Lest you should put the same question to me, I will give you my concluding piece of advice, which is, that you should beware of introducing second hand _Rural Tales_ and essays, from the successful labours of your predecessors. Such things _have_ happened more than once, and I remember reading a letter to the editor, in the first number of a new magazine, which was unfortunately signed by, _An Old Subscriber_. P. S. I meant to have called myself a _Constant Reader_, but, if you follow my advice, you will have so many of those, you will not know how to distinguish me from others. I shall, therefore, address my future correspondence, under the signature of my proper initials, S. L. U. M. * * * * * A CHAPTER ON LOGIC; _Or, the Horse Chesnut, and the Chesnut Horse._ Occasioned by an observation of Mr. Montague Mathew, in the house of commons, during the last session of parliament, that Mr. Mathew Montague was no more like him, than a horse chesnut was like a chesnut horse. An Eton stripling, training for the law, A dunce at syntax, but a dab at law, One happy christmas laid upon the shelf His cap and gown, and stores of learned pelf. With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome, To spend a fortnight at his uncle's home. Arriv'd, and pass'd the usual how d'ye do's, Inquiries of old friends and college news; "Well Tom--the road--what saw you worth discerning? Or how goes study:--what is it you're learning?" "Oh! logic, sir; but not the shallow rules Of Locke and Bacon--antiquated fools! 'Tis wits' and wranglers' logic: thus, d'ye see, I'll prove at once as plain as A B C, That an eel-pie's a pigeon--to deny it, Would be to swear black's not black--come let's try it. An eel-pie is a pie of fish--agreed, Fish-pie may be a jack-pie.--Well proceed. A jack-pie is a john-pie; and 'tis done, For every john-pie must be a pie-john,--" (pigeon.) "Bravo!" sir Peter cries, "logic for ever! That beats my grandmother's, and she was clever. But hold, my boy, since 'twould be very hard, That wit and learning should have no reward, Tomorrow, for a stroll, the Park we'll cross; And there I'll give thee,"--"What?" "My chesnut horse," "A horse!" quoth Tom, "blood, pedigree, and paces, Heav'ns what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races!" To bed he went, and slept for downright sorrow, That night must go before he'd see the morrow; Dreamt of his boots and spurs, and leather breeches, Of hunting-caps, and leaping rails and ditches; Left his warm nest an hour before the lark! Dragg'd his old uncle, posting, to the Park. Halter in hand, each vale he scour'd at loss, To spy out something like a chesnut horse; But no such animal the meadows cropt-- At length beneath a tree sir Peter stopt; A branch he caught, then shook it, and down fell A fine horse chesnut in its prickly shell.