"Why then you know the laundress, Sally Wrench ?" "She is my cousin, Sir, and next-door neighbour." "That's lucky-I've a message for the wench,

Which needs despatch, and you may save my labour. Give her this kiss, my dear, and say I sent it,

But mind, you owe me one-I've only lent it."

"She shall know," cried the girl, as she brandish'd her bough, “Of the loving intentions you bore me ;

But as to the kiss, as there's haste, you'll allow
That you'd better run forward and give it my Cow,

For she, at the rate she is scampering now,

Will reach Acton some minutes before me."

The Farmer's Wife and the Gascon.

AT Neuchatel, in France, where they prepare
Cheeses that set us longing to be mites,
There dwelt a farmer's wife, famed for her rare
Skill in these small quadrangular delights.
Where they were made, they sold for the immense
Price of three sous a-piece;

But as salt-water made their charms increase,
In England the fix'd rate was eighteen-pence.

This damsel had to help her in the farm,
To milk her cows and feed her hogs,
A Gascon peasant, with a sturdy arm
For digging or for carrying logs,
But in his noddle weak as any baby,

In fact a gaby,

And such a glutton when you came to feed him,

That Wantley's dragon, who "ate barns and churches,

As if they were geese and turkies,"

(Vide the Ballad,) scarcely could exceed him.

One morn she had prepared a monstrous bowl
Of cream like nectar,

And wouldn't go to Church (good careful soul !)
Till she had left it safe with a protector;
So she gave strict injunctions to the Gascon,
To watch it while his mistress was to mass gone.

Watch it he did he never took his eyes off,
But lick'd his upper, then his under lip,
And doubled up his fist to drive the flies off,
Begrudging them the smallest sip,
Which if they got,

Like my Lord Salisbury, he heaved a sigh,
And cried," O happy, happy fly,
How I do envy you your lot!"

Each moment did his appetite grow stronger;
His bowels yearn'd ;

At length he could not bear it any longer,

But on all sides his looks he turn'd,

And finding that the coast was clear, he quaff'd
The whole up at a draught.

Scudding from church, the farmer's wife

Flew to the dairy;

But stood aghast, and could not, for her life,

One sentence mutter,

Until she summon'd breath enough to utter

"Holy St. Mary!"

And shortly, with a face of scarlet,

The vixen (for she was a vixen) flew

Upon the varlet,

Asking the when, and where, and how, and who

Had gulp'd her cream, nor left an atom;

To which he gave not separate replies,
But with a look of excellent digestion
One answer made to every question-
"The Flies!"

"The flies, you rogue!-the flies, you guttling dog!
Behold, your whiskers still are cover'd thickly;
Thief-liar-villain—gormandizer-hog!

I'll make you tell another story quickly.”
So out she bounced, and brought, with loud alarms,
Two stout Gens-d'Armes,

Who bore him to the judge-a little prig,

With angry bottle-nose

Like a red cabbage-rose,

While lots of white ones flourish'd on his wig.
Looking at once both stern and wise,

He turn'd to the delinquent,

And 'gan to question him and catechise
As to which way the drink went:

Still the same dogged answers rise,

"The flies, my Lord-the flies, the flies!"

"Psha!" quoth the Judge, half peevish and half pompous, "Why, you're non compos.

You should have watch'd the bowl, as she desired,
And kill'd the flies, you stupid clown.”-
"What! is it lawful then," the dolt inquired,

"To kill the flies in this here town ?"-
"The man's an ass-a pretty question this!
Lawful? you booby!-to be sure it is.

You've my authority, where'er you meet 'em,
To kill the rogues, and, if you like it, eat 'em.”
"Zooks!" cried the rustic, "I'm right glad to hear it.
Constable, catch that thief! may I go hang

If yonder blue-bottle (I know his face)

Isn't the very leader of the gang

That stole the cream;-let me come near it!"-
This said, he started from his place,
And aiming one of his sledge-hammer blows

At a large fly upon the Judge's nose,

The luckless blue-bottle he smash'd,
And gratified a double grudge ;
For the same catapult completely smash'd
The bottle-nose belonging to the Judge !

THE ELOQUENCE OF EYES.

-Nor doth the eye itself,

That most pure spirit of sense, behold itself,
Not going from itself; but eyes opposed
Salute each other with each other's form

SHAKSPEARE.

THE origin of language is a puzzling point, of which no satisfactory solution has yet been offered. Children could not originally have compounded it, for they would always want intelligence to construct any thing so complicated and difficult; and as it is known that after a certain age the organs of speech, if they have not been called into play, lose their flexibility, it is contended, that adults possessing the faculties to combine a new language would want the power to express it. Divine inspiration is the only clue that presents itself in this emergency; and we are then driven upon the incredibility of supposing that celestial ears and organs could ever have been instrumental in originating the Low Dutch, in which language an assailant of Voltaire drew upon himself the memorable retort from the philosopher: "That he wished him more wit and

fewer consonants." No one, however, seems to have contemplated the possibility that Nature never meant us to speak, any more than the parrot, to whom she has given similar powers of articulation; or to have speculated upon the extent of the substitutes she has provided, supposing that man had never discovered the process of representing appetites, feelings, and ideas by sound. Grief, joy, anger, and some of the simple passions, express themselves by similar intelligible exclamations in all countries; these, therefore, may be considered as the whole primitive language of Nature; but if she had left the rest of her vocabulary to be conveyed by human features and gestures, man, by addressing himself to the eyes instead of the ears, would have still possessed a medium of communication nearly as specific as speech, with the great advantage of its being silent as the telegraph. Talking with his features instead of his tongue, he would not only save all the time lost in unravelling the subtleties of the grammarians from Priscian to Lily and Lindley Murray, but he would instantly become a cosmopolitan, a citizen of the world, and might travel "from old Belerium to the northern main," without needing an interpreter.

We are not hastily to pronounce against the possibility of carrying this dumb eloquence to a certain point of perfection, for the experiment has never been fairly tried. We know that the exercise of cultivated reason, and the arts of civilized life, have eradicated many of our original instincts, and that the loss of any one sense invariably quickens the others; and we may