"Circumwented, p'rhaps," suggested Mr. Weller.

66 No, it ain't that," said Sam; "" circumscribed,' that's it."

"That ain't as good a word as circumwented, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, gravely.

"Think not?" said Sam.

"Nothin' like it," replied his father.

"But don't you think it means more?" inquired Sam.

66

Vell, p'rhaps it's a more tenderer word," said Mr. Weller, after a few moments' reflection. "Go on, Sammy.” "Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a-dressin' of you, for you are a nice gal, and nothin' but it.''' "That's a wery pretty sentiment,' "said the elder Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark.

"Yes, I think it's rayther good," observed Sam, highly flattered.

no

"Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin'," said the elder Mr. Weller, "is, that there ain't no callin' names in it, Wenuses, nor nothing o' that kind; wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy?"

"Ah! what indeed?" replied Sam.

“You might just as vell call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king's-arms at once, which is wery vell known to be a collection o' fabulous animals," added Mr. Weller.

"Just as well," replied Sam.

"Drive on, Sammy," said Mr. Weller.

Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows, his father continuing to smoke with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency, which was particularly edifying: "Afore i see you i thought all women was alike.' "So they are," observed the elder Mr. Weller, parenthetically.

"But now, "" continued Sam, "now i find what a reg'lar soft-headed, ink-red'lous turnip i must ha' been, for there ain't nobody like you, though i like you better than nothin' at all.' I thought it best to make that rayther strong," said Sam, looking up.

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed. "So i take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear, as the gen❜lm'n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday, to tell you that the first and only time i see you your likeness wos took on my hart in much quicker time and brighter colours than ever a likeness was taken by the profeel macheen, (which p'rhaps you may have heerd on Mary my dear,) altho' it does finish a portrait, and put the frame and glass on complete with a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and a quarter.''

“I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, dubiously.

"No it don't," replied Sam, reading on very quickly to avoid contesting the point.

"Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine, and think over what I've said. My dear Mary, I will now conclude.' That's all," said Sam.

"That's rayther a sudden pull up, ain't it, Sammy?” inquired Mr. Weller.

"Not a bit on it," said Sam; "she'll vish there wos more, and that's the great art o' letter writin'.”

"Well," said Mr. Weller, " there's somethin' in that; and I wish your mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you a-goin' to sign it?"

"That's the difficulty," said Sam; to sign it.”

66

"I don't know what

Sign it Veller," said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name.

"Won't do," said Sam. "Never sign a walentine with your own name."

66

Sign it Pickvick, then," said Mr. Weller; "it's a wery good name, and a easy one to spell.".

"The wery thing," said Sam. "I could end with a werse; what do you think?"

"I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. "I never know'd a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one as

made an affectin' copy o' werses the night afore he wos hung for a highway robbery, and he wos only a Cambervell man ; so even that's no rule."

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter,

"Your love-sick
Pickwick."

PYRAMUS AND THISBE.

JOHN G. SAXE.

THIS tragical tale, which, they say, is a true one,
Is old; but the manner is wholly a new one.
One Ovid, a writer of some reputation,

Has told it before in a tedious narration ;

In a style, to be sure, of remarkable fullness,
But which nobody reads on account of its dullness.

Young PETER PYRAMUS, I call him Peter,

Not for the sake of the rhyme nor the metre,

But merely to make the name completer,

For Peter lived in the olden times,

And in one of the worst of pagan climes
That flourish now in classical lore,
Long before either noble or boor
Had such a thing as a Christian name,
Young Peter, then, was a nice young beau
As any young lady would wish to know;

In

years, I ween, he was rather green,
That is to say, he was just eighteen,
A trifle too short, a shaving too lean,

But a nice young man as ever was seen,
And fit to dance with a May-day queen!

Now Peter loved a beautiful girl

As ever ensnared the heart of an earl
In the magical trap of an auburn curl, —

A little Miss Thisbe, who lived next door,
(They lived, in fact, on the very same floor,
With a wall between them and nothing more,
Those double dwellings were common of yore,)
And they loved each other, the legends say,
In that very beautiful, bountiful way,
That every young maid and every young blade
Are wont to do before they grow staid,
And learn to love by the laws of trade.
But (a-lack-a-day, for the girl and boy!)
A little impediment check'd their joy,
And gave them awhile the deepest annoy,
For some good reason, which history cloaks,
The match didn't happen to please the old folks!
So Thisbe's father and Peter's mother

Began the young couple to worry and bother,
And tried their innocent passion to smother
By keeping the lovers from seeing each other!
But who ever heard of a marriage deterr'd
Or even deferr'd

By any contrivance so very absurd

As scolding the boy, and caging the bird?
Now, Peter, who was not discouraged at all
By obstacles such as the timid appal,
Contrived to discover a hole in the wall,

Which wasn't so thick but removing a brick

Made a passage, though rather provokingly small.

Through this little chink the lover could greet her,
And secrecy made their courting the sweeter,
While Peter kiss'd Thisbe, and Thisbe kiss'd Peter,
For kisses, like folks with diminutive souls,
Will manage to creep through the smallest of holes!

'Twas here that the lovers, intent upon love,
Laid a nice little plot to meet at a spot
Near a mulberry-tree in a neighbouring grove;

For the plan was all laid by the youth and the maid,

Whose hearts, it would seem, were uncommonly bold ones,

To run off and get married in spite of the old ones.

In the shadows of evening, as still as a mouse
The beautiful maiden slipp'd out of the house,
The mulberry-tree impatient to find;
While Peter, the vigilant matrons to blind,
Stroll❜d leisurely out some minutes behind.

While waiting alone by the trysting-tree,
A terrible lion as e'er you set eye on
Came roaring along quite horrid to see,
And caused the young maiden in terror to flee;
(A lion's a creature whose regular trade is

Blood, and" and a terrible thing among ladies,”)

And, losing her veil as she ran from the wood,
The monster bedabbled it over with blood.

Now Peter, arriving, and seeing the veil
All cover'd o'er and reeking with gore,
Turn'd, all of a sudden, exceedingly pale,
And sat himself down to weep and to wail;
For, soon as he saw the garment, poor Peter
Made up his mind in very short metre

That Thisbe was dead, and the lion had eat her!
So breathing a prayer, he determined to share
The fate of his darling, "the loved and the lost,"
And fell on his dagger, and gave up the ghost!

Now Thisbe returning, and viewing her beau

Lying dead by her veil, (which she happen'd to know,)
She guess'd in a moment the cause of his erring ;
And, seizing the knife that had taken his life,
In less than a jiffy was dead as a herring.

MORAL.

Young gentlemen: Pray recollect, if you please,
Not to make your appointments near mulberry-trees.
Should your mistress be missing, it shows a weak head