It fell, and with it fell the book,
Which snapp'd apart the handle,
And made the little stick unfit
To hold its little candle!

Aghast I stood, as one transfixed,

And gazed upon the ruin:

Well, here's a pretty smash, thought I,
And this is all my doing!

That candlestick, for which I got

In Bath a month before, Tapers of pink and yellow hue, Lies broken on the floor.

First I must put the bits away—
Perchance, then, had I hid it,
"Twill not be missed for many a day-
"Thou can'st not say I did it."

All these, and other evil thoughts,
Came crowding on my brain,
While gazing on the candlestick,
I picked it up again!

I picked it up in speechless woe,
As quick as I was able,
(And no one saw the fatal blow)
I placed it on the table!

I placed it on the self-same spot
It erst in beauty graced ;

"Alas! how changed, how fallen!" now, How cruelly defaced!

'Tis true, I broke the candlestick,
"And pity 'tis 'tis true."

Regrets are vain; but, Rosa, dear,

I offer them-Adieu !

G. W. M.

JAMES 1st. AND HIS BROTHER PUPIL.

Prince James has shirked-the stern Buchanan blames
The poor plebeian pupil, not Prince James;
For doubtless 'tis a point of orthodoxy,

His Royal Highness should be whipped by proxy.
Praise, kisses, sugar-plums, await the Prince,
And when he errs, the whipping-boy must wince.
The Tutor's angry, but his loyal choler,
Must all evaporate on the low-born scholar;
And on the hireling's fleshy parts are scored
The peccadilloes of his youthful Lord.
Oh nice adjustment! equitable rule,
To save the seat of honour in a fool!
One of the boys looks on-the other's fate is
To save his Prince, and get a flogging gratis.

THE SENSE OF EVIL.

"Husband, dear! when will you leave
That old creaking chair of yours?

Must you sit from morn till eve

Idly, mutely, pent in-doors?
Look! the fields are green and gay,

Joy comes fluttering on the wind,

We'll be part of this sweet day."

"Nay," he said, "but I have sinned."

Then be comforted, and lift

That imprisoned heart to soar
Ever upward free and swift,

What hast thou worth pining for?"
"Wife! give over-be thou sure

Fleeting mirth is not for me;
Pleasures die, but sins endure,
They are for eternity."

HINTS TO THE ADMIRERS OF "BOZ."

"Young readers, take from me a better rule, than any professors of criticism will teach you. Would you know whether the tendency of a book is good or evil, examine in what state of mind you lay it down."

The Doctor. (i. e. R. Southey.)

The readers of the Eton Bureau, who were amused with the "Confessions of a Compositor," doubtless think him a very funny fellow, and worthy of all support in his vocation. Perhaps he may take too high a view of his profession, but let that pass: it is a good fault to begin life with. Besides, his vanity is harmless, and his good humour as imperturbable as those little "cork-heads," which tickle his fancy so much. In both respects he is only like the organ blower of the story, who, not being allowed his share of the praise after a successful "Magnificat," took a very obvious means of establishing his partnership, by dropping his bellows just when the organ and organist seemed most instinct with devotion. "We didn't do that so well, Mr. Organist: it will be we now, I suppose?"

But the compositor is not mischievous enough to take the hint. On the presumption of his still filling the pipes of the Eton Bureau, it is requested that he will in future

prevent the recurrence of such an omission as occurred in his last confessions. In his hints to authors he omitted the notice of a whole chapter of writers, such as no history of literature written before these last ten years could describe. Our age calls them emphatically her own; and well may she take them exclusively to herself, and boast of the mechanical rapidity with which she throws them off weekly. While solid volumes in stout bindings, are exposed as "condemned stores" at the warehouse door, or find their way into rude districts by the aid of weekly and quarterly advertisements, these èπеа πτероеντa fly abroad without any adventitious puffs, or at the most are set going by the modest remark that "Master Humphrey's Clock will strike One on Saturday the first instant." They fill all mouths, and alas! many minds; but most of all may they be seen living and dying like monthly roses in the softly susceptible bosoms of young men and women, or eking out a thumb-soiled existence in London kitchens and butlers' pantries, or flung into a drawer with curling irons and pastes in the sanctuary of a sentimental dowager. Gifted creatures, who

"Have touched the hearts of kings,

And are endeared to simple cottagers!"

But now let no one suppose that the Eton Bureau is going to war off hand with Mr. Charles Dickens, or the servum pecus," which fill his weekly train. It has much too positive an opinion of its popularity, to venture on such a task. A thousand worsted needles would start from their canvas in an instant; the fourth form would rush off in a body on Monday morning, and spend their allowance on the last number of Martin Chuzzlewit, to show their contempt for so great an outrage. Nor in