“Yonder it is, in that ere cage agin the wall.”

“What a shame!” exclaimed the philanthropic youth,—­“to imprison a warbler of the woodlands in a cage, is the very height of cruelty—­liberty is the birthright of every Briton, and British bird!  I would rather be shot than be confined all my life in such a narrow prison.  What a mockery too is that piece of green turf, no bigger than a slop-basin.  How it must aggravate the feelings of one accustomed to range the meadows.”

“Miserable!  I was once in a cage myself,” said his chum.

“And what did they take you for?”

“Take me for?—­for a ‘lark.’”

“Pretty Dickey!”

“Yes, I assure you, it was all ‘dickey’ with me.”

“And did you sing?”

“Didn’t I? yes, i’ faith I sang pretty small the next morning when they fined me, and let me out.  An idea strikes me Suppose you climb up that post, and let out this poor bird, ey?”

“Excellent.”

“And as you let him off, I’ll let off my gun, and we’ll see whether I can’t ‘bang’ him in the race.”

No sooner said than done:  the post was quickly climbed—­the door of the cage was thrown open, and the poor bird in an attempt at ’death or liberty,’ met with the former.

Bang went the piece, and as soon as the curling smoke was dissipated, they sought for their prize, but in vain; the piece was discharged so close to the lark, that it was blown to atoms, and the feathers strewed the pavement.

“Bolt!” cried the freedom-giving youth, “or we shall have to pay for the lark.”

“Very likely,” replied the other, who had just picked up a few feathers, and a portion of the dissipated ’lark,’—­“for look, if here ain’t the—­bill, never trust me.”

SCENE III.

“You shall have the paper directly, Sir, but really the debates are so very interesting.”

“Oh! pray don’t hurry, Sir, it’s only the scientific notices I care about.”

What a thrill of pleasure pervades the philanthropic breast on beholding the rapid march of Intellect!  The lamp-lighter, but an insignificant ‘link’ in the vast chain of society, has now a chance of shining at the Mechanics’, and may probably be the means of illuminating a whole parish.

Literature has become the favourite pursuit of all classes, and the postman is probably the only man who leaves letters for the vulgar pursuit of lucre!  Even the vanity of servant-maids has undergone a change—­they now study ‘Cocker’ and neglect their ‘figures.’

But the dustman may be said, ‘par excellence,’ to bear—­the bell!

In the retired nook of an obscure coffee-shop may frequently be observed a pair of these interesting individuals sipping their mocha, newspaper in hand, as fixed upon a column—­as the statue of Napoleon in the Place Vendome, and watching the progress of the parliamentary bills, with as much interest as the farmer does the crows in his corn-field!