! still I've worn
This little tress of yellow hair,

Through danger, frenzy, and despair!
It once was bright and clear as thine,
But blood and tears have dimm'd its shine.
I will not tell thee when 'twas shred,
Nor from what guiltless victim's head-
My brain would turn!—but it shall wave
Like plumage on thy helmet brave,
Till sun and wind shall bleach the stain,
And thou wilt bring it me again.—
I waver still.-O Heav'n! more bright
Let reason beam her parting light!
Oh, by thy knighthood's honour'd sign,
And for thy life preserved by mine,
When thou shalt see a darksome man,
Who boasts him chief of Alpine's clan,
With tartans broad, and shadowy plume,
And hand of blood, and brow of gloom,
Be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong,
And wreak poor Blanche of Devan's wrong!
They watch for thee by pass and fell—
Avoid the path-Farewell!-Farewell!

A kindly heart had brave Fitz-James;
Fast pour'd his eyes at pity's claims;
And now, with mingled grief and ire,
He saw the murder'd maid expire.
"Heav'n, in my need, be my relief,
As I wreak this on yonder chief!"
A lock from Blanche's tresses fair,
He blended with her bridegroom's hair;
The mingled braid in blood he dyed,
And placed it on his bonnet-side:
BY HIM WHOSE WORD IS TRUTH! I swear,
No other favour will I wear,

Till this sad token I embrue

In the best blood of Roderick Dhu."

-Sir Walter Scott.

THE MISER.

LOVEGOLD and JAMES.

Love. Where have you been? I have wanted you above an hour.

James. Whom do you want, Sir, your coachman or your cook for I am both one and the other.

Love. I want my cook.

James. I thought, indeed, it was not your coachman; for you have had no great occasion for him since your last pair of horses were starved; but your cook, Sir, shall wait upon you in an instant. [Puts off his coachman's greatcoat, and appears as a cook.] Now, Sir, I am ready for your commands.

Love. I am engaged this evening to give a supper.

James. A supper, Sir! I have not heard the word this halfyear; a dinner, indeed, now and then; but for a supper, I am almost afraid, for want of practice, my hand is out.

Love. Leave off your saucy jesting, and see that you provide a good supper.

James. That may be done with a great deal of money, Sir. Love. Is the mischief in you? Always money! Can you ay nothing else but money, money, money? My children, my servants, my relatives, can pronounce nothing but money.

James. Well, Sir, but how many will there be at table? Love. About eight or ten; but I will have a supper dressed but for eight; for if there be enough for eight, there is enough for ten.

James. Suppose, Sir, at one end, a handsome soup; at the other, a fine Westphalia ham and chickens; on one side, a fillet of veal; on the other a turkey, or rather a bustard, which may be had for about a guinea

Love. Zounds! is the fellow providing an entertainment for my lord mayor and the court of aldermen ? James. Then a ragout—

Love. I'll have no ragout.

people?

Would you burst the good

James. Then, pray, Sir, say what will you have?

Love. Why, see and provide something to cloy their stomachs; let there be two good dishes of soup, maigre; a large suet-pudding; some dainty fat pork-pie, very fat; a fine small lean breast of mutton, and a large dish with two artichokes. There; that's plenty and variety.

James. Oh, dear—

Love. Plenty and variety.