gamble till midnight, who burn wood and
candles through the night, swill the wine of the
cellar, and sleep far into the morning — to the
hospital. Corn is eaten in the green ear still :
sometimes the seed-crop is consumed. We
have gamblers who make the first pack after
midnight. We are distinguished by roysterers
who rob to entertain, and burn the candles and
wood of other people throughout the dark
hours.

Who marry for love, having nothing — to the
hospital. We are now discussing on how many
hundreds of pounds sterling per annum two
young people of the middle class may assume
the responsibilities and duties of matrimony.

The prudent starting point is a moot question
still, because the moralist's other warnings are
neglected. The silks are worn, the feasting is
held, the wood and coals are burning in the
thousands of houses which are ruled in this
land by what Mrs. Argus over the way says.

Who are lazy dressers in the morning — to
the hospital. Who work in holiday clothes—
to the hospital. On the other hand, people who
allow their hangings to rot against their walls,
and their linen to decay in their chests — to the
hospital. Who becomes security for his fellow-
man—to the hospital. The moralist is hard in
this unqualified condemnation of the friend who
takes risk for his friend. The borrower, the
lender, and the surety, are three individualities
not to be dismissed in a few oracular words.
In the main, our ancient moralist is right. The
borrower, he possibly argued, is, as a rule, the
thriftless man; ergo he will not meet his
engagement, and his surety will have to pay.
But the trio who figure in a loan are interesting
creatures who refuse to be lightly and curtly
handled. Poor gentlemen and journeymen who
indulge in kickshaws — to the hospital. People
who leave their gardens, orchards, and vineyards
unenclosed, when the fruit is ripe — to the
hospital. These are cousins-german at least to
the family that has pursued the unprofitable
occupation of shutting the stable-door after the
steed has been stolen, from father to son,
through unnumbered generations.

The moralist opens some ways to the hospital
which are severe, in the manner of Rochefoucault;
as, for example, people who ask their
neighbours often to break bread with them—to
the hospital. Fathers and mothers who make
over their worldly goods to their children, in
the faith that these will honour and cherish
them in their old age — to the hospital. This
latter warning, we take it, was forced upon the
moralist by the constant witnessing of the deeds
of undutiful children, in the agricultural
districts of old France, who were in the habit of
grumbling over the old man and woman in the
chimney corner, as incumbrances, since they
were regular charges on the farm, and could
not be got rid of.

Who let the horse's back become raw, for
want of timely attention to the saddle—to the
hospital. Who, grudging an outlay of ten
crowns, lose one hundred — to the hospital.

Cowley has turned the moralist's warning
sharply in a line:

The rich poor man's emphatically poor.

People who having but slender means, eat apart,
the husband at one hour and the wife at another
— to the hospital. The moral precept is good
to-day. The meal in common is the happy and
economical meal. Who are lavish, living in the
hope of a legacy — to the hospital. Who having
a groat, make largesse of a shilling — to the
hospital. Who travel to distant markets or fairs,
when they should be working, still only for a
tenpence, and spend a shilling besides losing
several days' work — to the hospital. To the
hospital, and at a galloping pace, without over-
much sympathy from anybody!

The moralist sums up the travellers on the
highway to the hospital, in a few sharp
sentences. In the year 1502 a spade was
emphatically called a spade: then, the faults of fools
were dubbed folly. The moralist said finally
to the ignorant country folk who get their
literature out of the hawker's pack — all gourmands,
swearers, blasphemers, idlers, sots, gipsy-rascals,
are inheritors of the hospital. He who moralised
four centuries back, could he wake in a
Breton village to-morrow morning and listen
to the commérage of the neighbourhood, would
not find much work laid out for him in the way
of amending his warnings. He would find the
old figures still tripping, stumbling, or singing
and capering, along the high-road to ruin. He
would pass the house where the wood and
candles were burning all night. Should he peep
into the stable he would perceive the mare with
a raw back, and the pièce de conviction in the
shape of a ragged saddle on the harness-peg.
The silk of the farmer's daughter would rustle
in his ear. His eye would fall upon the
unprotected orchard: and swinging upon a gate,
a narrow-browed churl would appear to him
still nibbling his grain in the green ear!

SIXTY-EIGHT IN ABYSSYNIA.

I AM mule Number Sixty-eight. How I
acquired powers of observation and the gift of
speech is my secret. If disclosed at all, the
communication will be made to my own people
only. The mules upon two legs will get no help
from me.

My address, at birth, was Panticosa, on the
Gallego, Pyrenees. My mother was a mare of
great beauty owned by a Caballero, who farmed
his own lands. My father was the greatest
donkey in the South of France.

Here let me observe that the wretched little
asses to be met with in the market towns of
Spain, are not the fathers of that magnificent
quadruped the Spanish mule. Our noble sires
are a tall ancient race, whose blood has been
kept blue since the days when Spain was
conquered by the Moors. Although our mothers
are nearly all residents in Spain, our fathers are