THE Humourist's Own Book. Whitfield. DR. FRANKLIN, in his Memoirs, bears witness to the extraordinary effect which was produced by Mr. Whitfield's preaching in America; and relates an anecdote equally characteristic of the preacher and of himself. "I happened," says the doctor, "to attend one of his sermons, in the course of which I perceived he intended to finish with a collection, and I silently resolved he should get nothing from me. I had in my pocket a handful of copper money, three or four silver dollars, and five pistoles in gold. As he proceeded, I began to soften, and concluded to give the copper. Another stroke of his oratory made me ashamed of that, and determined me to give the silver; and he finished so admirably, that I emptied my pocket wholly into the collector's dish, gold and all. At this sermon there was also one of our club; who being of my sentiments respecting the object of the charity, and suspecting a collection might be intended, had by precaution emptied his pockets before he came from home towards the conclusion of the discourse, however, he felt a strong inclination to give, and applied to a neighbour who stood near him to lend him some money for the purpose. The request was fortunately made to perhaps the only man in the : company who had the firmness not to be affected by the preacher. His answer was, 'At any other time, friend Hodgkinson, I would lend to thee freely; but not now, for thee seems to be out of thy right senses.' Casting Reflections. In the late Professor Hill's class, the gilded buttons of one of the students happened to reflect the . rays of the sun upon the Professor's face, who, as may be supposed, ordered the gentleman to give over throwing reflections on him. The student, totally ignorant of the matter, with the utmost simplicity said, "That he would be the last in the class who would cast reflections on the Professor." Union of Literary Compositions. At a large literary party in Edinburgh some years ago, it was mentioned that a certain wellknown literary character had written two poems, one called "The Bible," the other "The Ocean;" that he was offering them to the booksellers, who, however, would not accede to his terms of publication; and that the worthy author was therefore puzzled not a little as to what he should do with his productions. "Why," remarked a sarcastic gentleman, who was present, "I think the doctor could not do better than throw the one into the other." Pun by the Ettrick Shepherd. Some literary and scientific gentlemen one day dined with Mr. Hogg at his farm of Mont Benger, when it was mentioned by some one, as a strange thing, that Dr. Parr should have lately been mar ried in a somewhat clandestine way, and that nobody knew who his wife was, or any thing about her. Ah," said the shepherd, "I am afraid she must have been a little below Par. 66 Daft Willie Law Was the descendant of an ancient family, nearly related to the famous John Law, of Laurieston, the celebrated financier of France. Willie, on that account, was often spoken to, and taken notice of, by gentlemen of distinction. Posting one day through Kirkaldy with more than ordinary speed, he was met by the late Mr. Oswald, of Dunnikier, who asked him where he was going in such a hurry. Going!" says Willie, with apparent surprise, "I'm gaen to my cousin Lord Elgin's burial." "Your cousin Lord Elgin's burial, you fool! Lord Elgin's not dead," replied Mr. Oswald. "Ah! deil ma care," quoth Willie, "there's sax doctors out o' Embro' at 'im, and they'll hac him dead afore I win for it." 66 The Dead Alive. Some hypochondriacs have fancied themselves miserably afflicted in one way, and some in another; some have insisted that they were tea-pots, and some that they were town-clocks; one that he was extremely ill, and another that he was actually dying. But, perhaps, none of this blue-devil class ever matched in extravagance a patient of the late Dr. Stevenson, of Baltimore. This hypochondriac, after ringing the change of every mad conceit that ever tormented a crazy brain, would have it at last that he was dead, actually dead. Dr. Stevenson having been sent for one B morning in great haste, by the wife of his patient, hastened to his bed-side, where he found him stretched out at full length, his hands across his breast, his toes in contact, his eyes and mouth closely shut, and his looks cadaverous. "Well, sir, how do you do? how do you do, this morning?" asked Dr. Stevenson, in a jocular way, approaching his bed. "How do I do !" replied the hypochondriac faintly; "a pretty question to ask a dead man." "Dead!" replied the doctor. "Yes, sir, dead, quite dead. I died last night about twelve o'clock." Dr. Stevenson putting his hand gently on the forehead of the hypochondriac, as if to ascertain whether it was cold, and also feeling his pulse, exclaimed in a doleful tone, "Yes, the poor man is dead enough; 'tis all over with him, and now the sooner he can be buried the better." Then stepping up to his wife, and whispering to her not to be frightened at the measures he was about to take, he called to the servant: 06 'My boy, your poor master is dead; and the sooner he can be put in the ground the better. Run to Cm, for I know he always keeps New England coffins by him ready made; and, do you hear, bring a coffin of the largest size, for your master makes a stout corpse, and having died last night, and the weather being warm, he will not keep long." Away went the servant, and soon returned with a proper coffin. The wife and family having got their lesson from the doctor, gathered round him, and howled not a little, while they were putting the body in the coffin. Presently the pall-bearers, who were quickly provided, and let into the secret, started with the hypochondriac for the church-yard. They had not gone far before they were met by one of the town's people, who having been properly drilled by Stevenson, cried out, "Ah, doctor, what poor soul have you got there?" "Poor Mr. P last night." sighed the doctor, "left us "Great pity he had not left us twenty years ago," replied the other; "he was a bad man." Presently another of the townsmen met them with the same question, “And what poor soul have you got there, doctor?" "Poor Mr. B " is dead." -," answered the doctor again, "Ah! indeed," said the other; "and so he is gone to meet his deserts at last." "Oh villain!" exclaimed the man in the coffin. Soon after this, while the pall-bearers were resting themselves near the church-yard, another stepped up with the old question again, "What poor soul have you got there, doctor?"" "Poor Mr. B -," he replied, "is gone." Yes, and to the bottomless pit," said the other; "for if he has not gone there, I see not what use there is for such a place." Here the dead man, bursting off the lid of the coffin, which had been purposely left loose, leaped out, exclaiming, "Oh you villain! I am gone to the bottomless pit, am I? Well, I am come back again, to pay such ungrateful rascals as you are." A chase was immediately commenced, by the dead man after the living, to the petrifying consternation of many of the spectators, at sight of a corpse, in all the horrors of the winding-sheet, running through the streets. After having exercised himself into a copious perspiration by the fantastic race, the hypochondriac was brought home by Dr. Stevenson, freed from all his complaints; and by strengthening food, generous |