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The late Earl of Chesterfield was universally esteemed the Maecenas of the age in which he lived. Dr. Johnson addressed the plan of his dictionary of the English language to him on that account; and his lordship endeavoured to be grateful by recommending that valuable work in two essays, which, among others, he published in a paper intituled the World, conducted by Mr. Moore and his literary friends. Some time after, however, the doctor took great offence at being refused admittance to Lord Chesterfield, which happened by a mistake of the porter; and just before the work was finished, on Mr. Moore's expressing his surprise that Dr. Johnson did not intend to dedicate the book to his lordship, the lexicographer declared he was under no obligation to any great man whatever, and therefore should not make him his patron. “Pardon me, sir,” said Moore, “you are certainly obliged to his lordship for the two elegant papers he has written in favour of your performance.” – “You quite mistake the thing,” returned Johnson, “I confess no obligation. I feel my own dignity, sir; I have made a Commodore Anson's voyage round the whole

world of the English language i and while I am

coming into port, with a fair wind on a fine sun

shiny day, my Lord Chesterfield sends out two little cock-boats to tow me in. I am very sets. ble of the favour, Mr. Moore, and should be sorry to say an ill-natured thing of that nobleman; but I cannot help thinking he is a lord among wits, and a wit among lords. ,

LETTER FROM AN irish GENTLEWOMAN to HER SON IN LONDON,

My dear child, I thought it my duty incumbint upon me, tal you know that your only living sister, Case Mac-Frame, has been violently ill of a fit of air, ness, and is dead ; therefore we have small of hopes of her gitting bitter. Your dear modth constantly prayed for a long and speedy recover I am sorry to acquaint you, that your godfath Patrick O'Conner, is also dead. His dith was casioned by ateing rid-hirrings stuffed wid ps tes, or parates stuffed wid rid hirrings, 1 a know which ; and notwithstanding the surge attended him for three weeks, he died sudd, for want of hilp on the day of his dith, which Sunday night last. The great bulk of his e. comes to an only dead child in the family. I have made a prisent of your sister's diae ring to Mr. O'Hara, the great small-beer bro for three guineas ; and I have taken the corner-house that is burnt down, on a rept lase. I have sint you a Dublin Canary-bird, w have carefully put up in a rat-trap, with food in a snuff-box, which will come free charges, only paying the captain for the pse Pray sind me the news of the prosad eunHouse of Commons nixt week; for we he have given us leave to import all our par England, which is great news indeed. Write immediately, and don't stay for an Dirict for me nixt door to the Bible and in Copper Alley, Dublin, for there 1 a.

but I shall remove to-morrow into my neoDon't sind to me in a frank again ; for the last liter that came free was charged thirteen-pince. $o no more at prisent from Your dutiful modther, CAMEv CAmr NAYL MAC FRAME. P. S. I did not sale this litter, to prevint it from being broke open ; therefore send word if it miscarries. Your cousin-in-law, Thady O'Dogharty, is gone for a light-horseman among the marines.

Impossi BLE To SCREEN A FOOLs

A master tailor, as tis said, By buckram, canvass, tape, and thread, Hair cloths, and wadding, silk, and twist, And all the long extensive list With which their uncouth bills abound (Though rarely in their garments found :) With these and other arts in trade, He soon a handsofhe fortune made ; And did, what few have ever done, Left thirty thousand to his son.

The son, a gay young swagg'ring blade, Abhorr'd the very name o’ the trade, And, lest reflections should be thrown Ou him, resolv’d to leave the town, And travel where he was not kuown.

To Oxford first he made his way, with gilded coach and liv'ries gay : The bucks and beaux his taste admire, His equipage and rich attire : But nothing was so much adored As his fine silver-hilted sword ; Tho' small, and short, 'twas vastly meat, The sight was deem'd a perfect treat; Beau Banter begg'd to have a look, But when the sword in hand he took, He swore, by Jove, it was an odd thing, And Inok'd just like a tailor's bodkin. *-au Shred was gail'd at his expression, Thinking they knew his mean profession ; *neathing his sword he sneak'd away, And drove for Glo'ster the same day.

There soon he found new cause of grief For (dining on some fine roast beef) They asked him which he did prefer, Some cabbage or some cucumber.

What was design'd a complient, He thought severe reflection meant : His stomach turn'd, he could not eat, So made an ungenteel retreat; Next day left Glo'ster in great wrath, And bade his coachman drive to Bath, There he suspected fresh abuse, Because the dinner was roast goose ; And that he might no more be jeer'd, For Exeter directly steer'd.

There with the beaux, he drank about,
Until he fear'd they'd find him out ;
His glass not fill'd (as was his rule)
They said 'twas not a thimble full
The name of thimble was enough,
He paid his reckoning and went off.
Next day to Plymouth he remov’d,
Where he still unsuccessful proved
For tho’ he filled his glass or cup,
He did not always drink it up ;
The topers mark’d how he behav'd,
And said “a remnant should be sav'd.”

The name of remnant gall'd him so, He then resolv'd for York to go ; There fill’d his bumper to the top, And always fairly drank it up ; “Well done,” said Jack, a buck of York, “You go through stitch, sir, with your work.”

The name of stitch was such reproach, He rang the bell, and call'd the coach; But e'er he went, enquiry made By what means they found out his trade.

You put the cap on, and it fits, Replied one of the Yorkshire wits : Our words, in common acceptation, Could not find out your occupation ; ‘Twas you yourself gave us the clue, To find out both your trade and you ;

Proud coxcombs and fantastic beaux,
In ev'ry place themselves expose:
They travel far, at great expense,
To shew their wealth and want of sense;
But take this for a standing rule,
There's no disguise will screen a fool.

character of A MiGilty Good KIND of A M.A.N.

The good qualities of such a man (if he has any) are of the negative kind. He does very little harm, but you never find him do any good. He is careful to have all the externals of sense and virtue, but you never perceive his heart concerned in any word, thought, or action. To him every body is his dear friend, with which he always begins all his letters, and ends them with “Your ever sincere and affectionate friend.” He is usually seen with persons older than himself, but always richer. He is not prominent in his conversation, but merely puts in his “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” to every thing said by the elevated or overbearing ; which confirms him in their opinion as “a very sensible and discerning person,” as well as a “mighty good kind of a man.”—He is so familiarized to assent to every thing advanced, that I have known him approve opposite sentiments in the course of five minutes: The weather is a leading topic with “a mighty good kind of a man,” and you may make him agree in one breath, that it is hot and cold, frost and thaw, and that the wind blows from every point of the compass He is so civil and wellbred, as to keep you in the rain, rather than ascend a carriage before you; and the dinner would grow cold in your attempt to move him from the lower end of the table. Not a glass approaches his lips unless he has disturbed half the company to drink their health. . He never omits his glass with the mistress of the house, nor forgets to notice little master and miss, which with mamma always makes him “a mighty good kind of a man,” and also assures her, that he would make a very good husband. No man is ever half so happy, or so general, in his friendships--every one he names

is a friend of his, and all his friends are “mig
good kind of men.” He pulls of his hat
every third person he meets, though he knows
even the name of one in twenty — A young
born with this demonstrated propensity of “unit
ty goodness,” has every chance of advanc.
his fortune. Thus, if in orders, he will control
to pick up a tolerable living, or become tutor
a dunce of quality. If “a mighty good kind a
man” is a counsellor, he will draw from the attan
nies a large supply of chamber cases and specis.
pleadings, or bills and answers, he being greatly
qualified for a dray-horse of the law. If he is ad.
mitted into the college as M. D. he will have every
chance to be at the top of the profession, as the
whole success of the faculty depends upon old wo—
men, or fanciful young ones, hypochondriac ones
and ricketty children; to the generosity of all
these nothing so much recommends a physician, a
his being “a mighty good kind of a man.” It is
past dispute that a good man, and a man of sensor.
should possess in soune degree the outline descrip-
ed; yet, if he possesses no more, he will be at tr-,
but a vapid and valueless character. Many so-
perficial observers are deceived by French Peat.
it has the glitter of a diamond, but the want no
hardness discovers the counterfeit, and points o
out to be of no intrinsic value ! If the head ac-
heart are to be omitted in the character, you enor
as well seek for female beauty without a nose or
an eye, as expect a valuable man without under-
standing or sensibility. But besides this, it of e-
happens that those “mighty good kind of men”
are wolves in sheep's clothing, and that the ptae-
sible cunning of their outward deportunent is cal-
culated to entrap the unwary, and to promote so-
nister designs.
MADAM, MY wife.

Ye lovers of quiet, and conjugal joys ;
Dread foes to contention, jars, tumult, and noise *
Oh I fly from my dwelling, fly quickly for life .
Is’t to sus: Ten times worse-'tis madam Iso

Wife,

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The first of our society is a gentleman of Wor-orr-hire, of ancient descent, a baronet, his one Sir Roger de Coverly. His great grandther was inventor of that famous country-dance o, rh is called after him. All who know that r- are very well acquainted with the parts and -its of Sir Roger. He is a gentleman that is 1; -izzular in his behaviour, but his singulari* procced from his good sense, and are contra-- ans to the manners of the world, only as he *** - the world is in the wrong. However, this anar creates him no enemies, for he does noonz with sourness or obstinacy; and his being wonfined to modes and forms, makes him but • readier and more capable to please and oblige who know him. When he is in town, he lives

$oto-square. It is said, he keeps himself a

bachelor, by reason he was crossed in love by a perverse beautiful widow of the next county to him. Before this disappointment, Sir Roger was what you call a fine gentleman, had often supped with my Lord Rochester and Sir George Etherege, fought a duel upon his fifst coming to town, and kicked Bully Dawson in a public coffee-house, for calling him youngster. But, being ill-used by the above-mentioned widow, he was very serious for a year and a half; and though his temper being naturally jovial, he at last got over it, he grew careless of himself, and never dressed afterwards. He continues to wear a coat and doublet of the same cut that were in fashion at the time of his repulse, which, in his merry humours. he tells us, has been in and out twelve times since he first wore it. It is said, Sir Roger grew humble in his desires after he had forgot this cruel beauty, insomuch, that it is reported he has frequently offended in point of chastity with beggars and gypsies! but this is looked upon, by his friends, rather as matter of raillery than truth. He is now in his fifty-sixth year, cheerful, gay, and hearty ; keeps a good house both in town and country; a great lover of mankindbut there is such a mirthful cast in his behaviour, that he is rather beloved than esteemed. His tenants grow rich, his servants look satisfied, all the young women profess love to him, and the young men are glad of his company; when he comes into a house, he calls the servants by their names, and talks all the way up-stairs to a visit. I must not omit, that Sir Roger is a Justice of the Quorum ; that he fills the chair at a quartersession with great abilities, and three months ago gained universal applause by explaining a passage in the game act. A touchstone for the times. Midas (we read) with wond’rous-art of old, Whate'er he touch'd, at once transform'd to gold. This modern statesmen can reverse with case, Touch them with gold, they’ll turn to what you please.

The six-foot sucki,ING.

with that low cunning, which in fools supplies,
And amply too, the place of being wise,
Which Nature, kind indulgent parent, gave
To qualify the blockhead for a knave;
With that smooth falsehood, whose appearance
charms,

And reason of each wholesome doubt disarms,
Which to the lowest depths of guile descends,
By vilest means pursues the vilest ends,
Wears friendship's mask for purposes of spite,
Fawns in the day, and butchers in the night;
With that malignant envy which turns pale,
And sickens even, if a friend prevail;
Which merit and success pursues with hate,
And dams the worth it cannot imitate;
With the cold caution of a coward's spleen,
Which fears not guilt, but always seeks a screen,
Which keeps this maxim ever in her view—
What's basely done, should be done safely too;
With that dull, rooted, callous impudence
Which, dead to shane, and every nicer senses
Ne'er blush'd, unless, in spreading vices snares,
She blunder'd on some virtue unawares;
With all these blessings, which we seldom find
Lavish'd by Nature on one happy mind,
A motly figure, of the fribble tribe,
Which heart can scarce conceive or pen describe,
Cane simpering on.

* * * * - - -
Nor male, nor female; neither, and yet both
Of neuter gender, tho’ of Irish growth;
A sir-foot suckling, nincing in Its gait,
Affected, peevish, prim, and delicate ;
Fearful It seem’d, tho’ of athletic inake,
Lest brutal breezes should too roughly shake
Its tender form, and savage notion spread
O'er its pale cheeks, the horrid manly red.
Much did It talk, in Its own pretty phrase,
Of genius and of taste, of players, and of plays;
Much too of writings which Itself had wrote,
Of special merit, tho’ of little note;

For fate, in a strange humour, had decreed
That what It wrote none but Itself should read :
Much too It chatter'd of dramatic laws,
Misjudging critics, and misplac'd applit use;
Then with a self-complacent pitting air
It smil'd, It smirk'd. It wriggl'd to the chair.
And with an awkward briskness—not Its own,
Looking around, and perching on the throne,
Triumphant seem'd ; when that strange savage
dame,
Known but to few, or only known by name,
Plain common sense appear'd, by nature there
Appointed, with plain truth, to guard the chair,
The pageant saw, and blasted with her frown,
To Its first state of nothing melted down.
Nor shall the muse, (for even there the pride
Of this vain nothing shall be mortify "d.)
Nor shall the muse (should fate ordain her rhymes
Fond, pleasing, thought, to live in after-times,
With such a trisler's name iner pages blot i
Known be the character, the thing forgot
Let It, to disappoint each future aim,
Live without sex, and die without a name.

the RACHELoR's REGist ER.

At 16 years incipient palpitations are manifed towards the young ladies. 17. Much blushing and confusion occurs ea. addressed by a handsome woman. 18. Considence in conversation with the 1so is much increased 19. Becomes angry if treated by them as a to 20. Betrays great consciousness of this echarms and manliness. 21. A looking-glass becomes inn indispenta; piece of furniture in his dressing-roon, nond some instances finds its way into the peeker. $2. Insuilerable puppyism, now evilib, ted. 23. Thinks no woman good enough to -the marriage state with him. 24. Is caught unawares by the snares of t pid. 25. The connection broken off from self-ceon liis part.

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