Dubius is such a scrupulous, good man;
Yes, you may catch him tripping if you can.
He would not, with a peremptory tone,
Assert the nose upon his face his own;
With hesitation admirably slow,

He humbly hopes, presumes, it may be so.
His evidence, if he were called by law
To swear to some enormity he saw,
For want of prominence and just relief,
Would hang an honest man, and save a thief.
Through constant dread of giving truth offense,
He ties up all his hearers in suspense;
Knows what he knows as if he knew it not
What he remembers seems to have forgot;
His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall,
Centering, at last, in having none at all.

A story, in which native humor reigns,
Is often useful, always entertains:
A graver fact, enlisted on your side,
May furnish illustration, well applied:
But sedentary weavers of long tales
Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails.
'Tis the most asinine employ on earth,
To hear them tell of parentage and birth,
And echo coversations, dull and dry,

Embellished with, " He said," and "So said I.”

At every interview their route the same,
The repetition makes attention lame :
We bustle up, with unsuccessful speed,
And, in the saddest part, cry, "Droli indeed!"

I pity bashful men, who feel the pain
Of fancied scorr and undeserved disdain,
And bear the marks, upon a blushing face,
Of needless shame, and self-imposed disgrace.
Our sensibilities are so acute,

The fear of being silent makes us mute.
True modesty is a discerning grace,

And only blushes in the proper place;

But counterfeit is blind, aud skulks through fear, Where 'tis a shame to be ashamed t' appear;

Humility the parent of the first,

The last by vanity produced and nursed.

The circle formed, we sit in state,

Like figures drawn upon a dia. plate;

"Yes, ma'am," and "No, ma'am,' uttered softly

show,

Every five minutes, how the minutes go;

Each individual, suffering a constraint
Poetry may, but colors cannot paint,
As if in close committee on the sky,
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry;
And finds a changing clime a happy source
Of wise reflection and well-timed discourse.

We next inquire, but softly, and by stealth,
Like conservators of the public health,

Of epidemic throats, if such there are,

And coughs, and rheums, and phthisics, and

catarrh.

That theme exhausted, a wide gap ensues,

Filled up, at last, with interesting news.

And now, let no man charge me that I mean
To clothe in sable every social scene;

To find a medium asks some share of wit,
And therefore 'tis a mark fools never hit.

X-THE DISCONTENTED PENDULUM.

JANE TAYLOR.

1. An old clock, that had stood for fifty years in a farmer's kitchen witnout giving its owner any cause of complaint, early one summer's morning, before the family was stirring, suddenly stopped.

2. Upon this the dial-plate, (if we may credit the fable,) changed countenance with alarm; the hands made an ineffectual effort to continue their course; the wheels remained motionless with surprise; the weights hung speechless; each member felt disposed to lay the blame on the others. At length the dial instituted a

formal inquiry as to the cause of the stagnation; wher hands, wheels, weights, with one voice, protested their innocence. But now a faint tick was heard below, from the pendulum, who thus spoke:

3. "I confess myself to be the sole cause of the present stoppage, and am willing, for the general satisfaction, to assign my reasons. The truth is, that I am tired of ticking." Upon hearing this, the old clock became so enraged that it was on the point of striking.

Lazy wire!" exclaimed the dial-plate, holding up its hands.

4. "Very good," replied the pendulum; "it is vastly easy for you, Mistress Dial, who have always, as everybody knows, set yourself up above me-it is vastly easy for you, I say, to accuse other people of laziness; you, who have had nothing to do all the days of your life but to stare people in the face, and to amuse yourself with watching all that goes on in the kitchen. Think, I beseech you, how you would like to be shut up for life in this dark closet, and wag backwards and forwards, year after year, as I do."

5. "As to that," said the dial, "is there not a window in your house on purpose for you to look through?" "For all that," resumed the pendulum, "it is very dark here; and although there is a window, I dare not stop, even for an instant, to look out. Besides, I am really weary of my way of life; and if you please, I'll tell you how I took this disgust at my employment.

This morning I happened to be calculating how many times I should have to tick in the course only of the next twenty-four hours: perhaps some of you, above there, can give me the exact sum."

6. The minute-hand, being quick at figures, instantly replied, "eighty-six thousand four hundred times."

"Exactly so," replied the pendulum. "Well, I appeal to you all if the thought of this was not enough to fatigue one. And when I began to multiply the strokes of one day by those of months and years, really it is no wonder if I felt discouraged at the prospect: so, after a great deal of reasoning and hesitation, thinks I to myself, I'll stop."

7. The dial could scarcely keep its countenance during this harangue; but, resuming its gravity, thus replied:

"Dear Mr. Pendulum, I am really astonished that so useful and industrious a person as you are should have been overcome by this sudden suggestion. It is true you have done a great deal of work in your time. So have we all, and are likely to do; and, although this may fatigue us to think of, the question is, whether it will fatigue us to do. Would you, now, do me the favor to give about half-a-dozen strokes, to illustrate my argument ?"

8. The pendulum complied, and ticked six times at its usual pace.

"Now," resumed the dial, "may I be allowed to in