servant’s capacity in the art of borrowing, or, at all events, on his ingenuity on framing an excuse, inquired, with an angry voice, why there was no table-cloth.  The answer was, “Massa not got;” with which reply, after apologizing to his guests, he was compelled, for the present, to put up.  The next morning he called his servant, and rated him soundly, and perhaps beat him, (for I lament to say that this was too much the practice with European masters in India,) for exposing his poverty to the company; desiring him, another time, if similarly circumstanced, to say that all the table-cloths were gone to the wash.  Another day, although the table appeared clothed in the proper manner, the spoons, which had probably found their way to the bazar, perhaps to provide the very articles of which the feast was composed, were absent, whether with or without leave is immaterial.  “Where are all the spoons?” cried the apparently enraged master.  “Gone washerman, sar!” was the answer.  Roars of laughter succeeded, and a teacup did duty for the soup-ladle.  The probable consequence of this unlucky exposure of the domestic economy of the host, namely, a sound drubbing to the poor maty-boy, brings to my mind an anecdote which, being in a story-telling vein, I cannot resist the temptation of introducing.  It was related to me, with great humour, by one of the principals in the transaction, whose candour exceeded his fear of shame.  He had been in the habit of beating his servants, till one in particular complained that he would have him before Sir Henry Gwillam, then chief justice at Madras, who had done all in his power to suppress the disgraceful practice.  Having a considerable balance to settle with his maty-boy on the score of punishment, but fearing the presence of witnesses, the master called him one day into a bungalow at the bottom of his garden, at some distance from the house.  “Now,” said he as he shut the door and put the key into his pocket, “you’ll complain to Sir Henry Gwillam, will you?  There is nobody near to bear witness to what you may say, and, with the blessing of God, I’ll give it you well.”—­“Massa sure nobody near?” asked the Indian.—­“Yes, yes, I’ve taken good care of that.”—­“Then I give massa one good beating.”  And forthwith the maty-boy proceeded to put his threat into execution, till the master, being the weaker of the two, was compelled to cry mercy; which being at length granted, and the door opened with at least as much alacrity as it was closed, Maotoo decamped without beat of drum, never to appear again.—­Twelve Years’ Military Adventures, &c.

* * * * *

THE GATHERER.

A snapper up of unconsidered trifles. 
SHAKSPEARE.

* * * * *

MEMENTO MORI.

Inscribed on a Tombstone.

When you look on my grave,
And behold how they wave,
The cypress, the yew, and the willow,
You think ’tis the breeze
That gives motion to these—­
’Tis the laughter that’s shaking my pillow.