A Coppersmith I can’t endure-- Nor petty Usher A, B, C-ing; A Publican no father sure, Would be the author of his being! XIII. A Paper-maker?--come he must To rags before he sells a sheet-- A Miller?--all his toil is just To make a meal--he does not eat. XIV. A Currier?--that by favour goes-- A Chandler gives me great misgiving-- An Undertaker?--one of those That do not hope to get their living! XV. Three Golden Balls?--I like them not; An Auctioneer I never did-- The victim of a slavish lot, Obliged to do as he is bid! XVI. A Broker watching fall and rise Of Stock?--I’d rather deal in stone,-- A Printer?--there his toils comprise Another’s work beside his own. XVII. A Cooper?--neither I nor Jem Have any taste or turn for that,-- A fish retailer?--but with him, One part of trade is always flat. [Illustration: THE FAMILY LIBRARY.] XVIII. A Painter?--long he would not live,-- An Artist’s a precarious craft-- In trade Apothecaries give, But very seldom take, a draught. XIX. A Glazier?--what if he should smash! A Crispin he shall not be made-- A Grazier may be losing cash, Although he drives “a roaring trade.” XX. Well, something must be done! to look On all my little works around-- James is too big a boy, like book, To leave upon the shelf unbound. XXI. But what to do?--my temples ache From evening’s dew till morning’s pearl, What course to take my boy to make-- Oh could I make my boy--a girl! [Illustration: SON AND SHADE.] LITERARY REMINISCENCES. No. IV. “And are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he’s weel?”--OLD SCOTCH SONG. THE great Doctor Johnson--himself a sufferer--has pathetically described, in an essay on the miseries of an infirm constitution, the melancholy case of an Invalid, with a willing mind in a weak body. “The time of such a man,” he says, “is spent in forming schemes which a change of wind prevents him from executing; his powers fume away in projects and in hope, and the day of action never arrives. He lies down delighted with the thoughts of to-morrow; but in the night the skies are overcast; the temper of the air is changed; he wakes in languor, impatience, and distraction; and has no longer any wish but for ease, nor any attention but for misery.” In short the Rambler describes the whole race of Valetudinarians as a sort of great Bitumen Company, paving a certain nameless place, as some of the Asphalticals have paved Oxford Street, with not very durable good intentions. In a word, your Invalid promises like a Hogamy, and performs like a Pigamy.