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The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled ;
The diners of celebrity dined well;
The ladies with more moderation mingled
In the feast, pecking less than I can tell;
Also the younger men too; for a springald
Can't like ripe age in gourmandise excel,
But think less of good eating than the whisper
(When seated next him) of some pretty lisper.

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 lay ;
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?
I must, although a favourite “plat” of mine
In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where :
On them and bread 'twas of 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.
A broad A N d at howt re.
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
an Englishman, in any foreign court, looks about him
as if he was going to steal a tankard.

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Though the dean was the best of company, and one of the liveliest men in England of his ase, he said, (when in uo ill humour,” “The best of Lie is but just tolerable : 'tis the most we can make of it." He observed that it was very apt to be a missetase to be used to the best company; and gave as a teason for his not marrying, that he had always teen used to converse with women of the his her class. and that he might as well think of marrying a princess as ore of them.—“A competence” said he “enables use, single as I am, to keep as good company as I have been used to, but with a wife of this kind and a fan...; what should I have done ''

A ni of cox writsariox.

No one will ever shine in conversation, who thi of saying fine things: to please, one must say = 1st things indifferent, and Inany very bad.

To nr. Arri. Oh, Death thou dubnest of all duns : thou daily Knockest at doors, at frst with modest tap. Like a meek trajesthan when approaching paley Some splendid debtor he would take by sap: But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail, he Advances with exasperated rap, And (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome. On ready money or “a draft on Ransom.” Whate'er thou takest, spare awhile poor Beauty : She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. What though she now and then may slip from inty, The more's the reason why you ought to stay. Gaunt Gourmand with whole nations for you; bests, You should be civil in a modest way: Suppress then some slight feminine diseases, And take as many heroes as heaven pleases.

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Patient—Good morning, doctor; I'm just come in to Edinburgh about some law business, and I thought when I was here at ony rate I might just as weel tak your advice, sir, anent my trouble. Doctor.—And pray what may your trouble be, my good sir? Pa.-'Deed, doctor, I'm no very sure; but I'm thinking it's a kind of weakness that makes me dizzy at times, and a kind of pinkling about my stomach— just no right, Dr.-You'r from the west country I should suppose, sir? Pa.-Yes, sir, from Glasgow. Dr.-Aye. Pray, sir, are you a gourmand—a glutton 1 Pa.-God forbid, sir, I'm one of the plainest men living in all the west country. Dr.-Then perhaps you're a drunkard 2 Pa.-No, doctor, thank God no one can accuse me of that; I'm of the Dissenting persuasion, doctor, and an elder, so ye may suppose I'm nae drunkard. Dr.-Aside—(1’ll suppose no such thing till you tell me your mode of life.) I'm so much puzzled with your symptoms, sir, that I should wish to hear in detail what you do eat and drink. When do you breakfast, and what do you take to it? Pa.—I breakfast at nine o'clock. I tak a cup of coffee, and one or two cups of tea; a couple of eggs, and a bit of ham or kipper'd salmon, or may be both, if they're good, and two or three rolls and butter. Dr.—Do you eat no honey, or jelly, or jam, to breakfast 7 Pa.—O yes, sir, but I don't count that as any thang.

Dr.—Come. this is a very moderate breakfast.

what kind of dinner do you make? Pal-Oh, sir, I eat a very plain dinner indeed. Some soup, and some fish, and a little plain roast or

boiled; for I dinna care for made dishes; I think some wo, they never satisfy the . 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 ine 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

Pa.—No, sir, except when a friend or two dine with me, or I dine out, which, as I am a sober family man, does not often happen. Dr.—Not above twice a-week 2 Pa.—No ; not oftener. Dr.-Of course you sleep well, and have a good appetite? Pa.-Yes, sir—thank God I have—indeed, any wee harl o'health that I hae is about meal time. Dr.-(Assuming a severe look, knitting his brows, and lowering his eye-brows.)—Now, sir, you are a very pretty fellow, indeed; you come here and tell me that you are a moderate man, and I might have believed you, did I not know the nature of the people in }. part of the country; but upon examination I find y your own showing, that you are a most voracious glutton ; you breakfast in the morning in a style that would serve a moderate man for dinner; and from five o'clock in the afternoon you undergo one almost uninterrupted loading of your stomach till you go to bed. This is your moderation – You told me too another falsehood—you said you were a sober man, yet by your own showing you are a beer swiller, a dram-drinker, a wine-bibber, and a guzzler of Glasgow punch ; a liquor, the name of which is associated, in my mind, only with the ideas of low company and beastly intoxication. You tell me you eat indigestible suppers, and swill toddy to force sleep—I see that you chew tobacco. Now, sir, what human stomach can stand this?—Go home, sir, and leave off your present course of riotous living—take some dry toast and tea to your breakfast—some plain meat jo, for dinner, without adding to it anything to spur on your flagging appetite; you may take a cup of tea in the evening, but never let me hear of haddocks and toasted cheese, and oysters, with their accompaniments of ale and toddy at night; give up chewing that vile—narcotic– nauseous—abomination, and there are some hopes that your stomach may recover its tone, and you be in good health like your neighbours. Pa.-I’m sure, doctor, I'm very much obliged to you-(taking out a bunch of Bank-notes)—I shall endeavour to

Dr.—Sir, you are not obliged to me—put up your money, sir.—Do you think I'll take a see from ves for telling you what you knew as well as myself Though you're no physician, sir, you are not altogether a fool. You have read your Bible, and must know that drunkenness and gluttony are both sinful and dangerous, and whatever you may think, you have this day confessed to me that you are a notorious glutton and drunkard. Go home, sir, and resorm, or take my word for it your life is not worth half a year's purchase. (Erit Patient, dum-founded and looking bor.) Dr.-(Solus.) Sober and temperate —Dr. Watt tried to live in Glasgow, and make his patients hoe moderately, and purged and bled them when they were sick; but it would not do. Let the Glasgow doctors prescribe beef-steaks and ruin Punch, and their fortune is made.

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The put. Pit a ND Tiir stagi.

One day, when Betterton called on Archlosop Tillotson, at Lambeth, the prelate asked him. - Hait came about, that after he had made the most twoing discourse that he could, was touched deeply with it himself, and spoke it as feelingly as he was alo . yet he could never move people in the church, osso much as the other did on the stage 2"—" That." so Betterton, “I think is easy to be accounted for : * * because you are only telling them a story, and I ra showing them facts,”

poor Robin's PRoPHEcy.

When girls prefer old lovers,
When merchants scoff at gain,
When Porson's skull discovers
What pass'd in Porson's brain:
When farms contain ro growlers,
No pig-tail Wapping-wall,
Then spread your lark-nets, fowlers,
. For sure the sky will fall.
When Boston men love banter,
When loan contractors sleep,
When Chancery pleadings canter,
And common-law ones creep.
When topers swear that claret's
The vilest drink of all ;
Then housemaids, quit your garrets,
For sure the sky will fall.

When Southey leagues with Wooller
When .." show no shape,
When fiddler's heads are fuller
Than that whereon they scrape :
When doers turn to talkers,
And Quakers love a ball ;
Then hurry home, street-walkers,
For sure the sky will fall.
When lads from Cork or Newry
Won't broach a whisky flask,
When comedy at Drury
Again shall lift her mask :
When peerless Kitty utters
Her airs in tuneless squall,
Then, cats, desert your gutters,
For sure the sky will fall.
When worth dreads no detractor,
Wit thrives at Amsterdam,
And manager and actor
Lie down like kid and lamb;
When bard with bard embraces,
And critics cease to maul,
Then, travellers, mend your paces,
For sure the sky will fall.

When men who leave off business
With butter-cups to play,
Find in their i. no dizziness,
Nor long for “melting day;”
When cits their pert Mount-pleasants
Deprive of poplars tall;
Then, poachers, prowl for pheasants,
For sure the sky will fall.

A FLAT REF us A. L. Salvini the Spaniard was an odd sort of man, subject to gross absences, and a very great sloven. His behaviour in his last hours was as odd as any of his actions in all his lifetime before could have been. Just as he was departing, he cried out in a great passion, “I will not die : I will not die, that's fiat.”

Question AND ANSWER.

“Can you, by any means, the cause divine, That t”. I, together ne'er can dine * “O yes, the reason all must plainly see, Who know, that U can't come till after T.” 1.T.All AN Pi, AY AND BAR dr. R SURGEON. -Spence, the friend and contemporary of Pope, in a letter to his mother, from Turin, in 1739, gives the following account of an Italian entertainment: “Here under the porticoes of the charitable Hospital for such as have the Venereal Disease, will be represented this evening, The Damned Soul: with proper decorations.” “As this seemed to be one of the greatest curiosities I could possibly meet with in my travels, I immediately paid my threepence, was showed in with great civility, and took my seat among a number of people, who seemed to expect the tragedy of the night with great seriousness. “At length the curtain drew up, and discovered the Damned Soul, all alone, with a melancholy aspect. She was (for what reason I don't know) drest like a fine lady, in a gown of flame-coloured satin. She held a white handkerchief in her hand, which she applied often to her eyes; and in this attitude, with a lamentable voice, began a prayer (to the holy and

ever blessed Trinity) to enable her to speak her part well: afterwards she addressed herself to all the good Christians in the room; begged them to attend carefully to what she had to say, and heartily wished they would be the better for it: she then gave an account of her life; and, by her own confession, appeared to have been a very naughty woman in her tline. “This was the first scene. At the second, a back curtain was drawn; and gave us a sight of our Saviour and the blessed Virgin, amidst the clouds. The poor soul addressed herself to our Saviour first, who rattled her extremely, and was indeed all the while very severe. All she desired was to be sent to purgatory, instead of going to hell ; and she at last begged very hard to be sent into the fire of the former, for as many years as there are drops of water in the sea. As no favour was shown her on that side, she turned to the Virgin and begged her to intercede for her. The Virgin was a very decent woman, and answered her gravely but steadily, ‘That she had enraged her son so much, that she could do nothing for her :' and on this, they both went away together. “The third scene consisted of three little angels and the damned soul. She had no better luck with them : nor with St. John the Baptist and all the saints in the fourth : so, in the fifth, she was left to two devils; seemingly to do what they would with her. One of these devils was very ill-natured and fierce to her; the other was of the droll kind, and, for a devil, I can't say but what he was good-natured enough : though he delighted in vexing the poor lady rather too much. “In the sixth scene, matters began to mend a little. St. John the Baptist (who had been with our Saviour I believe behind the scenes) told her, if she would continue her entreaties, there was yet some hope for her. She on this again besought our Saviour and the Virgin to have compassion on her: the Virgin was melted with her tears, and desired her son to have pity on her; on which it was granted, that she should go into the fire, only for sixteen or seventeen hundred

thousand years; and she was very thankful for the mildness of the sentence. “The seventh (and last) scene was a contest between the two infernal devils above-mentioned, arod her guardian angel. They came in again, one grinning, and the, other open-mouthed to devour bet. The angel told them, that they should get about their business. He with some difficulty at last drove then off the stage, and handed off the good lady; in ossuring her that all would be very well, after some hundreds of thousand of years, with her. “All this while, in spite of the excellence of the actors, the greatest part of the entertainment to ze was the countenances of the people in the Pat aid boxes. When the devils were like to carry Ler co, every body was in the uttuost consternation. =: when St. John spoke so obligingly to her, they ree ready to cry out for joy. When the Virgin -ji-ered on the stage, every body looked respectiel : ir-, a several words, spoke by the actors, they pulled of their hats, and crossed themselves. Was car -think of a people, where their very farces are re-ous, and where they are so religiously received May you be the better for reading of it, as I was for seeing it! “There was but one thing that offended me. An the actors, except the devils, were women ; and toe person who represented the most venerable charactor in the whole play, just after the representation, care into the pit, and fell a kissing a barber of her soquaintance, before she had changed her dress. Sodid me the honour to speak to me too; but I wo have nothing to say to her. “My old surgeon," continues Spence, “Iford is be the oddest figure, and one of the oddest men, toao ever I met with in my life. He is a mountaineer, torn amidst the Alps, and as learned as the People strally are among wild mountains. He is a sher ran. fat, and clumsy, with a great pair of Dutch tro--en to his posteriors, and with a face, that does so seal yield, for breadth or swarthiness, to the place somentioned. His face was overrun with beard; or *

said he was obliged to go to mass, and so had so

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