dance to music of mine. I have hung up my violin. There will be nobody in the village fit to play for when she is gone. I have played my last tune, and I shall now do as my father did-bake bread, and lock up my savings in the old oak chest." Johnny kept his word. Several years have passed , and he may now be seen any summer's day, seated at the door of his cottage, with a night cap on his head, and a pipe in his mouth, chuckling over the idea that he has more sovereigns under lock and key than any man in the village. He bakes excellent bread, gives good weight, and drinks nothing but his own beer, while the sound of a violin, or the smile of a woman, never gladdens his roof, and
"The harp that once in Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
As if that soul were fled!"
A TALE OF TIGHT BOOTS.
"What! How's this! I told you to make one of my boots larger than t'other; 'stead o' that, I'm blow'd if you haven't made one smaller than t'other! What a hass you must be, to be sure!"
The Incensed Cockney.
The great Homer did not think it unworthy his muse to sing of boots; why then should not I write of them?—especially as I have a tale to tell, which, if carefully perused, will (“though I say it, who ought not to say it, still I do say it,") tend to the edification of the reader. I have called my story "A Tale of Tight Boots," hoping that when he should see that it concerned his understanding, he would understand the necessity of regarding it attentively.
The scene of my story is the goodly city of London; the time, May, 1836, "being bisextile, or leap-year." Business and pleasure had led me to town-alas! I made it a "bad business," and my pleasure ended in pain. I established myself at the Russell, and began to look around for adventures.
Rap — tap — tap!
"Come in!"
"A note, Sir."
"Mr. H—— requests the pleasure of Mr. ——'s company at dinner today, at five o'clock, precisely."