you think? Another
pensionnaire of the establishment cut the coin out of Goody's stays--AN
OLD WOMAN WHO WENT UPON TWO CRUTCHES! Faugh, the old witch! What!
Violence amongst these toothless, tottering, trembling, feeble ones?
Robbery amongst the penniless? Dogs coming and snatching Lazarus's
crumbs out of his lap? Ah, how indignant Goody was as she told the
story! To that pond at Potsdam where the carps live for hundreds of
hundreds of years, with hunches of blue mould on their back, I dare say
the little Prince and Princess of Preussen-Britannien come sometimes
with crumbs and cakes to feed the mouldy ones. Those eyes may have
goggled from beneath the weeds at Napoleon's jack-boots: they have seen
Frederick's lean shanks reflected in their pool; and perhaps Monsieur de
Voltaire has fed them--and now, for a crumb of biscuit they will fight,
push, hustle, rob, squabble, gobble, relapsing into their tranquillity
when the ignoble struggle is over. Sans souci, indeed! It is mighty well
writing "Sans souci" over the gate; but where is the gate through which
Care has not slipped? She perches on the shoulders of the sentry in
the sentry-box: she whispers the porter sleeping in his arm-chair: she
glides up the staircase, and lies down between the king and queen in
their bed-royal: this very night I dare say she will perch upon poor old
Goody Twoshoes's meagre bolster, and whisper, "Will the gentleman and
those ladies ask me again? No, no; they will forget poor old Twoshoes."
Goody! For shame of yourself! Do not be cynical. Do not mistrust your
fellow-creatures. What? Has the Christmas morning dawned upon thee
ninety times? For four-score and ten years has it been thy lot to totter
on this earth, hungry and obscure? Peace and good-will to thee, let
us say at this Christmas season. Come, drink, eat, rest awhile at our
hearth, thou poor old pilgrim! And of the bread which God's bounty gives
us, I pray, brother reader, we may not forget to set aside a part for
those noble and silent poor, from whose innocent hands war has torn the
means of labor. Enough! As I hope for beef at Christmas, I vow a note
shall be sent to Saint Lazarus Union House, in which Mr. Roundabout
requests the honor of Mrs. Twoshoes's company on Friday, 26th December.

AUTOUR DE MON CHAPEAU.

Never have I seen a more noble tragic face. In the centre of the
forehead there was a great furrow of care, towards which the brows rose
piteously. What a deep sol