The LaurÉat of Little Britain was now left at liberty to follow his daily avocations; but that liberty was no guarantee that he would follow them; except, as some folks follow the fashions, at a considerable distance. He read the morning papers, went upon 'Change, inquired the price of stocks, set his watch by the dial of Bow Church, returned home, turned over the leaves of his ledger, hummed, whistled, poked the fire, scribbled on the blotting-paper, and cracked a joke with his solemn clerk. Still, with all these manifestations of being mightily busy about doing nothing, it was obvious that his wits were running a wild goose chase after Uncle Timothy's new blue coat and brass buttons. But the oddest is behind. Mrs. Norah Noclack suddenly betrayed unwonted symptoms of vocality. Her first notes fell on the astonished ear of the solemn clerk, and served him as the ghost of Banquo did Macbeth—pushed him from his stool. He hurried to the stair-head, marvelling what musical coil could be going on in the still-room. He next applied his oblique eye to the key-hole, and,—seeing is believing,—beheld the locomotive old lass rehearsing a minuet before the mirror, to the chromatic accompaniment of her wiry falsetto. Big with the portentous discovery, he bustled to Mr. Bosky, to whom, after unpacking his budget of strange news, he proposed the instant holding of a commission of lunacy, for the due and proper administration of her few hundreds in long annuities, two large boxes, and a chest of drawers, full of old-fashioned finery, besides sundry trinkets, the spoils of three courtships.

A few days after, the carolling of Mrs. Norah surprised Uncle Timothy, who recognising the real culprit in the eccentric muse of Mr. Benjamin Bosky, he took the laurÉat to task for putting his wardrobe into metre, hitching his Christian name into ludicrous rhyme, and turning the head and untuning the voice of the hitherto anti-musical Norah Noclack. Mr. Bosky exhibited deep contrition, but as Mr. Bosky's contrition bore considerable resemblance to Mr. Liston's tragedy, Uncle Timothy always dreaded to encounter it when anything serious was in the case. And so completely did the old chantress inoculate the solemn clerk with her musical mania, that one evening, when called upon for a toast and a song at the club * of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, held in an ancient trophied chamber over the venerable gateway of the Priory, he startled his brother knights with his unwonted enthusiasm. “Uncle Timothy! Sound trumpets! wave banners! shout voices!” This was the longest public oration that Mr. Fixture had made in his life. Certainly the only song that he was ever known to have sung was the old-fashioned housekeeper's——

APOTHEOSIS OF UNCLE TIM'S BRAN NEW BUTTONS AND BLUE.=

If I had my widow or maiden's whim—

I know who—I know who

It should be! Why, Uncle Tim,

In his bran new buttons and blue.

Tim's a middle ag'd gentleman sleek,

With a laughing eye and a cherry cheek!

He loves a good joke

Like other blythe folk;

A Christmas carol,

A cup from the barrel,

And a glass of old wine seven days in the week!

Hear him sing, and hear him talk,

The veriest merriest cock of the walk;

Daintily dress'd

Like a buck in his best!

Loyal and true

As his holiday blue!

With black silk stock and embroider'd vest;

In Wellingtons trim

Struts Uncle Tim!

With beaver and cane,

And smart gold chain—

Di'mond pin

Stuck under his chin—

All Little Britain

Were never so smitten!

We ne'er shall look on his like again!

Heigho! my heart is low!

Devils blue

As Tim's bran new!

Fidgets, fumes,

Mops and brooms!

Tantrums all from top to toe!

Heigho!

Such a quiz! such a beau!

Such a shape! such a make!

Would I were a lady,

As blooming as May-day;

With carriages, house, and

Twice twenty thousand;

If it only were for Uncle Timothy's sake!