less of a neck, sinks hopelessly down into his garments, like a toad in a high-collared coat. Two vulgar-looking little squabs bless the connubial entwinement of Mr. and M'me P—, who appear at dessert with blue check aprons, and appetites by no means scrimp. There's Mrs. R—, much on a line with t' other, saving whitish viney curls instead of black, and the possession of dyspepsia, which causeth her to destroy, she being under a regimen, all the spongecake at table. There's a Mr. R., also, belonging to this fair malade, whose forte seems bowing to every body, and saying, 'Yes, Sir—yes, Sir.' There's old, old Mr. L-, enlivening his antique state, by frequent spring-time allusions; pretends to like 'snow-balling;' urges on the public what a d-1 of a beau he used to be with the ladies; insinuating, by many a furtive glance, as he protrudes his dwindled limb toward the fire, 'That was the leg for a boot!' But over all, commend me to an old, lean maid, with young, full airs, and gallopades. Oh, burthensome friskiness! Oh, damaged singing-voice! Miss L is the last rose left unplucked, on her ancient father's fading bush. Sweet Grace, (for such is her name,) step forth! Surely my Atalanta, thou'rt shod in mail; thou shak'st the house! Indeed, old damsel, I've no inborn spite against thee, but your affections, I clearly discover, are far from being scattered on my grateful head. My sins against you, rose of Sharon! are only younger days, a smoother tongue, and better courtesies of strangers journeying this way. Fidgetty, snappish and suspicious, I believe Mille to be malicious enough for any evil length. Her sweetest regulated address sounds premonitory of a quarrel; her best arranged attitude looks indicative of a stamp. Five or six women at board, and you could n't drain from all their united spirits drops enough to concoct one soul! What sustains my vital principle so long, I cannot tell. Go every evening in the parlor, there they sit; table in the centre, muslin hemming by the yard; sore-throat cures descanted on by the quart; extraordinary shrinking of flannel, if not properly washed, decried and lamented, and all with as much important interest as though the flimsy discussion embraced the hopes of immortality. Our medical students are increased to six; three last, through intolerable stinginess, or better, actual poverty, have taken one small room. I do hold that no full grown men, however linked in friendship's holy bonds, could, under any common circumstances, be induced, nay, driven, to apply to Morpheus every night in triplicates, for his drowsy favors.

Any way, I do despise medical students; the pompous, ignorant, wordy, strutting geese! Oh, this is some relief! for I long every minute to box their ears! There, take it, Dr. R-! and you, you fat, unmannered lump!—and You, above the whole classic group, you mincing, smoking, be-singed, and curly sap! How DARE you speak to me withal in as soft, assured a tone, as though your Indian-beads were 'pearls' Strange how some people are satisfied with whatever they can get! There's Miss L, and the rest, all trying to make themselves seductive in the eyes of as vulgar, rough a portion of our country's youth, as ever fed on corn-bread. Doubtless it is delightful to be able to mix our respective ingredients with whatever compound is likely for a season to be continually placed in our sight, and by our side. Can't submit! Stay up stairs, first, from

one week to another. I there have my baby, my thoughts, and (woman's mighty solace!) abundance of plain sewing. Happy sex! who find our Egeria within the compass of a small wicker-work basket, while the breast of tired and toiling man beats only responsive to the voice of ambition, or the chink of riches. There's an idea going the rounds, that the sphere of woman is contracted.' She can't skate on the Delaware, nor walk down by herself to the Exchange, to hear the morning news; but there are excellent plots' in the arrangement of patch-work, and life's sweetness comes to a focus in the boiling midst of a kettle of molasses candy!'

THE OLD TOWN PUMP.

'AND a good many of ye town of Boston can testifie, that evil spirits have greatly troubled them, appearing in diverse forms and shapes, and sometimes continuing their hatefull visits, at brief intervals, for nearly a whole moneth at a time.'

COTTON MATHER.

NEARLY a century ago, long before our good ancestors, the colonists, thought of throwing off the yoke of Great Britain, there was an old pump, situated at the foot of Copp's Hill. In its best days, it had been celebrated for supplying the North End with the purest water in Boston. It had its failings, however, as what pump has not? It resolutely refused water, save early in the morning or late at night. When morning and night came, therefore, it was thronged with regular customers,' who, notwithstanding the large numbers, peaceably took their turn, without even so much as shoving or pushing, to gain precedence. Alas! how short is human life! Not one of all the goodly company who were wont to resort to that pump, are now living. They have wasted from the face of the earth, and even their names have perished! The venerable old relic, too, its antiquated handle, its curious-crooked nose, its old-fashioned shoe, and its short, round body, and thick cap, with Timothy Block, Maker, 1700,' engraved upon it, has perished. Ah, me! that old pump! which once served as a landmark to a lost townsman in a dark night, even as the light-house guides the tempest-tossed mariner, which was the assignation-place, the trysting-tree, could it have spoken, what tales could it not have unfolded, of plots, rebellion, and treason! It could have whispered, too, of the lover's soft tale, told beneath its friendly shadow. But it has perished; its springs have long since dried up, its body prostrated, and its ancient cap, which should have claimed respect for its antiquity, from the hand of sacrilege, laid level with the dust. Avarice and worldly gain has erected a block of buildings upon the site which it once occupied, and it is known no more.

About a stone's throw from the spot upon which it stood, there still existed, in 1800, an old-fashioned two-story wooden house, once painted red, but so altered by time, that scarcely a vestige of its former color remained, when it was torn down. This was the residence of Bill Gray, a cobbler by trade, who supported his mother and himself from his earnings, by mending shoes and leggins for the good town's people of Boston. Bill was fond of an extra glass, and often in the summer season, when his day's work was over, would run down to the 'King George' tavern, only just for a few minutes, where, in company with congenial spirits, he was pretty sure to spend half the night.

One evening in May, 1750, Bill was seated as usual in the tap-room of the King George.' A storm had been gathering all day in the heavens, and just at nightfall had burst in all its fury upon the little town of Boston. So sudden had been its advent, that many, who but a minute before had prophesied that it would undoubtedly hold off till morning, were, in spite of their prediction, compelled to fly for shelter to the nearest cover. Of this number was Bill gray, who

chanced to be standing near the tavern. It was quite natural for him to dodge into the bar-room of the 'George.' A general shout from a drinking party at a table welcomed him, and after drying his wet garments by the fire, he took a seat at the table with them.

As it had evidently set in for a rainy night, the party determined to enjoy themselves under cover, and bid defiance to the storm which raged without. Ordering fresh fuel and liquor, therefore, they prepared to make themselves as comfortable as the case would admit. The wind, weather, crops, and other topics, which to this day furnish materials for common-place conversation, having been worn out, the company began to look each other in the face, and in spite of all their endeavors, their spirits began to flag, and all for want of something to talk about. Suddenly one of the company proposed that they should all take turns in relating stories. The proposition was at once voted a good one, and innumerable were the tales that were told that night. There was one in particular, which was deeply impressed upon the mind of Bill Gray, who, to the day of his death, remembered every syllable, exactly as it was narrated. The burden of the tale was simply this. A man, for some trifling consideration, sold his soul to Satan. At the expiration of a few years, he was waited upon by his Infernal Majesty, and transferred to his kingdom, with the usual accompaniments of fire, smoke, blue lightning, and thunder.

Ten o'clock struck, before the party thought of breaking up; and when they did, Bill Gray, with his hands in his pockets, ran home with all the speed he was master of, keeping his eyes closed all the way, lest he should meet the Evil One, and be tempted to barter his hopes of salvation. After safely locking the door, he began to congratulate himself upon being again at home. He was thinking of a draught of water, before going to bed, when, happening to cast a look into the bucket, he perceived that it was empty.

What was to

be done? He must either start off and fill it, or rise a great deal earlier in the morning than suited his habits. He could not forego his morning's nap, nor could he bring his mind to pay a nocturnal visit to the old pump, at the foot of Copp's, especially when his brain was filled with ghosts, hobgoblins, and the heroes of such awful legends as he had heard that evening. But as the water must be had, he decided, after a severe mental struggle, that the best thing he could do, would be at once to start, before his courage could have time to evaporate. Seizing the bucket, he rushed in desperation out of the house, and took his way, by the shortest cut, to the pump.

The storm was over, and the clouds breaking away, gave tokens of a fair day on the morrow. But Bill cared not for this; his greatest solicitude was, to get back in the least possible time, without meeting the Imp of Darkness. He soon found himself alongside the pump, and under the faint glimmering lamp, which the inhabitants of the North-End had purchased by voluntary subscription, and planted near it. Suspending his bucket under the nose, he clutched the handle, and moved it convulsively up and down a dozen times, but without success. Not a drop flowed. Again he tried, and yet again, but a long, dry cough was all he could elicit. In his vexation, he raised his arm, and dealt the inanimate offender a severe blow with his elenched fist.

'Come, look out how you hit me, Bill Gray !' said a gruff voice, close to him.

Bill raised his eyes, in unfeigned astonishment, and beheld, seated across the nose of the pump, a little figure scarcely two feet in height, dressed in a black suit, with a red woollen cap on his head. He was one entire deformity. On his back he carried a miniature mountain; his head was larger than any three Bill had ever seen; his legs were like drum-sticks, and his face was lit up with a hideous expression, while from his eyes there darted an unearthly twinkle.

Who who are you?' stammered Gray.

My name is Knippercrack,' answered the same gruff voice: 'I am the tutelar genius of this pump. I preside over its destiuies, and I won't permit it to be abused, especially by one upon whom it has been in the habit of conferring its favors.'

As he said this, the little man clapped his hands, and gave vent to something between a screech and a howl, which rëechoed through the neighborhood, until it seemed that it would lift the very roofs of the houses; and our hero fancied he could hear the same cry repeated in chorus by a thousand voices, on the summit of Copp's.

'Now, tell me,' growled the genius -'tell me truly, or I'll pass you over to the good people up the hill there- what are you doing here, at this time of night?'

Bill made out to say that he was after water.

Hoo! hoo! hoo!' yelled Knippercrack. Hoo! hoo! hoo!' repeated the chorus on the hill. Tell that to those whom you can make believe it!' continued Knippercrack, with a laugh of derision ; • come after water at this time of night? All fudge! You lie, Bill Gray! you know you lie!'

Although Bill was undoubtedly the biggest coward in Boston, still he could not stand and hear himself thus berated, without feeling a hearty good will to upset the little gentleman into the shoe of the pump- if he only dared! Such thoughts did indeed flit across his mind; and growing bolder by degrees, he ventured to survey more closely the person of the diminutive imp, and to institute a comparison between his strength and his own, and the probable result of a rough-and-tumble.

I'll bet I can wallop him!' exclaimed Bill, mentally, 'right between his peepers. I'll try it!'

'No you won't, Bill; you'll wish you had n't, if you do!' growled Knippercrack.

Bill started back in amazement.

secret thoughts!

I didn't say nothin',' said Gray.

The little man had read his most

No, but you thought so,' retorted the genius.

I'll thank you for my bucket; I'll be goin' home, I guess,' said Bill, after a short pause, during which time he had been screwing up his courage to make the demand.

Your bucket! Hoo! hoo! hoo!' And again the chorus on the hill repeated, 'Hoo! hoo! hoo!'

Look here, Bill Gray!' cried Knippercrack; and therewith he kicked the bucket into the shoe of the pump. Bill sprang toward it, but before he reached it, he found himself unaccountably rooted to the spot on which he stood. So strong and potent were the invisi