Like you I was once a great prophet on weather, And deemed to possess a more prescient knack Than dogs, frogs, pigs, cattle, or cats, all together, The donkeys that bray, and the dillies that quack. With joy, then, as ashes retain former passion, I saw my old mantle lugg’d out from the shelf, Turn’d, trimmed, and brushed up, and again brought in fashion, I seem’d to be almost reviving myself! But, oh! from my joys there was soon a sad cantle-- As too many cooks make a mull of the broth-- To find that two Prophets were under my mantle, And pulling two ways at the risk of the cloth. Unless you would meet with an awkwardish tumble, Oh! join like the Siamese twins in your jumps; Just fancy if Faith on her Prophets should stumble, The one in his clogs, and the other in pumps! But think how the people would worship and wonder, To find you “hail fellows, well met,” in your hail, In one tune with your rain, and your wind and your thunder, “’Fore God,” they would cry, “they are both in a tale!” Consider the hint. [Illustration: RATHER OUT IN THE WEATHER.] THE DISCOVERY. “It’s a nasty evening,” said Mr. Dornton, the stockbroker, as he settled himself in the last inside place of the last Fulham coach, driven by our old friend Mat--an especial friend in need, be it remembered, to the fair sex. “I wouldn’t be outside,” said Mr. Jones, another stockbroker, “for a trifle.” “Nor I, as a speculation in options,” said Mr. Parsons, another frequenter of the Alley. “I wonder what Mat is waiting for,” said Mr. Tidwell, “for we are full inside and out.” Mr. Tidwell’s doubt was soon solved,--the coach-door opened and Mat somewhat ostentatiously enquired, what indeed he very well knew--“I believe every place is took up inside?” “We’re all here,” answered Mr. Jones, on behalf of the usual complement of old stagers. “I told you so, Ma’am,” said Mat, to a female who stood beside him, but still leaving the door open to an invitation from within. However, nobody spoke--on the contrary, I felt Mr. Hindmarsh, my next neighbour, dilating himself like the frog in the fable. “I don’t know what I shall do,” exclaimed the woman; “I’ve nowhere to go to, and it’s raining cats and dogs!” “You’d better not hang about, anyhow,” said Mat, “for you may ketch your death,--and I’m the last coach,--aint I, Mr. Jones?” “To be sure you are,” said Mr. Jones, rather impatiently; “shut the door.” “I told the lady the gentlemen couldn’t make room for her,” answered Mat, in a tone of apology,--“I’m very sorry, my dear” (turning towards the female), “you should have _my_ seat, if you could hold the ribbons--but such a pretty one as you ought to have a coach of her own.” He began slowly closing the door.