THE ART OF BOOK KEEPING.

Thomas Hood.

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

books,

Are snared by anglers, folks that fish with literary Hooks, Who call and take some favorite 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, backward 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

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."

"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, 't was 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.

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

To save my

"Goldsmith" from arrest, in vain I offered "Bayle.”

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"?

I tried to laugh, old care to tickle, yet could not "Tickle "

touch; And then, alack! I missed my Mickle,' and surely Mickle's

much.

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'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed, my sorrows to excuse,

To think I cannot read my "Reid," nor even use my "Hughes";
My classics would not quiet lie, a thing so fondly hoped;
Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, my "Livy" has eloped.

My life is ebbing fast away; I suffer from these shocks,
And though I fix a lock on " Gray," there's gray upon my locks;
I'm far from "Young," am growing pale, I see my "Butler" fly;
And when they ask about my ail, 'tis "Burton" I reply.

They still have made me slight returns, and thus my griefs divide;

For O! they cured me of my "Burns," and eased my "Akenside." But all I think I shall not say, nor let my anger burn,

For, as they never found me ".

Gay," they have not left me "Sterne."

CONTENTMENT.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

"Man wants but little here below."

Little I ask; my wants are few;

I only wish a hut of stone,
(A very plain brown stone will do,)
That I may call my own;-

And close at hand is such a one,
In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me;
Three courses are as good as ten;-

If Nature can subsist on three,

Thank Heaven for three. Amen!
I always thought cold victual nice;
My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;

Give me a mortgage here and there,-
Some good bank stock,- some note of hand,

Or trifling railroad share,—

I only ask that Fortune send

A little more than I shall spend

My dame should dress in cheap attire;
(Good, heavy silks are never dear ;) —
I own perhaps I might desire

Some shawls of true Cashmere,—
Some marrowy crapes of China silk,
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive

So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait-two, forty-five

Suits me; I do not care;

Perhaps, for just a single spurt,
Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own

Titians and Raphaels three or four,I love so much their style and tone,— One Turner, and no more,

(A landscape,- foreground golden dirt, -
The sunshine painted with a squirt.)

Of books but few,-some fifty score
For daily use, and bound for wear;
The rest upon an upper floor; —

Some little luxury there

Of red morocco's gilded gleam,

And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems,—such things as these, Which others often show for pride,

For much good or much bad they are debtors

But before with their A B C they start,

There are things in morals, as well as art,

That play a very important part

"Impressions before the letters."

Dame Education begins the pile,
Mayhap in the graceful Corinthian style,
But alas for the elevation!

If the Lady's maid or Gossip the Nurse
With a load of rubbish, or something worse,
Have made a rotten foundation.

Even thus with little Miss Kilmansegg,
Before she learnt her E for egg,

Ere her Governess came, or her masters

Teachers of quite a different kind

Had "cramm'd" her beforehand, and put her mind
In a go-cart on golden castors.

Long before her A B and C,

They had taught her by heart her L. S. D.

And how she was born a great Heiress;
And as sure as London is built of bricks,
My Lord would ask her the day to fix,
To ride in a fine gilt coach and six,

Like Her Worship the Lady May-ress.
Instead of stories from Edgeworth's page,
The true golden lore for our golden age,
Or lessons from Barbauld or Trimmer,
Teaching the worth of Virtue and Health,
All that she knew was the Virtue of Wealth,
Provided by vulgar nursery stealth

With a book of Leaf Gold for a Primer.

The very metal of merit they told,

And praised her for being as "good as gold!"
Till she grew as a peacock haughty;

Of money they talk'd the whole day round,
And weigh'd dessert like grapes by the pound,
Till she had an idea from the very sound

That people with nought were naughty.

They praised her falls, as well as her walk,

Flatterers make cream cheese of chalk,

They praised how they praised - her very small talk, As if it fell from a Solon;

Or the girl who at each pretty phrase let drop

A ruby comma, or pearl full-stop,

Or an emerald semi-colon.

They praised her spirit, and now and then,
The Nurse brought her own little "nevy" Ben,
To play with the future May'ress,

And when he got raps, and taps, and slaps,
Scratches, and pinches, snips, and snaps,
As if from a Tigress or Bearess,

They told him how Lords would court that hand,
And always gave him to understand,

While he rubb'd, poor soul,

His carroty poll,

That his hair had been pull'd by "a Hairess."

Such were the lessons from maid and nurse,

A Governess help'd to make still worse,
Giving an appetite so perverse