and the rubber !-No more talk of ABDICATION!-stand to your post. After a reign of fifty years, we promise you a jubilee; and in the year 1880, a grave in the last new cemetery, - probably on Epsom Downs, having over it your effigy in bronze, from the foundry of the last new Westmacott, in the robes of estate of Pam, under the title of Earl of Deal.

An thou lovest us, not a word more of ABDICATION!

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands,

And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan,

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week out, week in, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow,

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat and slow,—

Like a sexton ringing the old kirk-chimes,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;

He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,

Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!

He needs must think of her once more,
How in her grave she lies,

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear from out his eyes.

Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close;

Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks! thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the sounding forge of Life
Our fortunes must be wrought,
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped,
Each burning deed and thought.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

The Old Ledger.

EDITED AND ILLUSTRATED BY ALFRED CROWQUILL.

HE INTRODUCTION.

My acquaintance with Mr. Thorley was purely accidental, and arose out of a commercial transaction which I had with the well-known firm of Holdfast, Steady, and Co. of Yard, in the City of London. Having postponed from various causes the commission with which I had been intrusted, and hearing that the packet was to sail on the following day, I hastily threw aside my books, my slippers, and my indolence, and hurried off to execute my correspondent's commands, not without experiencing some apprehension that my procrastination might have already rendered my intentions abortive.

Through lane and alley I made my tedious way, jostling in my expedition smart clerks and greasy porters, all as busy as so many ants, and, to my great relief, at last entered the quiet precincts of Yard, with no other damage than a slight contusion, occasioned by my coming in contact with an empty milk-pail, which the milkmaid (a stout Irishwoman of fifty summers) swung carelessly against my right leg.

After buffeting the motley throng, the place really appeared a haven of rest, into which I had run from a sea of troubles."

A ticket-porter, with his short white apron and his pewter badge, was walking up and down with the calmness of a peripatetic philosopher-I am quite sure he was not a Cynic; for upon inquiring for the office I sought, he politely pointed it out. At the same time I thought I detected a look of wonder at my ignorance of the locality of the greatest house in the world—that is, his world—which was

probably limited to this solitary yard, wherein he moved and got his daily bread.

I pushed open the green baize doors, with their orbicular groundglass panes, which appeared like a pair of huge eyes deprived of vision, and entered a spacious office.

There was a gloom—an oldness—a certain wear-and-tear about the place, that looked both cozey and respectable.

Many grey heads, and bald heads, and spectacles both of silver and tortoiseshell, did I behold, and only one smart hat, and that was stuck jauntingly on the head of a gentleman about two-and-twenty, with a handsome florid complexion, dressed in a cut-away Newmarket coat, top-boots, and white corduroys.

He was swinging to and fro on an office-stool, with a penknife poised 'twixt his fore-finger and thumb, and darting it javelin-wise

at the desk.

"Now, really, Mr. William,” said a soft voice, in a tone of remonstrance, "really, Mr. William, that is so childish of you!" And the speaker picking up the knife, removed it beyond his reach.

Observing me, the young man coloured with confusion, and wheeling round upon the stool, walked off, "whistling as he went for want of thought," and vanished behind the intervening partition. I afterwards learned that "Mr. William" was the eldest son of the senior partner of the firm.

A little, pleasant, gentlemanly-looking man, dressed in the fashion of the last century, with his silver-rimmed spectacles thrown up above his eyebrows, whom I recognised as the speaker, now came forward, and politely demanded my business.

Having shortly communicated the purport of my visit, and handed him the packet with which I had been intrusted, he begged me to step into the adjoining room, and he would furnish me with the necessary receipt, &c.

I entered a spacious office, covered with a well-worn Turkey-carpet. On one side hung a map of the world, as yellow as if the fogs of forty Novembers had been sublimated on its dingy surface; a portrait was suspended over the fire-place, almost as obscure as the map; mahogany chairs, with horse-hair bottoms: a library table littered with papers, and an easy chair covered with black leather, completed the appointments. Everything around, indeed, appeared coeval with the old-established firm.

The old gentleman sat himself down to his desk, after inviting me to be seated, and having deliberately adjusted his spectacles, commenced writing, when a broad-shouldered porter entered with a copper scuttle in his hand to feed the flame.

"Well, Smith," said he, without turning his head, "how 's the 'wife?"

"Better-werry much better, I'm obleeged to you, sir,” replied the man, and he proceeded to supply the grate. "That doctor as you were so kind as to send ha' done her a world o' good."

"Glad to hear it," said the old gentleman.

"He's a good 'un, he is," continued the man. "But the old 'ooman was raythur flustered a bit when he drew up in his carriage." "I dare say

"But he made hisself at home in no time," said the porter. "Why, sir, I actilly found him a-taking of a dish o' tea with the old oomanI did indeed-and talking so pleasant like, it done one's heart good.”

Tike ere Smith

and the aid gentleman, with mock gravity.

These mencal pantienen are very menuating.”

oh, ank mr. I'm not feared at us sivations-not I. She ain't no lamb to be run away reped the porter; and chuckling at the conceit of the vid gentleman, he quitted the room, no doubt to retail the joke the gentlemen of the outer office.

- Excise this maripoca, sr,' said the eid gentleman. "But Smith is an oud and valued servant; man and boy, he has served the house above forty years, and is a sort of privileged person in the establishment. I be bound he would not be tempted to quit the frm for an aiderman's gown.”

I expressed my pleasure, and quoted some common-places about fidelity and long service, onciucing with my real conviction, that good masters make good servants, meaning to pay him a compli

rent.

"I agree with you, sir, on that point." replied he, "and thank you for the intended compliment; but I am not one of the firm. I am merely their confidential clerk. My name is Josiah Thorley, at your service."

We bowed.

"Yes, sir," continued he, "for five-and-twenty years I have occupied this room in that capacity."

“And a very comfortable room it is," said I; "but the prospect I think is rather melancholy," pointing at the small churchyard which was visible through and came close up to the broad window.

"Melancholy!" replied he. Why, my dear sir, that little patch of green is as pleasant in my sight as a turf to a lark! As Milton says, 'the mind is its own place; and you cannot imagine the infinite delight I take in that confined view, or the pleasant materials for meditation which it supplies. And then to hear the pealing of the church-organ breaking through the quiet of this place is so soothing, and breathes such a calm and holy spirit, that it is truly enviable."

"Really, Mr. Thorley," said I, surprised to find so much poetical enthusiasm in the narrow confines of an office, "you are to be envied the possession of such pleasant thoughts and feelings."

"And yet am I rather diffident of expressing them," replied he; "for I have met with more ridicule than sympathy. But I am like a bird in a cage, upon whom these rays of poetry fall like the glimpses of the sun, and cheer me in the prison to which my occupation dooms me. At the same time I must confess that time and habit have at last so moulded my mind to this limited sphere of action, that liberty would now be irksome to me, and, as the poet sings, I would not, if I could, be free." "And that there is wisdom in that resolve experience teaches us," I remarked. "Among a thousand instances that could be cited there is none more conclusive than the example of the amiable Charles Lamb, who was all his life pining to be free from the thraldom of business; and, when at last he attained his object he discovered that he had only been pursuing a delusive phantom of the imagination, and candidly confessed his error."

"Good, kind-hearted Elia!" exclaimed Thorley; "with what delight I used to devour his contributions in the London Magazine. Sir," continued he emphatically, "I once had the honour of being

in the company of that extraordinary man. I shall never forget it. Esteeming his writings as I did, you may readily conceive the gratification I felt. It was at a dinner-party given by my friend M at Clapham. There was an unassuming quietness in his manner, and a quaintness of expression, accompanied with a hesitation in his speech that at first precluded him from taking that prominent position which is generally usurped by the lion' of a party. In fact, our lamb was one of those lions whose roar is more like that of a 'sucking dove' than the king of the forest. When the conver

sation warmed into life he became very facetious, and the puns he perpetrated, although of an order peculiar to himself, created infinite amusement among the guests. For example, handing up his plate for gravy, he asked the hostess to 'liquidate him;' and again, on the cover being taken from a dish of early peas, a gentleman asking him if they were not quite a treat? he answered, Yes, sir, quite a treat-y of pease!' as a German would say. A lady inquiring what were the articles of war? he seriously answered,Guns, swords, trumpets, and drums!' Helping one of the guests to a woodcock, 'I've given you a better half, sir,' said he.-' You've favoured me,' replied the gentleman.-Don't mention it,' said Lamb; and then added in his hesitating manner, 'I-I charge you, sir; for, you see, I've sent you the bill with it! A stout gentleman, just arrived from India was discoursing very volubly upon a tiger-hunt, in which, of course, he had been personally engaged, when Lamb whispered his host, Your fat Indian friend is really Indy-fat-igable.' When we joined the ladies in the drawing-room my friend's daughter was exhibiting some beautiful drawings, and discoursing with all the fervour of a horticulturist upon anemones, grandifloras, china asters, &c. 'Very pretty,' said Lamb, peeping over her shoulder. Now, pray do tell us, Mr. Lamb, which among the flowers is your favourite?' said she. The rose, the lily, or the modest violet, or perhaps Apollo's devoted worshipper, the sunflower, as you are a poet?'- My dear young lady,' said he, I have no doubt your choice is the result of fancy, while mine may be said to be a mere matter of taste; for of all the flowers that are grown I prefer — Which? '—'A cauliflower, my dear,' replied he, with a gravity which set all the expectant auditors in a roar. But both my memory and my language fail to do justice to his humour; the cold repetition of his words is like collecting spentshot after they have been flattened against a stone wall."

-

After a world of discourse upon literary matters I expressed my pleasure in having made his acquaintance, and, with a flattering invitation to repeat my visit, I shook hands with the old man, and departed.

Subsequently, upon a more intimate knowledge of each other, Mr. Thorley confessed to me, sub rosa, that he had committed authorship, although he had never appeared in print; and, one evening, when all the gentlemen of the establishment had departed, and no one but Smith, the porter, remained to close the office, he cautiously unlocked a drawer in his writing-table, and drew forth an Old Ledger, bound in russia, and carefully locked.

"This is my album," said he, smiling. "Don't be startled by its external appearance; for, such is the force of habit, I don't think I could collect my ideas, and register them in a volume of any other