2. The Roman, on the other hand, may occasionally be jocular, but always warlike. One is like a miracle-play in church; the other, a tableau vivant in a camp. If a Greek has occasion to ask his sweetheart "if her mother knows she's out," and "if she has sold her mangle yet,"

he says:

Menestheus. Cleanthe!

Cleanthe. My Lord!

Men. Your mother,—your kind, excellent mother,—
She who hung o'er your couch in infancy,

And felt within her heart the joyous pride
Of having such a daughter,--does she know,
Sweetest Cleanthe! that you've left the shade
Of the maternal walls?

Cle. She does, my Lord.

Men. And, but I scarce can ask the question,—when
I last beheld her, 'gainst the whitened wall

Stood a strong engine, flat, and broad, and heavy:
Its entrail stones, and moved on mighty rollers,
Rendering the crisped web as smooth and soft
As whitest snow. That engine, sweet Cleanthe,
Fit pedestal for household deity,—
Lares and old Penates ;-has she 't still?
Or for gold bribes has she disposed of it?

I fain would know ;-pray tell me, is it sold?

The Roman goes quicker to work:

Tell me, my Julia, does your mother know
You're out? and has she sold her mangle yet!

3. The Composite, or Elizabethan, has a smack of both :

Conradin. Ha! Celia here! Come hither, pretty one.

Thou hast a mother, child?

Celia. Most people have, Sir.

Con. I' faith thou'rt sharp,-thou hast a biting wit;

But does this mother, this epitome

Of what all other people are possessed of,

Knows she thou'rt out, and gadding?

Cel. No, not gadding!

Out, sir: she knows I'm out.

Con. She had a mangle:

Faith, 'twas a huge machine, and smoothed the web

A right good mangle.

Cel. Then thou'rt not in thought

To buy it, else thou would not praise it so.

Con. A parlous child! keen as the cold North wind,
Yet like as Zephyrs. No, no: I'd not buy it;

But has she sold it, child?

CXCII.-FUSS AT FIRES.

1. Ir having been announced to me, my young friends, that you were about forming a fire-company, I have called you together to give you such directions as long experience in a first-quality engine company qualifies me to communicate. The moment you hear an alarm of fire, scream like a pair of panthers. Run any way, except the right way—for the furthest way round is the nearest way to the fire. If you happen to run on the top of a wood-pile, so much the better: you can then get a good view of the neighborhood. If a light breaks on your view, "break" for it immediately; but be sure you don't jump into a bow window. Keep yelling, all the time; and, if you can't make night hideous enough yourself, kick all the dogs you come across, and set them yelling, too. A brace of cats dragged up stairs by the tail would be a "powerful auxiliary." When you reach the scene of the fire, do all you can to convert it into a scene of destruction. Tear down all the fences in the vicinity. If it be a chimney on fire, throw salt down it; or, if you can't do that, perhaps the best plan would be to jerk off the pump-handle and pound it down. Don't forget to yell, all the while, as it will have a prodigious effect in frightening off the fire. The louder the better, of course; and the more ladies in the vicinity, the greater necessity for "doing it brown."

2. Should the roof begin to smoke, get to work in good earnest, and make any man "smoke" that interrupts If it is summer, and there are fruit-trees in the lot,

you.

cut them down, to prevent the fire from roasting the Should the stable be threat

apples. Don't forget to yell! ened, carry out the cow-chains.

Never mind the horse

he'll be alive and kicking; and if his legs don't do their duty, let them pay for the roast. for the roast. Ditto as to the hogslet them save their own bacon, or smoke for it. When the roof begins to burn, get a crow-bar and pry away the stone steps; or, if the steps be of wood, procure an axe and chop them up. Next, cut away the wash-boards in the basement story; and, if that don't stop the flames, let the chair-boards on the first floor share a similar fate. Should the "devouring element" still pursue the "even tenor of its way," you had better ascend to the second story. Pitch out the pitchers, and tumble out the tumblers. Yell all the time!

3. If you find a baby abed, fling it into the second story window of the house across the way; but let the kitten carefully down in a work-basket. Then draw out the bureau drawers, and empty their contents out of the back window: telling some body below to upset the slopbarrel and rain-water hogshead at the same time. Of course, you will attend to the mirror. The further it can be thrown, the more pieces will be made. If any body objects, smash it over his head. Do not, under any circumstances, drop the tongs down from the second story: the fall might break its legs, and render the poor thing a cripple for life. Set it straddle of your shoulders, and carry it down carefully. Pile the bed-clothes carefully on the floor, and throw the crockery out of the window. By the time you will have attended to all these things, the fire will certainly be arrested, or the building be burnt down. In either case, your services will be no longer needed; and, of course, you require no further directions, except at all times to keep up a yell.

CXCIII.-BOARDING-SCHOOL BREAKFAST.

CHARLES DICKENS.

1. MR. SQUEERS had before him a small measure of coffee, a plate of hot toast, and a cold round of beef; but he was at that moment intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys.

"This is twopenn'orth of milk, is it, waiter?" said Mr. Squeers, looking down into a large blue mug, and slanting it gently so as to get an accurate view of the quantity of fluid contained in it.

"That's twopenn'orth, Sir," replied the waiter.

"What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in London,” said Mr. Squeers, with a sigh. "Just fill that mug up with lukewarm water, William, will you?"

"To the wery top, Sir?" inquired the waiter. "Why, the milk will be drownded."

"Never you mind that," replied Mr. Squeers. "Serve it right for being so dear. You ordered that thick bread and butter for three, did you?"

"Coming directly, Sir."

"You needn't hurry yourself," said Squeers; "there's plenty of time. Conquer your passions, boys, and don't be eager after vittles." As he uttered this moral precept, Mr. Squeers took a large bite out of the cold beef, and recognized Nicholas.

"Sit down, Mr. Nickleby," said Squeers. "Here we are, a breakfasting, you see."

2. Nicholas did not see that any one was breakfasting except Mr. Squeers; but he bowed with all becoming reverence, and looked as cheerful as he could.

"Oh! that's the milk and water, is it, William ?" said Squeers. "Very good: don't forget the bread and butter presently."

At this fresh mention of the bread and butter, the five little boys looked very eager, and followed the waiter out with their eyes: meanwhile Mr. Squeers tasted the milk and water.

"Ah!" said that gentleman, smacking his lips, "here's richness! Think of the many beggars and orphans in the streets that would be glad of this, little boys! A shocking thing hunger is, isn't it, Mr. Nickleby?"

"Very shocking, Sir," said Nicholas.

"When I say number one," pursued Mr. Squeers, putting the mug before the children, "the boy on the left hand nearest the window may take a drink; and when I say number two the boy next him will go in, and so till we come to number five, which is the last boy. Are you ready?"

"Yes, Sir," cried all the boys, with great eagerness.

3. "That's right," said Squeers, calmly getting on with his breakfast: "keep ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue your appetites, my dears, and you've conquered human natur. This is the way we inculcate strength of mind, Mr. Nickleby," said the schoolmaster, turning to Nicholas, and speaking with his mouth very full of beef and toast.

"Thank God for a good breakfast," said Squeers, when he had finished. "Number one may take a drink."

Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunk enough to make him wish for more, when Mr. Squeers gave the signal for number two, who gave up at the same interesting moment to number three, and the process was repeated till the milk and water terminated with number five.

"And now," said the schoolmaster, dividing the bread and butter for three into as many portions as there were children, "you had better look sharp with your breakfast, for the horn will blow in a minute or two, and then every boy leaves off.”

Permission being thus given to fall to, the boys began to eat voraciously, and in desperate haste, while the schoolmaster (who was in high good-humor after his meal) picked his teeth with a fork and looked smilingly on.