weeks ago, as zurely as the morning came I used to be up

Hebe. At very early hours, Robert.

Robert. Yes, just about the time your fashionable folk were going to bed-fashionable folk! what have we to do with fashion? Poor mother thought it was carrying matters far enough when, to follow a great lady's advice, she christened you after one Mr. Jupiter's waiting maid. However, before day the waggon was loaded, old Joan in the thill, and I on my road to Philadelphia with a light heart, and a heavy assortment of turnips, and cabbages, and geese, and turkies, and

Hebe. But was it then you first saw the signs of foul weather?

Robert. No, it was every afternoon on my return home with the load of a ton upon my heart and not the weight of a half cent in my pocket-it was then I saw a thousand mists floating about the waggon, of a thousand different shapes.

Hebe. Pray tell me- -of what?

Robert. Of laces, and bonnets, and shawls, and feathers, and

Hebe. Oh, delightful!

Robert. Of callimancoes, bandanoes, and comboys, and moories, and- -dom it, an Indian or a woman couldn't name the one half of them.

Hebe. Don't I love you, Robert? You seem unkind to day I never saw you so before.

Robert. Ah, I fear I have loved you too much.

Hebe. You are unkind to-day! What have I done to deserve your anger? I would do any thing for your sake.

Robert. I knew you would- -that made me love you ZO -that makes me love you still (pressing her to his bosom)But these muslins, these laces, Hebe!they have all chang'd into such domnable shapes!

Hebe. What are you talking of? dear Robert, tell me !——What, what shapes?

Robert. A dungeon, a musty loaf of bread, a broken pitcher of water, and a vile heap of straw*.

Hebe. (aside) He seems bewildered! Great heaven, save my brother!- -Oh, Robert, are you well? speak;

I will be to you a sister.

Robert. (taking her hand) You always have been, yes, you always have been, I don't charge you with unkindness, but I think we have both been struck with folly you to be always craving after finery; and I to run seventy dollars into debt

Hebe. Seventy dollars!

Robert. That I might never zay no to a zister whom I loved as I do you.

Hebe. Why did you not tell me before? I thought so much on the dresses that the money never once entered my mind.-But your produce?

Robert. My produce? (whistles) Many a time have I turned a hundred of hay into an ounce of rose drops, and a rood of corn into a yard of muslin; but a yard of muslin wouldn't make a gown.

Hebe. (sighing) Oh no, with a long fashionable trail it would require twenty- -But your apples, your

Robert. They were the last of all my produce, and the very last bushel that I had of them was turned into- -a dish of macaroons. For your zake I was going the other day to change poor old lazy Joan into a little grey monkey; but honest Joan had zarved me long and faithfully; and I didn't like to part with the poor beast for any new acquaintance.

Hebe. Yet, Robert, you have something left?

Robert. (clasping his hands) No, I have nothing left!

Hebe. Yes, you have you have your sister (falling on his neck)-Who is it you are in debt to? Robert (after a pause) No, I will not name himbut listen, Hebe: when all that I could zay was but a

* These expressions must be understood to arise from an exaggeration natural to Robert's fears.

feather on the breeze my creditors were raising, I called upon him, and hinted that it was in my power to afford him the pleasure of lending me seventy dollars : zo he zeemed very thankful for the favour, and lent the money.

Hebe. That certainly was kind.

Robert. This morning he zent for me, and zaid he was very willing to better our condition

to remove

us from our present humble spot to a large farm. Hebe. Indeed?

Robert. Yes; but you hav'n't heard all- -(with indignation) he wanted me first to betray my friend! Hebe. Cruel, wicked man! And what did you tell him?

Robert. I told him I was zorry he had lived so long in the world, and did not know that a sapling taken from the poor soil where it had sprung from an acorn, would never flourish in a richer one if its root were lopped away-and I told him that though I thanked him for his offer, I would zee him to the devil before I would accept it!

Hebe. (with great anxiety) Then-
Robert. He told me of my debt, and-

Hebe. (with alarm) Ah, what else?

Robert. No, nothing else don't look zo pale, don't no, nothing else.

Hebe. Yes, Robert, you told me of a dungeon! wait, wait till I return! (goes out, and returns in a few mo ments with a bundle) Here are the richest dresses I am worth-take them.

Robert. No, no, I wont.

Hebe. Robert, I once loved finery, but I detest it nowhere, take them-sell them!

Robert. No, no.

Hebe. Then I will sell them myself.

Robert. (kissing her) Hebe, how I do love you!
Hebe. Take these, I supplicate you!

into his hands) take them, and sell them!

(forces them

Robert. (wiping away his tears) Good girl, I'll try!

Hebe. Yes, yes, they will bring something (exit Robert) and I will beg the rest!

SCENE II-A great road-Dusk.

[exit

Enter INFERENCE and MOONSHINE, two meagre forms in very scant habits.

Moonshine. (groaning) We are fatigu❜d.
Inference. Then let us rest awhile.-

So really, Mr. Moonshine, you would write
Your travels through this country?'Tis agreed;
But you'd not write them on this side the Atlantic?
Moonshine. Indubitably, Mr. Inference, not.
Inference. That is, you will return?
Moonshine. If our grand scheme do fail,
I will, forsooth, and in a book of travels
Float on the tide of popular applause.

Inference. Why, Mr. Moonshine, you might float on air.

Moonshine. Sir, I'm no bubble, and-
Inference. You will return?

Moonshine. Yes, (sarcastically) if your logic long avail us naught.

Inference. Or if the compass e'er point east and west. Moonshine. I've seen it point due east and west. Inference. (staring) Pray when?

Moonshine. When, sailing closely on the arctic pole, I was ta'en ill with a delirious fever.

And even then, before a minnow bore
Away my bait-

Inference. You had made your line so tensile
You angled for a whale-a tolerable stretch,
But 'twould not reach a semicolon's length

To grace a page of travels through this country:
You're, therefore, not yet qualified-

Moonshine. How, sir?

Inference. Good Mr. Moonshine, we'll discuss the point

With copulative or disjunctive logic.

Moonshine. We will discuss it, sir, with swords or pistols.

Inference. Phlebotomy, my friend, may be a good Specific for a feverish, flighty mind;

But I am not so very dexterous

As with a bullet to infract a vein,
Or ope it with a broad sword.

If you want bleeding there's young Lancet, who
Has gain'd as much true honour and renown,
Nay well nigh as much steady practice, sir,
As any blood-letter of high extraction.

But from what thesis, pray, will you conclude
That in our present lank and ghostly state

We can spare blood? our muscles have grown flaccid,

And the residuum of a camel's carcase
Digested in the sand-bath of Arabia

Would yield more moisture than our arteries,
Shrunk into wither'd fibres-

Moonshine. Our skins, 'tis true, hang loosely.

Inference. And we seem

Like two poor weasels in a dearth of mice.

Moonshine. Or like two shades that without funeral

rites

Have wander'd nine and ninety years upon
The burning borders of the river Styx,
Without an obolus at the century's close
To pay our passage o'er the infernal stream.
Inference. (tittering) Though I infer that you at
least would not

Prove much above a ton or two in burden.

Moonshine. Sir!

You jest

why not include yourself?

Inference. (giving his hand) My friend!(aside) Mephitic vapour from the gulph of sin! Moonshine. Dear Mr. Inference! -(aside) Curs'd blockhead, outline

Of a mere vacuum!