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of the Hudson with a host of worthies, whose names are too crabbed to be written, or if they could be written, it would be impossible for man to utter them-all fortified with a mighty dinner, and, to use the words of a great Dutch poet,— "Brimful of wrath and cabbage!"

For an instant the mighty Peter paused in the midst of his career, and mounting on a stump, addressed his troops in eloquent Low Dutch, exhorting them to fight like duyvels, and assuring them, that, if they conquered, they should get plenty of booty-if they fell they should be allowed the unparalleled satisfaction, while dying, of reflecting that it was in the service of their country—and after they were dead, of seeing their names inscribed in the temple of renown, and handed down, in company with all the other great men of the year, for the admiration of posterity. Finally, he swore to them, on the word of a governor (and they knew him too well to doubt it for a moment), that if he caught any mother's son of them looking pale, or playing craven, he would curry his hide till he made him run out of it, like a snake in spring-time. Then lugging out his trusty sabre, he brandished it three times over his head, ordered Van Corlear to sound a tremendous charge, and shouting the word, "St. Nicholas and the Manhattoes!" courageously dashed forward. His warlike followers, who had employed the interval in lighting their pipes, instantly stuck them in their mouths, gave a furious puff, and charged gallantly, under cover of the smoke. And now commenced the horrid din, the desperate struggle, the maddening ferocity, the frantic desperation, the confusion and self-abandonment of war. Dutchman and Swede commingled, tugged, panted, and blowed. The heavens were darkened with a tempest of missives. Bang! went the guns-whack! struck the broadswords-thump! fell the cudgels-crash! went the musket-stocks-blows-kicks-cuffs-scratches-black eyes and bloody noses swelling the horrors of the scene! thwack, cut and hack, helter-skelter, higgledy-piggledy, hurlyburly, head over heels, rough and tumble!-Dunder and blexam! swore the Dutchmen-Splitter and splutter! cried the Swedes-Storm the works! shouted Hardkopig Peter

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Fire the mine! roared stout Risingh-Tantararara! twanged the trumpet of Anthony Van Corlear-until all voice and sound became unintelligible-grunts of pain, yells of fury and shouts of triumph, commingled in one hideous clamour. The earth shook, as if struck with a paralytic stroke-trees shrunk aghast, and withered at the sight-rocks burrowed in the ground like rabbits, and even Christina Creek turned from its course, and ran up a mountain in breathless terror!

V.-THERE'S NOTHING IN IT.
(MATTHEWS.)

Sir CHARLES COLDSTREAM and Sir ADONIS LEECH.

Sir Charles. My dear Leech, you began life late—you are a young fellow-forty-five-and have the world yet before you. I started at thirteen, lived quick, and exhausted the whole round of pleasure before I was thirty. I've tried everything, heard everything, done everything, know everything, and here I am, a man at thirty-three, literally used up.

Leech. Nonsense, man!-used up, indeed!-with your wealth, with your little heaven in Spring Gardens, and your paradise here at Kingston-upon-Thames, — with twenty estates in the sunniest spots in England-not to mention that Utopia, within four walls, in the Rue de Provence, in Paris. Oh, the nights I've spent there!

Sir C. I'm dead with ennui.

Leech. Ennui! hear him! poor Croesus!

Sir C. Croesus!-no, I'm no Croesus. My father—you've seen his portrait, good old fellow-he certainly did leave me a little matter of £12,000 a year; but after all—

Leech. Oh, come!—

Sir C. Oh, I don't complain of it.

Leech. I should think not.

Sir C. Oh no; there are some people who can manage to do on less-on credit.

Leech. I know several.-My dear Coldstream, you should try change of scene.

Sir C. I have tried it-what's the use?

Leech. But I'd gallop all over Europe.

Sir C. I have-there's nothing in it.
Leech. Nothing in all Europe!

Sir C. Nothing-oh, dear, yes! I remember at one time, I did somehow go about a good deal.

Leech. You should go to Switzerland.

Sir C. I have been-nothing there-people say so much about everything—there certainly were a few glaciers, some monks, and large dogs, and thick ankles, and bad wine, and Mont Blanc; yes, and there was ice on the top, too; but I prefer the ice at Gunter's-less trouble, and more in it.

Leech. Then if Switzerland wouldn't do, I'd try Italy.

Sir C. My dear Leech, I've tried it over and over again, and what then?

Leech. Did not Rome inspire you?

Sir C. Oh, believe me, Leech, a most horrible hole! People talk so much about these things-there's the Colosseum, now-round, very round, a goodish ruin enough, but I was disappointed with it; Capitol-tolerable high; and St. Peter's-marble, and mosaics, and fountains, dome certainly not badly scooped, but there was nothing in it

Leech. Come, Coldstream, you must admit we have nothing like St. Peter's in London.

Sir C. No, because we don't want it; but if we wanted such a thing, of course we should have it. A dozen gentlemen meet, pass resolutions, institute, and in twelve months it would be run up; nay, if that were all, we'd buy St. Peter's itself, and have it sent over.

Leech. Ha, ha! well said, you're quite right.-What say you to beautiful Naples-la Belle Napoli?

Sir C. Not bad,-excellent water-melons, and goodish opera. They took me up to Vesuvius-a horrid bore; it smoked a good deal, certainly, but altogether a wretched mountain; saw the crater-looked down, but there was nothing in it.

Leech. But the bay?

Sir C. Inferior to Dublin.
Leech. The Campagna.
Sir C. A great swamp!

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Leech. Greece?

Sir C. A morass!
Leech. Athens ?

Sir C. A bad Edinburgh!

Leech. Egypt?

Sir C. A desert!

Leech. The Pyramids?

Sir C. Humbugs!—nothing in any of them! Have done -you bore me.

Leech. But you enjoyed the hours we spent in Paris, at any rate?

Sir C. No; I was dying for excitement. In fact, I've no appetite, no thirst; everything wearies me—no, they fatigue

me.

Leech. Fatigue you!-I should think not, indeed; you are as strong as a lion.

Sir C. But as quiet as a lamb-that was Tom Cribb's character of me: you know I was a favourite pupil of his. I'd give a thousand pounds for any event that would make my pulse beat ten to the minute faster. Is it possible that you cannot invent something that would make my blood boil in my veins-my hair stand on end—my heart beatmy pulse rise--that would produce an excitement-an emotion-a sensation?

VI. THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING.
(HOOD.)

How hard, when those who do not wish to lend, less lose, their books,

Are snared by anglers-folks that fish with literary HooksWho call and take some favourite tome, but never read it through;

They thus complete their set at home, by making one at you.

I, of my "Spenser" quite bereft, last winter sore was shaken;

Of "Lamb" I've but a quarter left, nor could I save my "Bacon;"

And then I saw my "Crabbe," at last, like Hamlet, back

ward go;

And, as the tide was ebbing fast, of course I lost my

"Rowe."

My "Mallet" served to knock me down, which makes me thus a talker;

And once, when I was out of town, my "Johnson" proved a "Walker."

While studying, o'er the fire one day, my "Hobbes," amidst the smoke,

They bore my "Colman" clean away, and carried off my "Coke."

They picked my "Locke," to me far more than Bramah's patent worth,

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And now my losses I deplore, without a "Home on earth!
If once a book you let them lift, another they conceal;
For though I caught them stealing "Swift," as swiftly went
my "Steele."

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Hope" is not now upon my shelf, where late he stood elated;

But what is strange, my "Pope" himself is excommunicated. My little "Suckling" in the grave is sunk to swell the ravage;

And what was Crusoe's fate to save, 'twas mine to lose,—a "Savage."

Even "Glover's" works I cannot put my frozen hands upon; Though ever since I lost my Foote," my " Bunyan" has

been gone.

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My "Hoyle" with "Cotton" went oppressed; my "Taylor," too, must fail;

To save my "Bayle."

"Goldsmith" from arrest, in vain I offered

I "Prior" sought, but could not see the "Hood" so late

in front;

And when I turned to hunt for "Lee," O! where was my "Leigh Hunt?"

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