for it, and filial love sanctified the act, and gloried in the artifice of the scattered crumbs.

"True, my father; but I had earned a few pence by making up a little lace, and the good woman that lodges above us procured me bread, and even a little meat. Pardon me again, that I waited not for you. I am-I mean-I was very hungry."

"Pardon!" said M. Florentin, with his mouth filled with one roll; "no, Rosalie,”— and here half the lettuce disappeared-" I should ask pardon of you,”—the other roll was now in his jaws―" for not better supporting”— the other half of the lettuce had disappeared— "a daughter so every way amiable,"—and here the whole dinner was bolted. "Le voilà tout-let us thank God for our repast, though, in truth, I have still great hunger."

The good Frenchman did not perceive the wolfish glare that shone in the eyes of his daughter, as he devoured this sorry meal; but, whilst he was drinking copiously of the water,

he caught, at a glance, her hurried action of sweeping every crumb off the table into the palm of her hand, and voraciously swallowing them. The truth flashed on the parent immediately; he turned to her sharply, and exclaimed, in a tone of great anger, "Rosalie, you have deceived me,-you, my child, have said the thing that is not. You have not dined -you are famished-you are starving."

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My kind father!"-the poor girl could say no more, but burst into a fit of weeping.

"I have still this penny, what can we sell ?" But, before he could say more, the rattling of the chain at the shop-door made him aware that some one had entered-and now he hears the footsteps of more than one person upon the narrow and dark stairs.

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"Dry up your tears, Rosalie," said he, hastily. Compose yourself, and do not let these hard-hearted English witness our distress."

He then stepped towards the door to fasten it; but he was anticipated; it was flung open,

gentle probity and polished urbanity of the other, been placed in any way so in contact with him, that he must acknowledge in them some rights, and respect in them some privileges, he, this man of dinner-donations, would have mocked those privileges, invaded those rights, and have endeavoured to place them, with all the power of his malice, in some unpleasant and inferior light.

It is upon this very principle that ladies, and gentlemen too, keep, and love pet animals, and, wonderful to relate! take to themselves credit for such monstrous affections. Lady Vilainame shall be alienated from her own mother, mortally hate her twin-sister, and shall have driven her only child from her doors, yet be overflowing with tenderness for an ugly and brutish lap-dog. Sir Hickery Rasp shall have driven a whole village out of their homes, to starve in the most inclemeut weather; he shall boast that he hates the poor, and yet be indulgently kind to his spaniel, so kind indeed, that

he will risk his life in a duel with the man whom he calls his friend to avenge a wrong put upon this dog.

But these affections prove not the love, but the tyranny of the human heart. These animals have no rights-nothing which demands respect; they ask for nothing, thus they gain all. They are things over which to exercise empire; we can play the despot on them, and therefore we love them.

If a lady or gentleman tell you they love their pets for certain presumed good qualities, believe them not. There is a vast harvest of virtues in their fellow-creatures, which they might garner into their bosoms, and there feed their best affections; but this they will not have ;they want an abject dependence, something on which to exercise the love of rule!

Alas! for poor human nature!

"Down, Pompey! down! I will not be so fondled upon! It is downright sycophancy. I'll have none of it. Look you, sirrah!-look

you; there is my brother-man coming towards us. Down, sirrah, and bark and snarl at him if you dare. You do not like rags, Pompey! but I tell you he's my brother! Lie down, Pompey. The man has a villanous look, however. Yet is he a fellow-sharer with me in the blessed privilege of immortality. Well, well; say no more, there is money for you-I am poor myself-my half-pay will scarcely permit me to keep up the necessary appearance of a gentleman-it will not indeed, my good man. You should not be ungrateful. What is my dog to you-better fed and housed, hey! Away with you, man; it is with my own money. You grow impertinent; rights of the poor indeed! what right have they to be impudent, sir? Don't presume upon my age! I am Captain Dribble. Be off, or I'll put the vagrant act in force. And it is quite terrible to hear a poor man swear in that way. Hie thee here, Pompey; O my good dog, my dear dog; and it loves its own master so!-