If every aiding thought is vain,
And momentary grief and pain
Urge the old man to frown and fret,
He has another comfort yet:

This earth has thorns, as poets sing,
But not for ever can they sting:
Our sand from out its narrow glass
Rapidly passes!-let it pass!
I seek not-I-to check or stay
The progress of a single day,
But rather cheer my hours of pain
Because so few of them remain.
Care circles every mortal head,-
The dust will be a calmer bed!
From Life's alloy no Life is free,
But-Life is not eternity!

When that unerring day shall come
To call me from my wandering, home,
The dark, and still, and painful day,
When breath shall fleet in groans away,
When comfort shall be vainly sought,
And doubt shall be in every thought,
When words shall fail th' unutter'd vow,
And fever heat the burning brow,
When the dim eye shall gaze, and fear
To close the glance that lingers here,
Snatching the faint departing light,
That seems to flicker in its flight,
When the lone heart, in that long strife,
Shall cling unconsciously to life,
I'll have no shrieking female by
To shed her drops of sympathy;
To listen to each smother'd throe,
To feel, or feign, officious woe;
To bring me every useless cup,
And beg
"dear Tom" to drink it up;
To turn my oldest servants off,
E'en as she hears my gurgling cough ;

And then expectantly to stand,
And chafe my temples with her hand;
And pull a cleaner nightcap o'er 'em,
That I may die with due decorum;
And watch the while my ebbing breath,
And count the tardy steps of death;
Grudging the Leech his growing bill,
And wrapt in dreams about the will.
I'll have no Furies round my bed!--
They shall not plague me-till I'm dead!

Believe me! ill my dust would rest,
If the plain marble o'er my breast,
That tells, in letters large and clear,
"The Bones of Thomas Quince lie here!"
Should add a talisman of strife,

"Also the Bones of Jane his Wife!"

No, while beneath this simple stone
Old Quince shall sleep, and sleep alone,
Some Village Oracle, who well

Knows how to speak, and read, and spell,
Shall slowly construe, bit by bit,

My "Natus" and my "Obiit,"

And then, with sage discourse and long,

Recite my virtues to the throng.

"The Gentleman came straight from College! A most prodigious man for knowledge!

He used to pay all men their due,

Hated a miser, and a Jew,

But always open'd wide his door
To the first knocking of the poor.
None, as the grateful Parish knows,
Save the Churchwardens, were his foes ;
They could not bear the virtuous pride
Which gave the sixpence they denied.
If neighbours had a mind to quarrel,
He used to treat them to a barrel;

And that, I think, was sounder law
Than any book I ever saw.

The Ladies never used to flout him;
But this was rather strange about him,
That, gay or thoughtful, young or old,
He took no wife for love or gold;
Woman he call'd' a pretty thing,'-
But never could abide a ring!

Good Mr. Pringle!-you must see
Your arguments are light with me ;
They buz like feeble flies around me,
But leave me firm, as first they found me:
Silence your logic! burn your pen!
The Poet says 66 we all are men;
And all "condemn'd alike to groan!"
You with a wife, and I with none.
Well!-yours may be a happier lot,
But it is one I envy not;

And you'll allow me, Sir, to pray,
That, at some near-approaching day,
You may not have to wince and whine,
And find some cause to envy mine!

THE MISTAKE;

OR, SIXES AND SEVENS.

"Be particular to observe that the name on the door is

Morning Chronicle, April, 1821.

It is a point which has often been advanced and contested by the learned, that the world grows worse as it grows older; arguments have been advanced, and treatises written, in support of Horace's opinion:

Ætas parentum pejor avis tulit
Nos nequiores, mox daturos
Progeniem vitiosiorem.

The supporters of this idea rest their sentence upon various grounds; they mention the frequency of crim. con. cases, the increase of the poor-rate, the licentiousness of the press, the celebrity of rouge et noir.

There is, however, one circumstance corroborative of their judgment, to which we think the public opinion has not yet been sufficiently called. We mean the indisputable fact, that persons of all descriptions are growing ashamed of their own names. We remember that when we were dragged in our childhood to walk with our nurse, we were accustomed to beguile our sense of weariness and disgust by studying the names, which, in their neat brass plates, decorated the doors by which we passed. Now the case is altered! We observed, in a former paper, that the tradesmen have removed their signs; it is equally true that the gentlemen have removed their names. The simple numerical distinction, which is now alone emblazoned upon the doors of our dwellings, but ill replaces that more gratifying custom, which, in a literal sense, held up great names for our emulation, and made the streets of the metropolis a muster-roll of examples for our conduct.

But a very serious inconvenience is also occasioned by this departure from ancient observances. How is the visitor from the country to discover the patron of his fortunes, the friend of his bosom, or the mistress of his heart, if, in lieu of the above-mentioned edifying brass plates, his eye glances upon the unsatisfactory information contained in 1, 2, or 3? In some cases even this assistance is denied to him, and he wanders upon his dark and comfortless voyage, like an ancient mariner deprived of the assistance of the stars.

Our poor friend, Mr. Nichol Loaming, has treated us with a long and eloquent dissertation upon this symptom

of degeneracy; and certainly, if the advice "experto crede" be of any weight, Mr. Nichol's testimony ought to induce all persons to hang out, upon the exterior of their residences, some more convincing enunciation of their name and calling, than it is at present the fashion to produce.

Nichol came up to town with letters of introduction to several friends of his family, whom it was his first duty and wish to discover. But his first adventure so dispirited him, that, after having spent two mornings at a hotel, he set out upon his homeward voyage, and left the metropolis an unexplored region.

He purposed to make his first visit to Sir William Knowell, and having with some difficulty discovered the street to which he had been directed, he proceeded to investigate the doors, in order to find out the object of his search. The doors presented nothing but a blank ! He made inquiries; was directed to a house; heard that Sir William was at home, was shown into an empty room, and waited for some time with patience.

The furniture of the house rather surprised him. It was handsomer than he had expected to find it; and on the table were the Morning Chronicle and the Edinburgh Review, although Sir William was a violent Tory. At length the door opened, and a gentleman made his appearance. Nichol asked, in a studied speech, whether he had the honour to address Sir Willam Knowell? The gentleman replied, that he believed there had been a little mistake, but that he was an intimate friend of Sir W. Knowell's, and expected him in the course of a few minutes. Nichol resumed his seat, although he did not quite perceive what mistake had taken place. He was unfortunately urged by his evil genius to attempt

conversation.

He observed that Sir W. Knowell had a delightful house, and inquired whether the neighbourhood was pleasant. "His next neighbour," said the stranger,