A-staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky: Then she beckons with her finger, and so down to her I reaches, And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches, For, poor soul! she has a husband and young orphans, as I knew; Well, Ma’am, you won’t believe it, but it’s Gospel fact and true, But these words is all she whispered--‘Why, where _is_ the powder blew?’” [Illustration: “SKYING A COPPER.”] [Illustration: “IF THE COACH GOES AT SIX PRAY WHAT TIME GOES THE BASKET?”] THE LAST SHILLING. He was evidently a foreigner, and poor. As I sat at the opposite corner of the Southgate stage, I took a mental inventory of his wardrobe. A military cloak much the worse for wear,--a blue coat, the worse for tear,--a napless hat--a shirt neither white nor brown--a pair of mud-colour gloves, open at each thumb--gray trousers too short for his legs--and brown boots too long for his feet. From some words he dropt, I found that he had come direct from Paris, to undertake the duties of French teacher, at an English academy; and his companion, the English classical usher, had been sent to London, to meet and conduct him to his suburban destination. Poor devil, thought I, thou art going into a bitter bad line of business; and the hundredth share which I had taken in the boyish persecutions of my own French master--an emigré of the old noblesse--smote violently on my conscience. At Edmonton the coach stopped. The coachman alighted, pulled the bell of a mansion inscribed in large letters, Vespasian House; and deposited the foreigner’s trunks and boxes on the footpath. The English classical usher stepped briskly out, and deposited a shilling in the coachman’s anticipatory hand. Monsieur followed the example, and with some precipitation prepared to enter the gate of the fore-garden, but the driver stood in the way. “I want another shilling,” said the coachman. “You agreed to take a shilling a-head,” said the English master. “You said you would take one shilling for my head,” said the French master. “It’s for the luggage,” said the coachman. The Frenchman seemed thunderstruck; but there was no help for it. He pulled out a small weasel-bellied, brown silk purse, but there was nothing in it save a medal of Napoleon. Then he felt his breast-pockets, then his side-pockets, and then his waistcoat-pockets; but they were all empty, excepting a metal snuff-box, and that was empty too. Lastly he felt the pockets in the flaps of his coat, taking out a meagre would-be white handkerchief, and shaking it; but not a dump. I rather suspect he anticipated the result--but he went thro’ the operations _seriatim_, with the true French gravity. At last he turned to his companion, with a “Mistare Barbiere, be as good to lend me one shilling.”