and his wife I was forced to hear. I tried to impress him concerning the good that he might do with his money, in reference to many who sorely wanted it, but I found that he had too little feeling himself to understand the feelings of others, and that affliction had never yet driven a nail into his own flesh, to open his heart to sympathy. Instead of entering into any rational plans, his wife and he laughed all day at nothing whatever, his children turned the house upside down in their ecstasy at being rich; and, in short, never before had I been so wearied at seeing people happy.

In all this, however, I heard not one single word

of thankfulness for this unlooked-for deliverance from constant vicissitude, or one grateful expression to Providence, for being so unreasonably kind to this family, while thousands around them struggled incessantly, in ill-rewarded industry and unavailing anxiety. So I wound up the story of Changeable Charlie in reflective melancholy, for I had seen so many who would, for any little good fortune, have been most thankful and happy, yet never were able to attain thereto; and I inclined to the sombre conclusion, that in this world the wise and virtuous man was often less fortunate, and generally less happy, than the fool.

In the little picturesque village of Duddingstone, which lies sweetly at the foot of Edinburgh's great lion, Arthur-Seat, and which is celebrated for its strawberries and sheep-head broth, flourished, within our own remembrance, a poor and honest mender of boots and shoes, by name Robert Rentoul.

Robin had been a cobbler all his days-to very little purpose. He had made nothing of the business, although he had given it a fair trial of fifty or sixty years. He was born, and cobbled-got married, and cobbled—got children, and cobbled-got old, and cobbled, without advancing a step beyond his last. It "found him poor at first and left him so!" To make the ends meet was the utmost he could do. He therefore bore no great liking to a profession which had done so little for him, and for which he had done so much; but in truth, his want of liking may be considered as much a cause as an effect of his want of success. His mind, in short, did not go with his work; and it was the interest, as well as duty and pleasure, of his good wife, Janet, to hold him to it (particularly when he had given his word of honor to a customer) by all the arts common to her sex,-sometimes by scolding, sometimes by taunting, but oftener-for Janet was a kind-hearted creature-by treating him to a thimbleful of aquavitæ, which he loved dearly, with its proper accompaniments of bread and cheese.

Although, however, Robin did not keep by the shoes with any good heart, he could not be called either a lazy or inefficient man. In every thing but cobbling he took a deep and active interest. In particular, he was a great connoisseur of the weather. Nobody could prophesy snow like Robin, or foretell a black frost. The latter was Robin's delight; for with it came the people of Edinburgh, to hold their saturnalia on Duddingstone Loch, and cobbling, on these great occasions, was entirely out of the question. His rickety table, big-bellied bottle, and tree-legged glass, were then in requisition, for the benefit of curlers and skaters in general, and of himself in particular. But little benefit accrued from these to Robin, although he could always count on one good customer-in himself. On the breaking up of the ice, he regularly found himself poorer than before, and, what was worse, with a smaller disposition than ever to work.

It must have been on some occasion of this kind, that strong necessity suggested to Robin a step for the bettering of his fortunes, which was patronized

by the legislature of the day, and which he had heard was resorted to by many with success. Robin resolved to try the lottery. With thirty shillings, which he kept in an old stocking for the landlord, he went to Edinburgh, and purchased a sixteenth. This proceeding he determined to keep a profound secret from every one; but whiskey cannot tolerate secrets; the first half-mutchkin with barber Hugh succeeding in ejecting it; and as the barber had every opportunity, as well as disposition, to spread it, the thing was known to all the village in the lathering of a chin.

Among others, it reached the ears of Mr. Blank, a young gentleman who happened to reside at Duddingstone, and who took an interest in the fortunes of Robin. Mr. B. (unknown to the villagers) was connected with the press of Edinburgh, particularly with a certain newspaper, one copy of which had an extensive circulation in Duddingstone. First of all, the newspaper reached Mr. Blank on the Saturday of its publication; on the Monday it fell into the hands of Robin, who, like the rest of his trade, had most leisure on that day to peruse it; on the Tuesday, the baker had it; on the Wednesday, the tailor; on the Thursday, the blacksmith; on the Friday, the gardener; and on the Saturday the barber, in whose shop it lay till the succeeding Saturday brought another, when it was torn down for suds, leaving not a wreck behind, except occasionally a King's speech, a cure for the rupture, a list of magistrates and town council, or any other interesting passage that took the barber's fancy, which was carefully clipped out, and pasted on the wooden walls of his apartment, to the general satisfaction, instruction, and entertainment of his customers. This newspaper, like Wordsworth's Old Cumberland Beggar, was the means of keeping alive a

sympathy and community of feeling among the parties; and in particular, tended to establish a friendly intercourse between Robin Rentoul and Mr. Blank. Robin could count upon his glass every Monday, when he went for "the papers,❞—and, except the glass, he liked nothing better than to have what he called "a bother" with Mr. B. himself. Mr. B. soon got from Robin's own mouth all the particulars of the lottery-ticket purchase, even to the very number,-which was 1757, a number chosen by Robin, who had an eye to fatalism, as being the date of the year in which he was born.

A love of mischief or sport suggested to the

young gentleman the wicked thought of making the newspaper a means of hoaxing Robin regarding the lottery ticket. We shall not undertake to defend Mr. Blank's conduct, even on the score of his being, as he was, a very young man. The experiment he made was cruel, although we believe it was done without malignity, and with every resolution that Robin should not be a loser by it. About the time when news of the lottery-drawing was expected, the following paragraph appeared in the newspaper with which Mr. Blank was connected:

"By private accounts from London, we understand that 984 and 1757 are the numbers drawn in the present lottery for the two £20,000 prizes. We know not if any of these lucky numbers have been disposed of in this quarter."

Poor Robin came for his newspaper at the usual time, and in his usual manner. He got his customary glass, but missed his customary "bother" with Mr. Blank, who chose for the present to be out of the way. Home he trudged, carrying the newspaper, the harbinger of his fortune, in the crown of his hat-placed himself on his stool-drew out his spectacles-and began to read, as usual, from the beginning of the first page. It was some time before he reached the paragraph big with his fate. When he saw it, he gave a gasp-took off his spectacles, and began to rub them, as if doubtful that they had deceived him-placed them again deliberately on his nose-read the passage over again, slowly and surely-then quietly laying his hand on a shoe which he had been mending, and which contained a last, made it in a moment spin through the window, carrying casement with it, and passing barely the head of a fishwife who was toiling along with her creel. His wife, Janet, was not at home, so, rushing out of doors, he made way to his old howff, at the sign of the Sheep's Head. The landlady held up her hands at his wild look.

"Send for barber Hughie," he cried, "and Neil the tailor; and I say, Luckie, bring in-let me see

a GALLON o' your best; and some cheese-a HAIL CHEESE-nane o' your halfs and quarters." "Guide us, Robin ! What bee's this in your bonnet? The man's gyte!"

"Look there, woman, at the papers. I've gotten a prize. A twenty thousand pounder. What's the sixteenth o' that, think ye?"

"A prize and nae blank! Eh, wow, Robin, gie's a shake o' your hand. I aye said ye wad come to something. Isy, you slut, rin for the barber,-and Neil-if he's sober-and bring the gudeman too. The mae the merrier."

Robin was soon surrounded by all his cronies of the village, for the news of his good fortune spread with the rapidity of scandal. Innumerable were the shakings of hands, and the pledges of good will and assistance. The Sheep's Head soon became too hot for the company; the village itself was in an uproar, and as halloo followed halloo, Mr. Blank inwardly "shrunk at the sound himself had made." Meanwhile, to have the truth of the statement confirmed, a superannuated lawyer had been despatched on an old blood horse to the lottery office at Edinburgh; and his return, with the intelligence that all was a hoax, spread dismay over the faces of the carousers, and made Robin's heart sink with grief and shame.

A speedy change took place in the conduct of those fair-weather friends who had flocked around the poor cobbler. From being the admired of all beholders, he became on object of scorn and laughtes, till, unable to stand their mocks and jibes, he rushed from their presence, and sought shelter under his own bed-clothes. The only one who stood true was Neil the tailor. He followed Robin to his own house-took him by the hand, and said, "Robin, my man, I promised you a suit o' clothes, o' the best. I ken ye wad hae befriended me had ye got the cash-and-lottery or no lottery-by Jove! I'll keep my word."

Mr. Blank took care to discharge the debt in

Yet dropt, to recompense their fruitless labor,
Some hint about a bowstring or a sabre.
There lack'd, I promise you, no longer speeches,
To rid the palace of those learned leeches.

Then was the council call'd-by their advice
(They deem'd the matter ticklish all, and nice,
And sought to shift it off from their own shoul-
ders)

Tartars and couriers in all speed were sent,
To call a sort of Eastern Parliament

Of feudatory chieftains and freeholders-
Such have the Persians at this very day,
My gallant Malcolm calls them couroultai ;-
I'm not prepared to show in this slight song
That to Serendib the same forms belong-

Sympathia magica hath wonders done;" (Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son,)

The Omrahs, each with hand on scimetar,

Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice for war-
"The sabre of the Sultaun in its sheath
Too long has slept, nor own'd the work of death;
Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle,
Bang the loud gong, and raise the shout of battle.
This dreary cloud that dims our sovereign's day,
Shall from his kindled bosom flit away,
When the bold Lootie wheels his courser round,
And the arm'd elephant shall shake the ground.
Each noble pants to own the glorious summons-
And for the charges-Lo! your faithful Commons!"

The Riots who attended in their places

(Serendib language calls a farmer Riot) Look'd ruefully in one another's faces,

From this oration arguing much disquiet, Double assessment, forage, and free quarters; And fearing these as China-men the Tartars, Or as the whisker'd vermin fear the mousers, Each fumbled in the pockets of his trowsers. And next came forth the reverend Convocation, Bald heads, white beards, and many a turban green,

Imaum and Mollah there of every station,

Santon, Fakir, and Calendar were seen. Their votes were various-some advised a Mosque With fitting revenues should be erected, With seemly gardens and with gay Kiosque, To recreate a band of priests selected; Others opined that through the realm a dole Be made to holy men, whose prayers might profit The Sultaun's weal in body and in soul.

But their long-headed chief, the Sheik Ul-Sofit, More closely touch'd the point;-"Thy studious mood,'

Quoth he, "O Prince! hath thicken'd all thy blood, And dull'd thy brain with labor beyond measure; Wherefore relax a space and take thy pleasure, And toy with beauty, or tell o'er thy treasure; From all the cares of state, my Liege, enlarge thee, And leave the burden to thy faithful clergy."

These counsels sage availed not a whit,

And so the patient (as is not uncommon Where grave physicians lose their time and wit) Resolved to take advice of an old woman; His mother she, a dame who once was beauteous, And still was called so by cach subject duteous.

And your dull heart leap light as shepherd-boy's."
Such was the counsel from his mother came ;—
I know not if she had some under game,
As doctors have, who bid their patients roam
And live abroad, when sure to die at home;
Or if she thought, that, somehow or another,
Queen-Regent sounded better than Queen-Mother;
But, says the Chronicle (who will go look it?)

That such was her advice-the Sultaun took it.

All are on board-the Sultaun and his train,
In gilded galley prompt to plow the main.

The old Rais was the first who question'd, "Whither?"

They paused-" Arabia," thought the pensive Prince,

"Was call'd The Happy many ages since;—

For Mokha, Rais." And they came safely thither,
But not in Araby, with all her balm,
Not where Judea weeps beneath her palm,
Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste,
Could there the step of Happiness be traced.
One Copt alone profess'd to have seen her smile
When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant Nile:
She bless'd the dauntless traveller as he quaff'd,
But vanish'd from him with the ended draught.

"Enough of turbans," said the weary King,
"These dolimans of ours are not the thing;
Try we the Giaours, these men of coat and cap, I
Incline to think some of them must be happy;
At least they have as fair a cause as any can,
They drink good wine and keep no Ramazan.
Then northward, ho!"-The vessel cuts the sea,
And fair Italia lies upon her lee.-
But fair Italia, she who once unfurled
Her eagle-banners o'er a conquer'd world,
Long from her throne of domination tumbled,
Lay, by her quondam vassals, sorely humbled,
The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale, and lean,
And was not half the man he once had been.
"While these the priest and those the noble fleeces,
Our poor old boot," they said, "is torn to pieces.
Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel,
And the Great Devil is rending toe and heel.
If happiness you seek, to tell you truly,
We think she dwells with one Giovanni Bulli;
A tramontane, a heretic-the buck,
Poffaredio still has all the luck;
By land or ocean never strikes his flag-
And then-a perfect walking money-bag."
Off set our Prince to seek John Bull's abode,
But first took France-it lay upon the road.