GOSSIPPING.

A Dialogue from Life.

Mrs. L. Ah! Mrs. B. I am glad to see you. How do you do, ma'am?

Mrs. B. Why, ma'am, not very well. I have had a cold for several days. Last Thursday night I went to pay a visit to our new neighbour, and did'nt put on a shawl; you know the weather was quite cool, and Mr. B. advised me to put on one; but I says to him, says I

Mrs. L. O, ma'am did you know Sammy Wiffet is go ing to be married to his rich cousin at last? I always told you it would be a match. The family, I knew, would never let such a fine fortune go out of it. I am told they are going to live at her father's on the North River. I pity her, poor thing, for that. The old lady, I understand, has not the best temper in the world. Besides, I am told, she is not heartily for the match. She thinks the girl and boy are too young for marriage; and, 'pon my word, I think so too. I do assure you, she is no more than fifteen ; and he, I can't tell his age exactly, but I remember he was born about the time of my Jemmy's marriage; and that is, let me see, next November will be coach is that pray, (looking out at the window) whose

Mrs. B. Why, ma'am, I don't know; some upstarts, I dare say; but my cold is so distressing, and I have not been out of the house these five days, and hav'nt seen a soul at home, and just run over to have a little chat with you, though Mr. B. was much against my going out till I'm quite recovered. "If you must go," says he "be sure to put on a shawl." So I says to Betty, "Betty" says I do run up to my room and bring

Mrs. L. Ah, ma'am, now I think of it, let me ask you've heard whether the Calthorpes are going to stay in their house this year? I'm told they're going to give it up, and going to live in the country. So they give out: but I understand the true reason is, Mr. Calthorpe's affairs But I beg you'll not mention this again as coming from me; it's mere report and I dare say an't true; but I just tell you what I've heard: it was whispered to me as a great secret, by Mrs. Pry, who told me not to mention it to any body, and I wouldn't, except to

a particular friend who will keep it to herself. Mr. Calthorpe's affairs are quite deranged, and he leaves town. to prevent his ruin; and that, I think, is quite prudent. To be sure, he's lived in too high a style since his marriage. His wife had no fortune; he married her a poor ga'al, an orphan, poor thing, and living altogher on her aunt, who brought her up. Pray ma'am, have you heard any thing of their affairs?

Mrs. B. Why, ma'am, now you put me in mind, I think I did hear something of these folks. A gentleman, an acquaintance of my husband's, a Mr., I declare, I've forgot his name, a tall, portly man. Mr. B. invited him to dine with us on Sunday, and told me his name. The day before, he says to ine, says he, Let's have something nice to-morrow, for I've asked Mr.

I can't think of his name, I wonder I'm so forgetful; but my cold is so troublesome, that I don't remember nothing. I wanted to take advice, but Mr. B. laughed me out of it.

Wouldn't it be as well," says I, "my dear, to send for Dr. Bolus? I'm afraid," says I," this shocking cold will settle on my lungs." This was on Friday night, about dusk; and just as I was speaking, who should go by but the doctor himself. So my husband called him in and

Mrs. L. Ah, ma'am, that puts me in mind of something I wanted to ask you. I'm told Dr. Bolus is really engaged to widow Waddle, and that they're to be married very shortly. The widow, I understand, has a pretty snug estate, and no children, and the doctor's practice, they tell me is lessening every day, since that unfortunate mistake of his with Polly Pepperill's child. I suppose you've heard of this story. The poor child was drooping for some time, and the doctor was called, and he said it was the measles, and that no time wasn't to be lost; and he physick'd and physick'd till the poor child actually died. 'Twas a sad mistake, indeed of the doctor's. I'm told the family was very angry, and the doctor hasn't held up his head since. It's high time the doctor was married, if he means to be at all; though, for my part, I can't say I'm over-fond of late marriages. What do you think ma'am ?

Mrs. B. Why, ma'am, I must needs say I don't like them at all. I was married myself at seventeen, and I'm sure I've no reason in the world to repent that I was S

for

married so early. Mr. B. was four years older than I was; but twenty-one you know ma'am is quite young a man and Mr. B. was in a good way of business to maintain a family and to be sure, we've had a family to maintain; for Mr. B's sisters were dependent on him. They lived at our house till they were married. When Jemmy Mather courted Patty, who was the last, I was heartily glad; for you can't think ma'am, how disagreeable it is to have many mistresses in a family. When the wedding was fixed, "I'm sure," says I to Mr. B. "I'm glad on't. The poor girl will get a husband, at last," says I, " and that's what she's wanted" says I, "a long time." Patty was quite too fine a lady for me; and she greatly imposed upon her brother's good-nature. She used to teaze him for tickets to the play and the assemblies. One night we made up a party

Mrs. L. Ah, ma'am, now you talk of maiden sisters, what, I wonder, will become of Betsey Bolus, if her brother inarries? I am told she's no friend to the match. The widow, I understand, made it a condition with the doctor, that Betsey should live some where else. She is quite of your opinion, that one mistress in a family is enough. And Betsey, they tell me, is a little of the old maid in her temper: peevish as the duce; always quarrelling with the maids. The doctor can't keep a servant more than a month. The girl who lives with me lived with them sometime, and tells odd stories of Miss. Betsey's peevishness.

Mrs. B. O dear! it's clouded up, I see.

It looks

very like for rain. I must run home before it wets, or I shall only increase my cold. Mr. B. made me promise to come home if there was the least sign of rain; so, good night, ma'am. Pray come over soon; it's a long time since you've called, and I hope you'll come shortly. Good night.

Mrs. L. La, ma'am, what's your hurry? Do stay a little longer and take tea: it's just coming in.

Mrs. B. Can't indeed ma'am. Good night, good night.

Ibid.

False Wit.

All fools have still an itching to deride,
And fain would be upon the laughing side.

POPE.

MONSIEUR ROCHEFOUCAULT, tell us somewhere in his memoirs, that the Prince of Conde delighted much in ridicule, and used frequently to shut himself up for half a day together, in his chamber, with a gentleman who was his favourite, purposely to divert himself with examining what was the foible, or ridiculous side of every noted person in the court. That gentleman said afterwards in some company, that he thought nothing was more ridiculous in any body, than this same humour in the prince; and I am somewhat inclined to be of this opinion. The general tendency there is among us to this embelishment, (which I fear has too often grossly imposed upon my loving countrymen instead of wit,) and the applause it meets with from a rising generation, fill me with fearful apprehensions for the future reputation of my country: a young man of modesty, (which is the most certain indication of large capacities) is hereby discouraged from attempting to make any figure in life: his apprehensions of being out-laughed, will force him to continue in a restless obscurity, without having an opportuni ty of knowing his own merit himself, or discovering it to the world, rather than venture to expose himself in a place, where a pun or a sneer shall pass for wit, noise for reason, and the strength of the argument be judged by that of the lungs. Among those witty gentlemen, let us take a view of Ridentius: what a contemptible figure does he make with his train of paltry admirers. This wight shall give himself an hour's diversion with the cock of a man's hat, the heels of his shoes, an unguarded expression in his discourse, or even some personal defect; and the height of his low ambition is to put some one of the company to the blush, who, perhaps, must pay an equal share of the reckoning with himself. If such a fellow makes laughing the sole end and purpose of his life, if it is necessary to his constitution, or if he has a great desire of growing suddenly fat, let him eat; let him give public notice where any dull stupid rogues may set a quart of four-penny for being laughed at; but it is barbarously unhandsome, when friends meet for the benfit of conver

sation, and a proper relaxation from business, that one should be the butt of the company, and four men made merry at the cost of the fifth.

How different from this character is that of the goodnatured, gay Eugenius! who never spoke yet, but with a design to divert and please; and who was never yet baulked in his intention. Eugenius takes more delight in applying the wit of his friends, than in being admired himself; and if any one of the company is so unfortunate as to be touched a little too nearly, he will make use of some ingenious artifice to turn the edge of ridicule another' way, chusing rather to make himself a public jest, than endure the pain of seeing his friend in confusion.

Among the tribe of laughers, I reckon the pretty gentlemen, who write satires, and carry them about in their pockets, reading them themselves in all company they happen to be in; taking an advantage of the ill taste of the town, to make themselves famous for a pack of paltry, low nonsense, for which they deserve to be kicked rather than admired, by all who have the least tincture of politeness. These I take to be the most incorrigible of all my readers; nay, I expect they will be squibbing at the Busy-Body himself-However, the only favor he begs of them is this, that if they cannot control their overbearing itch of scribbling, let him be attacked in downright biting lyricks; for there is no satire he dreads half so much as an attempt towards a panegyrick.

DR. FRANKLIN.

Power of Conscience.

How irresistible is the power of conscience! It is a viper which twines itself round the heart, and cannot be shook off. It lays fast hold of us; it lies down with us, and preys upon our vitals. Hence, ancient moralists compared an evil conscience to a vulture, feeding upon the liver, and the pangs that are felt by the one, to the throes of the other; supposing at the same time, the vulture's hunger to be insatiable, and this entrail to be most exquisitely sensible of pain; and to grow as fast as it is devoured. What can be a stronger representation of the