HE cottage was a thatched one, the outside old and mean,

THE

But all within that little cot was wondrous neat and clean; The night was dark and stormy, the wind was howling wild, As a patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child: A little worn-out creature, his once bright eyes grown dim: It was a collier's wife and child, they called him little Jim.

And oh! to see the briny tears fast hurrying down her cheek,
As she offered up ta prayer in thought, she was afraid to speak,
Lest she might waken one she loved far better than her life;
For she had all a mother's heart, had that poor collier's wife.
With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the sufferer's bed,
And prays that He would spare her boy, and take herself instead.

She gets her answer from the child: soft fall the words from him: "Mother, the angels do so smile, and beckon little Jim;

I have no pain, dear mother, now, but O! I am so dry,

. Just moisten poor Jim's lips again, and mother, don't you cry." With gentle, trembling haste she held the liquid to his lip; He smiled to thank her, as he took each little, tiny sip.

"Tell father when he comes from work, I said good-night to him,
And, mother, now I'll go to sleep." Alas! poor little Jim!
She knew that he was dying; that the child she loved so dear,
Had uttered the last words she might ever hope to hear:
The cottage door is opened, the collier's step is heard,
The father and the mother meet, yet neither speak a word.

He felt that all was over, he knew his child was dead,

He took the candle in his hand and walked toward the bed; His quivering lips gave token of the grief he'd fain conceal, And see, his wife has joined him-the stricken couple kneel: With hearts bowed down by sadness, they humbly ask of Him In heaven once more to meet again their own poor little Jim.

MONSIEUR TONSON.

147

MONSIEUR TONSON.

HERE lived, as Fame reports, in days of yore,

THER

At least some fifty years ago, or more,

A pleasant wight on town, yclept Tom King,— A fellow that was clever at a joke,

Expert in all the arts to tease and smoke;

In short, for strokes of humor quite the thing.

To him a frolic was a high delight:

A frolic he would hunt for, day and night,

Careless how prudence on the sport might frown.
If e'er a pleasant mischief sprang to view,
At once o'er hedge and ditch away he flew,
Nor left the game till he had run it down.

One night, our hero, rambling with a friend,
Near famed St. Giles's chanced his course to bend,
Just by that spot, the Seven Dials hight.

'Twas silence all around, and clear the coast,
The watch, as usual, dozing on his post,

And scarce a lamp displayed a twinkling light.

Around this place there lived the numerous clans
Of honest, plodding, foreign artisans,

Known at that time by name of refugees.

The rod of persecution from their home

Compelled the inoffensive race to roam,

And here they lighted, like a swarm of bees.

Well! our two friends were sauntering through the street,
In hope some food for humor soon to meet,

When, in a window near, a light they view;
And, though a dim and melancholy ray,
It seemed the prologue to some merry play,
So towards the gloomy dome our hero drew.

Straight at the door he gave a thundering knock (The time we may suppose near two o'clock).

148

MONSIEUR TONSON.

"I'll ask," says King, "if Thompson lodges here."
"Thompson," cries t'other, "who the devil's he ?”
"I know not," King replies, "but want to see
What kind of animal will now appear."

After some time a little Frenchman came;
One hand displayed a rushlight's trembling flame,
The other held a thing they called culotte;
An old striped woolen nightcap graced his head,
A tattered waistcoat o'er one shoulder spread;
Scarce half awake, he heaved a yawning note.

Though thus untimely roused he courteous smiled,
And soon addressed our wag in accents mild,

Bending his head politely to his knee,—
"Pray, sare, vat vant you, dat you come so late?
I beg your pardon, sare, to make you vait;

Pray tell me, sare, vat your commands vid

me

"Sir,” replied King, “I merely thought to know,
As by your house I chanced to-night to go

(But, really, I disturbed your sleep, I fear),
I say, I thought, that you perhaps could tell,
Among the folks who in this quarter dwell,
If there's a Mr. Thompson lodges here?"

?

The shivering Frenchman, though not pleased to find
The business of this unimportant kind,

Too simple to suspect 'twas meant in jeer,
Shrugged out a sigh that thus his rest was broke,
Then, with unaltered courtesy, he spoke;

66

"No, sare, no Monsieur Tonson lodges here."

Our wag begged pardon, and toward home he sped,
While the poor Frenchman crawled again to bed.

But King resolved not thus to drop the jest;
So, the next night, with more of whim than grace,
Again he made a visit to the place,

To break once more the poor old Frenchman's rest.

He knocked, but waited longer than before;
No footstep seemed approaching to the door;

MONSIEUR TONSON.

Our Frenchman lay in such a sleep profound. King with the knocker thundered then again, Firm on his post determined to remain ;

And oft, indeed, he made the door resound.

At last King hears him o'er the passage creep,
Wondering what fiend again disturbed his sleep.
The wag salutes him with a civil leer;
Thus drawling out to heighten the surprise,
While the poor Frenchman rubbed his heavy eyes,
"Is there--a Mr. Thompson--lodges here?"

The Frenchman faltered, with a kind of fright,-
"Vy, sare, I'm sure I told you, sare, last night
(And here he labored, with a sigh sincere),
No Monsieur Tonson in the varld I know,
No Monsieur Tonson here,-I told you so;
Indeed, sare, dare no Monsieur Tonson here!"

Some more excuses tendered, off King goes,
And the old Frenchman sought once more repose.
The rogue next night pursued his old career.
"Twas long indeed before the man came nigh,
And then he uttered, in a piteons cry,

"Sare, 'pon my soul, no Monsieur Tonson here!"

Our sportive wight his usual visit paid,

And the next night came forth a prattling maid,
Whose tongue, indeed, than any Jack went faster;
Anxious, she strove his errand to inquire,

He said 'twas vain her pretty tongue to tire,

He should not stir till he had seen her master.

The damsel then began, in doleful state,
The Frenchman's broken slumbers to relate,

And begged he'd call at proper time of day.
King told her she must fetch her master down,
A chaise was ready, he was leaving town,

But first had much of deep concern to say.

149

150

MONSIEUR TONSON.

Thus urged, she went the snoring man to call,
And long, indeed, was she obliged to bawl,

Ere she could rouse the torpid lump of clay.
At last he wakes; he rises; and he swears:
But scarcely had he tottered down the stairs,

When King attacked him in his usual way.

The Frenchman now perceived 'twas all in vain
To his tormentor mildly to complain,

And straight in rage began his crest to rear;
"Sare, vat the devil make you treat me so?
Sare, I inform you, sare, three nights ago,

Got tam--I swear, no Monsieur Tonson here!"

True as the night, King went, and heard a strife
Between the harassed Frenchman and his wife,
Which would descend to chase the fiend away.
At length, to join their forces they agree,
And straight impetuously they turn the key,
Prepared with mutual fury for the fray.

Our hero, with the firmness of a rock,
Collected to receive the mighty shock,
Uttering the old inquiry, calmly stood.
The name of Thompson raised the storm so high,
He deemed it then the safest plan to fly,

With "Well, I'll call when you're in gentler mood."

In short, our hero, with the same intent,
Full many a night to plague the Frenchman went,
So fond of mischief was the wicked wit:
They throw out water; for the watch they call;
But King expecting, still escapes from all.

Monsieur at last was forced his house to quit.

It happened that our wag, about this time,
On some fair prospect sought the Eastern clime;
Six lingering years were there his tedious lot.
At length, content, amid his ripening store,
He treads again on Britain's happy shore,
And his long absence is at once forgot.