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Our meals, indeed, are slender—what of that 1
EPilogue to The SAM E.
Spoken by Mr. Woodward, in the character of a
Poor gaming too, was maul'd among the rest,
Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing. more than any man in all Venice : his reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff; you shell seek all day ere you find them : and when you b-re them, they are not worth the search.
sco Tricis Ms. Step in to the fire, (sometimes pronounced hastily, step into the fire,) means, in Scotland, come or so to the fire. A Scotch woman said, “She never mird-d sermons:’ meaning she never remembered sermons. He stays in the Lawn-market : i.e. he lives there. To cry upon a person, means, to call him, root to drown him with tears. To cast out with a person, means, to fail out with him. He is turned a fine boy, means he is became = ** boy. He dines at home for ordinary, read, he comrocco dines at home. He has cut out his hair, for, he has cut of his hair. I cannot go the day, for, I cannot go to-dayTo look over the window, for, look out of to window. To be at home, does not mean, in Scotland, to * in one's own house; but it means to be at no great distance, or not out of town.—Is Mr. Bell at home 3 Yrs, sur he is ct home, but he is not within, or he is not int. He stuck among the clay, instead of, in the clay. Harr wou a knife upon you ? for, about you. Mr.o. t. is married upon Miss B. Make a pen to me, buy a knife to me, instead of for. He insisted for it : he insisted to have it. Zakront, is the Scotch for take care. “If you don't take tent,” said a Scotch physician, in Jamaica, to his patient, “it will be soon all over with you.” The family, thinking that the doctor meant to recommend the use of the wine called tent, despatched the house-negroes in all directions to procure some of it. But when the doctor next cane, they found that they had only inistaken one of his Caledonian phrases.
Mio for to N el-I cutt is wi.
Great things are now to be achieved at table,
With massy plate for armour, knives and forks For weapons; but what Muse since Homer's able
(His feasts are not the worst part of his works) To draw up in array a single day-bill
Of modern dinners ? where more mystery lurks In soups or sauces, or a sole ragoût, Than witches, b–ches, or physicians brew.
There was a goodly “soupe à la bonne femme,"
Fowls à la Condé, slices eke of salmon,
Then there was God knows what “A l’Allemande,”
Those truffles too are no bad accessaries,
The mind is lost in mighty contemplation .
The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled ;
Alas! I must leave undescribed the gibier, The salmi, the consommé, the purée, All which I use to make my rhymes run glibber Than could roast beef in our rough John Bull way; I must not introduce even a spare rib here, “Bubble and squeak” would spoil my liquid say ; But I have dined, and must forego, alas ! The chaste description even of a “bécasse,” And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines From nature for the service of the gout— Taste or the gout, pronounce it as inclines Your stomach Ere you dine, the French will do ; But after, there are sometimes certain signs Which prove plain English truer of the two. Hast ever had the gout * I have not had it— But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it.
The simple olives, best allies of wine, Must I pass over in my bill of fare 2 I must, although a favourite “plat” of mine In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where : On them and bread 'twas off my luck to dine, The grass my table-cloth, in open air, On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is. Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl, And vegetables, all in masquerade, The guests were placed according to their roll, But various as the various meats display'd. Ald to AD AND AT HOME. The English abroad can never get to look as if they were at home. The Irish and Scotch, after being some time in a place, get the air of the natives; but *n Englishman, in any foreign court, looks about him * * * was going to steal a tankard.
THE LAUGHING Philosopher.
|Like a meek tradesman when approaching of
boiled; for I dinna care for made dishes; I think some wo, they never satisfy the ol. r.—You take a little pudding then, and afterwards some cheese ? Pa.-O yes; though I don't care much about them. Dr.—You take a glass of ale or porter with your cheese? Pa.-Yes, one or the other, but seldom both. Dr.--You west-country people generally take a glass of Highland whiskey after dinner. Pa.-Yes, we do; it's good for digestion, Dr.—Do you take any wine during dinner * Pa.-Yes, a glass or two of sherry; but I'm indifferent as to wine during dinner. I drink a good deal of beer. Dr.--What quantity of port do you drink? Pa.--Oh, very little; not above half a dozen glasses or so. Dr.—In the west country it is impossible, I hear, to dine without punch Pa-Yes, sir, indeed 'tis punch we drink chiefly; but for myself, unless I happen to have a friend with me I never tak more than a couple of tumblers or so, and that's moderate, Dr.--Oh, exceedingly moderate indeed! You then after this slight repast, take some tea and bread and butter? Pa.—Yes, before I go to the counting-house to read the evening letters. Dr.—And on your return you take supper, I suppose 1 Pa-No, sir, I canna be said to tak supper; just something before going to bed : a rizzer'd haddock, or a bit of toasted cheese, or half a hundred of oysters, or the like o'that; and, may be, two-thirds of a bottle of ale; but I tak no regular supper. Dr.—But you take a little more punch after that. Pa.-No, sir, punch does not agree with me at bed time. I tak a tumbler of warm whiskey toddy at night; it's lighter to sleep on. Dr.—So it must be, no doubt. This you say, is your every-day life; but upon great occasions you perhaps exceed a little :
You shall know the man of humour by the vivacity of his eyes, the “morn-elastic” tread of his foot, the lightness of his brow, and the dawning smile of pleasantry is his countenance. He is a man who cares for nothing so much as a “mirth-moving jest;” give him that, and he has “food and raiment.” He will not see what men have to calk and care for, beyond to-day ; he is for to-morrow's providing for himself. He is for a new reading of Ben Jonson's oid play of “Every Man in his Humour,” he would have it “A very Man in Humour.” He leaves money and misery, to misers; ambition and blood, to great warriors and low highwaymen ; fame, to court-laureates and lord mayors; honours, to court-panders and city knights; the dread of death, to such as are not worthy of life; the dread of heaven, to those who are not good enough even for earth; the grave, to the parish-clerk and undertakers; tombs, to proud worms; and palaces to paupers. It is enough for him if he may laugh the “hours away;” and break a jest, where tempers more humorous break a head. He would not barter with you one wakeful jest for a hundred sleepy sermons; or one laugh for a thou. sand sighs. If he could allow himself to sigh about anything, it would be that he had been serious when he might have laughed; if he could weep for any thing, it would be for mankind, because they will not laugh more and mourn less. Yet he hath tears for the pitiable, the afflicted, the orphan, and the unhappy; but his tears die where they are born,-in his heart; he makes no show of them ; like April showers, they refresh where they fall, and turn to smiles, as all tears will, that are not selfish. His grief has a humanity in it, which is not satisfied with tears only; it teaches him the disparity *Tween poor and rich, weal and want, and moves His heart to truth, his hands to charity.
He loves no face more than a smiling one; a need
lessly serious one serveth him for the whetting of his "...as cold flints strike out quick sparks of fire.
humour shows itself to all things and on all