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| So I stept into bed, and (I speak without boast)

of his acquaintance that he had poisoned himself, on which a lady observed, “Surely, he inust have batten his own tongue.” Tim E. H. Aux TED CHAMBER. A poetical Epistle from a young Gentleman in the Country to his Brother in London.

Safe seated at uncle's, to promises true, I send the good news, my dear brother to you; 83 cheerful the house of our worthy relation, I never enjoy'd such a pleasant vacation ; Good sporting, good neighbours, good living, good wn one ;— And the good of all goods—female beauty, divine! For all our fair cousins (don't envy me, pray) Are handsome, accomplish'd, enchanting, and gay; Though, in all the attractions with which they are best, The elegant Emily soars o'er the rest. but 'tis time I descend from heroics, to tell The wond’rous adventure which lately beiell. Arriv'd at our uncle's old mansion, I found A numerous party assembled around, The chambers all occupied (so said our host) Save one that was plagu'd with—what think you?— a ghost I tho-got they were quizzing ; but all our fair cousins Most gravely asserted that spirits by dozens Were seen from this terrible chamber 9 come, Aud nobody ventur'd to sleep in the room. 1 langh'd at the bugbear, and frankly declar'd I'd sleep in the room, though the devil appear'd' My courage was h...hly extoll'd, as you'll think, And, applauded by beauty, pray how could I shrink? I ...: that I’d cheer with good spirits my heart, And that should keep all evil spirits apart. The gloomy old chamber was air'd for my birth, And the evening pass'd gaily with music and mirth. "Twas midnight—we parted—and I, nothing daunted, Repair'd to this roon so mysteriously haunted ; Here a fine blazing fire, with each comfort akin, Warm'd my courage without, as good wine warm'd within :

Felt no apprehension of little Miss Ghost;
For I must inform you (as gossips had talk'd)
'Twas a lady whose sprite so appallingly walk'd.
Well, nothing appear'd, and my eyes 'gan to
- close—
It struck three, just as I was beginning to doze,
When I fancied I heard the door gently unclose.
I started upright, and (conceive ony as right)
I saw gliding in a tall female in white
I own I felt queerish, and shiver'd ;-but hear—
I shiver'd with cold—zounds ! it could not be fear !
The figure was clothed in a robe all beruffled,
Her features were hidden, her face was so muffled;
She stalk'd to my bed, and the curtain undrew,
Then lay herself down—as I live, it is true ;
But, though a kind girl is my greatest delight,
I had no inclination to lie with a sprite;
So I mov’d farther off, till I lay on the post,
And left my warm bed to this comical ghost.
While I cower'd, in a tremor, the bed-clothes be-
neath, -
I fancied I heard my strange bedfellow breathe 2
I listen’d—the breathing I heard as before—
And louder it grew—till 'twas almost a snore
Thinks I, “For a phantom, 'tis funny enough—
It sure must be made of corporeal stuff;”
So I softly extended my hand to the form,
And, touching it, found it substantial and warm |
And by her respiring so loudly and deep,
I judg'd 'twas some lady who walk'd in her sleep.
Thought I, “To so lovely a ghost I could cling,
When I felt on her delicate finger a ring ;
I rais'd her soft hand, and remov’d it with care,
For says I to myself, “This will tell who you are.
That instant my bedfellow threw off the clothes,
And, tho' fast asleep, started up on her toes;
Then backwards and forwards she glided about,
And, as she came in, she at last glided out!
I laugh'd at the spectre that made all this riot, o
And, after a yawn or two, rested in quiet.
This curious event so disturb'd my repose,
'Twas late in the morning before l arose :

When I enter'd the breakfast-room, smiling and
Assembled I found the whole family party:
Their inquirics at once were directed to me,
With, “How did you rest, Sir 7” and, “what did
ou see o’’
Said I, “Ere I speak of this wonderful thing,
I must learn who it is owns this emerald ring.”
None claim'd the bright bauble, till Emily said,
“Good Heav'n' 'tis my ring !—and where was it
mislaid "
“Mislaid,” said I, laughing, “where Miss lay herself;
For you are the ghost, my fair cousin, yourself;
And, strange as it seems, know, good people, I said,
Last night cousin Emily slept in my bed."
“You’re joking,” cried one, “’Tis too bad,” cried
While Emily tried her confusion to smother.
“'Tis true,” I exclaim’d, “and the truth must pre-
Then frankly related my whimsical tale.
All laugh'd, and declar'd I the secret must keep,
When a lady commits a faur-pas in her sleep;
While I thought all their mirth a confounded intrusion,
For I saw lovely Emily sink in confusion.
At length our good uncle observ'd, with a smile,
“Faux-pas in the sleep are four-pas without guile;
Aud, since she has taken the place of a wife,
Suppose, my dear nephew, you take her for life.
With her ten too pounds you may prudently wed,
And you must take care, boy, to kee . in bed.”
I lik'd, the proposal—to Emily .
Whose cheek with the pure blush of modesty burn d
And ask'd, as a sign ..". for a kiss:
Her lips falter'd no, but her eyes implied yes.
'Twas settled; fair Emily's mine, with her pelf,
And, henceforth, I'll keep the sweet ghost to myself.
The somnambulist shall not so favour Another,
So vows, my dear Tom,
Your affectionate brother.

swearing AND DRIvi No. A bishop being at his seat in the country where the

roads were uncommonly bad, went to pay a visit to a person of quality in the neighbourhood, when his coach was overturned in a slough, and the servants were unable to extricate the carriage. As it was far from any house, and the weather bad, the coachman freely told his master he believed they must stay there all night, “for,” said he, “while your grace is Pre: sent, I cannot make the horses move.” Astonished at this strange reason, his lordship desired him to explain himself: “It is,” said he, “ because I dare not swear in your presence; and, if I don't, we shall never get clear.” The bishop finding nothing could be done if the servant was not humoured, replied, “Well, then, swear a littie, but not much." The coachman made use of his permission, and the horses, used to such a kind of dialect, soon set the coach as liberty. -- Thn E.E. ral Ack crows. Two honest tradesmen, meeting in the Strand, One took the other briskly by the hand; “Hark-ye,” said he, “’tis an odd story this About the crows"—“I don't know what it is," Reply'd his friend—“Not I'am surpris'd at that; Where I come from it is the common chat; But you shall hear; an odd affair indeed! And that it happened, they are all agreed. Not to detain you from a thing so strange, A gentlemau, that lives not far from ‘Change, This week, in short, as all the alley knows, Taking a puke, has thrown up three black croors." “Impossible!”—“Nay, but 'tis really true; I have it from good hands, and so may you."—

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It was not two black crows, 'twas only one,
The truth of that you may depend upon;
The gentleman himself told me the case—”
“Where may I find him 1"–"Why, in such a place.”
Away goes he, and having found him out,
"Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt”—
Then to his last informant he referr'd,
And begg'd to know if true what he had heard:
"Did you, Sir, throw up a black crow 3"—“Not I"—
"Bless me! how people propagate a lie
Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and
one :
And here I find all comes at last to none
Did you say nothing of a crow at all .
* Crow—crow—perhaps I might; now I recall
The matter over.”—“And, pray, Sir, what was’t 3"—
"Why I was horrid sick, and, at the last,
I did throw up, and told my neighbour so, . "
Something that was—as black, Sir, as a crow.”

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As drunk as an owl, as drunk as a sow, as drunk as a beggar, as drunk as the devil, as drunk as a lord. These are the principal comparisons of drunkenness, and the explanation is as follows: a man is as drunk as an owl, when he cannot see ; he is as drunk as a beggar, when he is very impudent; he is as drunk as the devil, when he is inclined to mischief; **d as drunk as a lord, when he is everything that is bid.

cu Rious epiTA pris.

o a church-yard, in Sussex, is the following epitaph:

Here lie two children dear,

One buried at Portsea, the other here.

This is only equalled by another in France: The

mayor of a small provincial town having died on a visit to the capital, where he was buried, his admi*istrators put up a monument to him in his parish ołurch, on which was engraved, “ Ci-git Monsieur ****, qui a 'te cnterré à Paris.” Here lies Monsieur B”, who was buried at Paris

voltaine ANd his bookseller. At the rehearsal of one of Voltaire's tragedies, as Mr. Cramer, a bookseller at Geneva, was finishing his part, which was to end with some dying sentences, Voltaire cried out aloud—“Cramer, you lived like a prince in the four preceding acts, but in the fifth you die like a bookseller.” A medical gentleman §. could not help interfering; with, “Why, ons. de Voltaire, can you expect gentlemen to be at the or. of dresses, and the fatigue of getting up such long parts, if you thus upbraid them? On the contrary, I think they all deserve the greatest encouragement at your hands; and as to my friend Cramer, I declare, that, as far as I am a judge, he dies with the same dignity as he lived.” Voltaire, who detested advice or information, made this cool answer; “Prithee, doctor, when you have got kings to kill, kill them in your own way; but let me kill mine as I please.” AN. UN luck Y cox ression A physician, who lived in London, attended a lady, who É. in Chelsea. After continuing his visits for some time, the lady expressed an apprehension that it might be inconvenient for him to come so far on her account. “Oh, Madam?" replied the doctor, “I have another patient in this neighbourhood, and by that means, you know, I kill two birds with one stone.” “ Doctor,” replied the lady, “you are too good a shot for me,” and dispensed with his further attendance. Extem Port E. On a gentleman with very thin legs. Sir, that you're brave you need not swear, The reason why I will disclose; A coward heart would take more care, Than trust itself to legs like those. EPITArri on a woman who NEveR in AD CHILDREN . Here lies the body of barren Peg, Who had no issue, but one in her leg; But while she was living, she was so cunning, That when one stood still, the other was running, charact ERs by samuel Butler, Author of Hudibras. he imports his narratives from all parts within the tography of a diurnal, and eats as well upon the Russ and Polander, as the English and Dutch. By his means his belly is rovided for, and nothing lies pon his hands but his back, which takes other ourses to maintain itself by west and stray silver pouns, straggling hoods and scarfs, pimping, ald sets it l'ombre.

A PLAY-W Riter Of our times is like a Fanatic, that has no wit in ordinary easy things, and yet attempts the hardest task of brains in the whole world, only because, whether his play or work please or displease, he is certain to coine off better than he deserves, and find some of his own latitude to applaud him, which he could never expect any other way ; and is as sure to lose no reputation, because he has none to venture. Like gaming rooks, that never stick . To play for hundreds upon tick; 'Cause, if they chance to lose at play, Th'ave not one halfpenny to pay; And, if they win a hundred pound, Gain, if for sixpence they compound. Nothing encourages him more in his undertaking than his ignorance, for he has not wit enough to understand so much as the difficulty of what he attempts; therefore he runs on boldly like a fool-hardy wit, and fortune, that favours fools and the bold, sometimes takes notice of him for his double capacity, and receives him into her good graces. He has one motive more, and that is the concurrent ignorant judgment of the present age, in which his sottish foi. peries pass with applause, like Oliver Cronweli’s oratory among fanatics of his own canting inclina. tion. He finds it easier to write in rhyme than prose; for the world being overcharged with romances, he finds his plots, passions, and repartees, ready made to his hand; and if he can but turn them into hyme, the thievery is disguised, and they pass for his own wit and invention without question ; like a stolen cloak made into a coat, or dyed into another colour. Besides this he makes no conscience of stealing any thing that lights in his way, and borrows the advice of so many to correct, enlarge, and amend, what he has ill-favouredly patched together, that it becomes like a thing drawn by council, and none of his own performance, or the son that has no certain father. He has very great reason to preser verse before prose in his compositions; for rhyme is like lace, that serves

excellently well to hide the pieceing and coarsenes of a bad stuff, contributes mightily to the buo, and makes the less serve by the many impeiunence it commonly requires to make away or it; for very k" are endowed with abilities to bring it in on its on account. This he finds to be good husbandry, and • kind of necessary thrift; for they that have be." little ought to make as much of it as they can. His prologue, which is commonly none of his own, always better than his play; like a piece of cloth that's fine in the beginning, and coarse afterwano though it has but one topic, and that's the same that is used by malefactors when they are to be the to except against as many of the jury as they can.

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burt 1. Ea's citan Act En of A TA11.on. taylor came in with the curse; and is younger ‘other to thorns, thistles, and death; for if Adam had it fallen, he had never sat cross-legged. Sin and are partners; for as sin first brought him into 'ployment, so he by cheating and contributing to Je and vanity, works to sin, and the old trade is \ kept up between both. Our Saviour wore his at without seam, rather than he would have any og to do with him; and Elias, when he went to aven, left his mantle behind, because it had been tuted by his fingers. The Jews in all great calaits were wont to rend their garments, only to ify that they defied him and all his works. All a love and admire cloaths, but scorn and despise that made them, as princes approve of treason, hate traitors. He sits cross-legged to show that as originally a Turk, and calls himself Merchantor upon no other, account, but only as he dedel from Mahomet, who was a merchant's prentimself in his youth. And his constant custom *ing the calves of his legs a stool to sit upon, endered him so stiff in the hams, that he walks he was newly circumcised, to distinguish himton a Christian. He lives much more by his than good works; for he gains more by trusting *lieving in one that pays him at long running, six that he works for upon an even account for -noney. IIe never cuts his coat according to wh; but always the more he is allowed the less is in a garment: and he believes he has reason for he is fain to take double pains in contrivwo dispose both what he steals, and what he the best advantage, which costs him twice as abour as that which he gets nothing by. He

never cuts a man's cloaths but he cuts his purse into the bargain ; and when he makes a pocket, takes handsel of it, and picks it first himself. He calls stealing damning, by a figure in rhetoric called the effect for the efficient; and the place where he lodges all his thieveries hell, to put him in mind of his latter end; and what he steals by retail the broker takes off his hands by wholesale. He keeps his wife in taffety to save charges; for when her petticoats are worn out, they serve him to line vests with, as well as if they were new ; and when he is unfurnished of these, old sattin and taffety-men supply him for ends of gold and silver. He gets more by the trimming and garniture of cleaths than all the rest; for he can swallow ribands like a juggler, and put whole pieces more in his bill than ever he made use of, and stretch lace, as a shoe-maker does leather, with his teeth, when he sets it on. The mercers are in fee with him to revive old rotten stuffs by giving them new fantastic names; and he brings them into the mode by swearing they are new come up : in consideration of which he is allowed to buy cheap and sell dear: for he is loath to undervalue his conscience, and put it off at a mean rate, as long as he sees his neighbours can make more of theirs—He scorns that.

But LER's chARAct ER or A DEGENERATE Noel E.

A degenerate noble, or one that is proud of his birth, is like a turnip ; there is nothing good of him but that which is under-ground ; or rhubarb, a contemptible shrub, that springs from a noble root. He has no more title to the worth and virtue of his ancestors, than the worms that were engendered in their dead bodies; and yet he believes he has enough to exempt himself and his posterity from all things of that nature for ever. This makes him glory in the antiquity of his family, as if his nobility were the better the farther off it is in time, as well as desert, from that of his predecessors. He believes the honour that was left him, as well as the estate, is sufficient to support his quality, without troubling himself to

so any more of his own ; and he meddles as ittle with the management of the one as the other,

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