The day was Sunday-a May Sunday; and the friendship of Tom and his honourable friend had become more glowing with the season. What could have brought the Honourable Alexander Pulington into the northern suburbs, we cannot guess; let it suffice, he was somewhere in Camden-town; and wandering in that unknown region was suddenly encountered by cousin Tom. We shall not chronicle all the discourse that ensued upon the meeting; however, we may state that Tom ventured to call his honourable friend "a devil of a fellow," Pulington smiling a mute confession to the charge. Moreover, an elderly spinster, passing, with a large prayer-book, cast a withering look at the two friends, one of whom was at the time laughing very irreverently, whilst the other, as it seemed to the lady, incoherently exclaimed, "d-d fine-d-d fine-quite an angel."

Thus stood the friends, and thus, soul communing with soul, they laughed away the moments, when suddenly cousin Tom was roused to the gross events of wayfaring life by a most vehement slap on the shoulder. Quick as thought he turned, and—oh, shame!—oh, horror!-oh, death to his new-born friendship with the Honourable Alexander Pulington!

There stood cousin Jack, all his good-natured face melting with a smile, his right hand outstretched, while his left forefinger pointed gracefully and significantly down to his feet, where in a red dish smoked a breast of veal, that moment from the baker's-a breast of veal hissing and bubbling on a bed of brown potatoes!

"I knew you'd come-I told Sally there must have been a mistake. She said it was pride-but la! I knew you'd drop in upon us and take potluck-come along-bring your friend with you-there'll be quite enough-and you'll be welcome, sir, as the flowers in May.-Here, Tommy," and cousin Jack turned to his eldest son, a plump urchin of seven years old, glistening in a white pinafore, and carrying in his two hands a mug of porter-" Cousin Tom," and Jack smiled again, as he displayed the boy, "you know he's your namesake; I christened him after you, because I knew you were always so very fond of me.-Here, Tommy, run to the Coach-and-Horses, and tell 'em to send home another pot of beer-in their own pot-mother won't mind the halfpenny-and, now, cousin Tom, if you and your friend will just follow me down that court,-"

The despairing artist, feeling that the passion of his heroine defied his skill, modestly yet cunningly hung a veil before her. A like difficulty suggests to us a like escape. We shall not attempt to describe the agony of cousin Tom-the tortures of the moment. Talk of the punishment of the brazen bull; what was it to the horrors of that breast of veal? We will not linger on the theme; but simply assure the reader that neither Tom, nor his friend, the Honourable Alexander Pulington dined with cousin Jack. We have, however, to record another painful incident arising from this ill-timed hospitality. After many struggles, cousin Tom was compelled to quit the club; for a month he wrestled with his destiny; but it was too much for the nerves of a stoic that his appearance should be the inevitable signal to divers members to commence an earnest inquiry of the waiters if there was in the house a breast of veal, with particular and most significant queries, touching-baked potatoes.

How cousin Jack was anathematized by cousin Tom!

A year or two passed away, and cousin Tom fell in love; it was prudent in him to have an intense affection for Dorothea Sybilwitz, the only child of a German baron, who, philosophically regardless of the evanescent advantages of nobility, devoted his many days to the vending of a certain precious ointment made patent by the state. The daughter of the medicinal philosopher had a dowry of twenty thousand pounds; she had, moreover, a very proper notion of the delightful privileges of worldly station. She was a mere woman, and was not content to sink the nobility inherited from her father in her father's gallipots. Hence, Dorothea Sybilwitz, as the phrase runs, looked high. How it happened, let Cupid answer; but certain it is, that with all these aspirations, Dorothea fell in love with cousin Tom. It was true-she reasoned with herself-he had no high relations to recommend him; but then, upon his own showing, he had no poor, beggarly connexions to cast a shadow on her golden fortunes. It was thus Dorothea compromised between her love of nobility and her love for cousin Tom. Rank was, after all, an abstract idea; whereas cousin Tom was really a tall, well-made young fellow, with very tantalizing whiskers. The match was settled-Dorothea Sybilwitz was the affianced bride of cousin Tom.

What a lovely day was the Derby day of 1837! Cousin Tom, within one month of his coming marriage with Dorothea Sybilwitz, with his bride and two female friends, took the road to Epsom. There never was such a delightful day: even the confusion that now and then occurred upon the way, served to give a whet, a zest, to the pleasures of the scene. A thousand and a thousand vehicles lined the road. Cousin Tom was all attention, and Dorothea Sybilwitz was all bliss, when suddenly a voice roared above the hubbub,-"Tom, Tom,-cousin Tom, I say," and Tom casting his eyes down, beheld in a low spring-cart, drawn by a pony, something less than a Newfoundland dog, the smiling, happy cousin Jack!" How are you, cousin Tom-here we are, you see-here's Sally-and here's the two boys-and here's baby,-couldn't leave baby behind, you know and here's Mr. and Mrs. Simcox, all neighbours and friendsbeautiful pony that-small; but I'll bet you a bottle of ginger-beer that he keeps up with you all the way."

Cousin Tom's face became yellow as his glove, and Miss Dorothea Sybilwitz with ashy lips, and terrible eyes, said mutteringly, "Cousin ! Cousin!" Cousin Tom said nothing; but cousin Jack was resolved to be seen because he knew cousin Tom was so fond of him.

"Tom, cousin Tom," he cried, "here's Sarah ! Don't you know your cousin Sarah?" and the husband with a look of triumph pulled the coat of cousin Tom, compelling him to glance at cousin Sarah, at the time in a coarse straw bonnet and cotton shawl, suckling her lastborn. "So you're going to be married, Tom, are you?—I heard something of it-well I wish you joy; and I wish you joy, ma'am, for I can see by your blushing and biting your lips, that"

To the inexpressible relief of cousin Tom, the postilions cut out of the line and distanced the pony-chaise; hence, cousin Jack could see no more. Miss Dorothea Sybilwitz had, however, learned the existence of a horribly poor, and therefore horribly low cousin, and Dorothea smiled not again that day.

Early the next morning-even whilst cousin Jack was at his break

fast-cousin Tom, threading the intricacies of the Brill, Camdentown, presented himself at the humble dwelling of the poor lawyer's clerk. "I knew some day you'd come to see me--I was sure you would,” cried joyous cousin Jack; "because, though you are a little better off than I am, still I knew that could make no difference to you; no, no, I knew you were still very fond of me."

In many words cousin Tom told the purpose of his errand. He thought the situation held by cousin Jack was far beneath his talents; and, therefore, as he would not go abroad, if he would consent to retire into Wales, he and his family should be amply provided for by cousin Tom. This was the offer, recommended by all the arts of language at the command of the visiter.

"God bless you, Tom!" cried Jack, "you have a heart indeed; you always were so kind to me. What I get is to be sure little enough for Sarah and-and-and they're nice little things, arn't they?" said Jack, in a thickened voice, averting his head, and pointing to his children.

"Beautiful babes!" cried cousin Tom, taking one upon his knee, and trying to smile upon it." But what say you to my offer, Jack?" "I say, God bless you-but I can't take it-no, I can't. Though as a poor clerk, I write my hand down to the stump, I can't eat the bread of obligation."

And on this point cousin Jack was resolute; and cousin Tom, with a perplexed and angry face, quitted the house.

Misfortunes suddenly fell upon cousin Jack; for that day week he was discharged from his office. This was the more strange, as it was only two days before, that Smith and Smith, his employers, were splendidly entertained at the table of cousin Tom. Poor cousin Jack owed two or three debts; the creditors became clamorous-he could obtain no new employment; to make things worse, two of the children sickened, as it was thought, for the measles.

With an aching heart and a pale brow, cousin Jack knocked at the door of cousin Tom.

"God bless you, Tom," he cried, "it would be a long story to tell you what I've suffered for this fortnight past. Ha! you are a friend indeed-but I must take your offer-I will go, and for the sake of others, end my days in Wales. May God bless you!" and the tears an down Jack's face, "for your kindness to me!"

In six days cousin Jack and his family were buried amidst the mountains of North Wales; and Miss Dorothea Sybilwitz consented to bear the name of cousin Tom; whose kindness for Jack was still further enhanced by an offer, that when the boys should be old enough, he would place them very eligibly at sea.

Cousin Jack still lives in Wales; still enjoys his forty pounds per year from cousin Tom.

"That makes the fourth ten this year," said cousin Tom, as he despatched the note, the last quarter's allowance to his cousin," the fourth ten-d-n him!"

And all the world cries, "How good is cousin Tom to cousin Jack— how kind is he to his poor relation !"

And the unsuspecting Jack amidst the mountains, quaffs his cup. of smail ale, and, to applauding neighbours, tells the virtues of his relative and still the close of his eulogy is, "Here's cousin Tom's health! Yes, cousin Tom was always so fond of me!"

MUSINGS ON MINES, MECHANICS, AND MONEY MATTERS.

BY BAVIUS.

LAY OF A RAILWAY.

WITCH.1

"Hist! where are you riding?" the weird sister said;

"Hist, brother! ye hurry away:

Do ye carry a bride to the mine-demon's bed,
And go to his revel to-day?"

STOKER.

"I hear ye not, sister,” the wizard replied,

And his iron wand thrust in the fire:

"O'er the fields of old England her commerce I guide,
And I finger her gold for my hire."

WITCH.

"But, brother, ye travel! deep groaning I heard
And the clatter of fetter and glaive;

And screams like the shriek of that ill-omen'd bird
That sits at the mouth of my cave."

STOKER.

"In this caldron a spirit imprison'd I have,

Beneath him I kindle a fire;

Ye heard from your cavern the groan that he gave,

The snorting and screech of his ire.

Beneath him I light a fierce fire of coke,

He tugs and attempts to get free,

Then onward he rushes in thunder and smoke.

Will ye travel old lady with me?

'Tis not so indecent, and fully as quick,

As the way that ye ride in rough weather;

So come down, old girl, from your tough bit of stick,
And we'll sit on the tender together."

WITCH.

"Oh, brother, thy riding is better than mine,

With thee over earth will I fly,

My broom and its broomstick to thee I resign,

Withal that strong spirit to fry.

And I'll fire a rick as we thunder along,

Or cut off a man at the knee.

Or blind with hot ashes a few of the throng

That ride with the spirit and thee."

NIMROD IN FRANCE.

UNFORTUNATELY for humanity, a transient glance into the annals of vice, crime, or misfortune, will supply the pencil of the moral painter with materials for a picture, which to persons of merely natural sensibility would be unpleasing; to others, the object of disgust. Neither is the recital of misfortunes, not the consequence of crime, a subject of agreeable interest unless to those persons who, sympathizing with the sufferers, have the power as well as the inclination to relieve them. But if the mere representation or contemplation of extreme wretchedness is offensive to the human mind, what must be its reality? From this-and I am thankful for it-I have thus far through life been exempt; still, to be put to the option of a prison in one's own country, for a debt not justly due, or a sojourn in a foreign land, is no small trial, and to such have I been exposed.

I sought the nearest port of France as an asylum. It is now nine years since that untoward event occurred, and as a residence to that extent in the country has given me an insight into the manners and customs of its people, I make an offer of the result, with the hope that, although not exactly in character with the generality of the contributions to the classic pages of the New Monthly Magazine, the simple detail may be not altogether uninteresting to a certain portion of its readers. My pursuits as well as inclinations, leading me into contact with nearly all the orders of society, alone qualify me for the task I have imposed upon myself—a task which has so often been executed by abler hands. And who can be surprised that such should have been the case?

Next to our own country, France will ever be the most interesting object of an Englishman's inquiries. Our ancient possessions in it, and the frequent contests we have been engaged in with its inhabitants, connect their history with our own; the extent of their dominion and influence; their supposed superiority in elegance and politeness in the common relations of life; their eminence in the arts and sciences, and that intercourse of thought, if I may so call it, which subsists between us by the mutual communications of literary productions, together with the changes that have lately taken place in our relative situation as nations, make them peculiarly interesting to us at the present time. To use the language of a clever writer, "we cannot but find our account in knowing their whole story; to be intimately acquainted, in short, with the character, genius, and sentiments of this great nation."

For the readier elucidation of my subjects, I shall class them under sundry heads, and agreeing with the immortal Cicero, that the first great law of writing history is-not to dare to say any thing that is false; and the next not to be afraid to speak the truth, I shall speak of things as I have found them.

MY ARRIVAL AT CALAIS.

Whoever has undergone the punishment of travelling from London to Dover by a night-coach, must recollect the usual meeting of the passengers" up and down ones" as they are called on the road (and truly so, Jan.-VOL. LVIII. NO. CCXXIX.

C