ADVANTAGES OF UGLINESS.

In the reign of Lewis XIV. a gentleman, who had suffered by the law's delay, was promised speedy jus tice by a nobleman, who brought the gentleman to Versailles, to present him to his majesty. The request being granted by the king, his majesty asked the peer what connection he had with the man whose interest he had so warmly espoused. "Not any," replied he; "indeed, so far from it, that I never saw

him in my life till the other day." "What!" replied the king, "had you never seen him before? How, then, could you be under that obligation to him which you talk of ? "O, sire !" exclaimed the nobleman, "has not your majesty perceived that, till he was brought forward, I was supposed to have been the ugliest man in your dominions? The exception he has enabled me to make is surely a very great obligation."

THE DOCTOR AND CAPTAIN, A TALE FROM BATH.

In Bladud's city, place of vast renown,
Where, in the season, wealthy cits from town
Escort their wives and pretty daughters,
To make a dash,

To cut a splash,

To dance, to play at cards, and drink the waters-
A strife arose 'twixt men of high condition,
A captain this, and that a grave physician.

One morn, the hero of the scarlet coat,
Upon the doctor's gate, with pencil, wrote
"Scoundrel!" in letters clear and plain :
The doctor saw: amaz'd he stood,

He long'd to let the captain blood :
And, waxing wroth, he grasp'd his gold-topp'd cane,
Then sallied forth, and, after various dodgings,
At length he found the noble captain's lodgings;
There, in politeness to be conquer'd, scorning,
He told the servant, with an arch regard,

"Give to your master doctor Pestle's card,

With bridal cake beneath her head,
As Jenny prest her pillow,
She dreamt that lovers, thick as hops,
Hung pendent from the willow.
Around her spectres shook their chains,
And goblins kept their station;
They pull'd, they pinch'd her, till she swore
To spare the male creation.

Before her now the buck, the beau,

The 'squire, the captain trips;
The modest seiz'd her hand to kiss,
The forward seiz'd her lips.

For some she felt her bosom pant,
For some she felt it smart;
To all she gave enchanting smiles,
To one she gave her heart.

She dreamt (for magic charms prevail'd,
And fancy play'd her farce on)
That, soft reclin'd in elbow chair,

She kiss'd a sleeping parson.

She dreamt-but O, rash muse! forbear,
Nor virgin's dreams pursue;

Yet blest above the gods is he,
Who proves such visions true.

ADVERTISEMENT.

A Margate advertisement, by an ass-lender, whose donkies are alternately employed by ladies and smug. glers

Asses here to be let; for all purposes right,
To bear angels by day, and spirits by night.

MONSIEUR TONSON.

There liv'd, as fame reports, in days of yore, At least some fifty years ago, or more,

A pleasant wight, on town yclep'd Tom King;, A fellow that was clever at a joke; Expert in all the arts to tease and smoke;

In short, for strokes of humour quite the thing. To many a jovial club this King was known, With whom his active wit unrivall'd shone:

Choice spirit, grave free-mason, buck and blood, Would crowd his stories and bon-mots to hear; And none a disappointment e'er could fear,

His humour flow'd in such a copious flood.
To him a frolic was a high delight;
A frolic he would hunt for day and night,

Careless how prudence on the sport might frown:
If e'er a pleasant mischief sprung to view,
At once o'er hedge and ditch away he flew;

Nor left the game till he had run it down. One night our hero, rambling with a friend, Near fam'd St. Giles's chanc'd his course to bend, Just by that spot the Seven Dials hight: Twas silence all around, and clear the coast; The watch, as usual, dozing on his post;

And scarce a lamp display'd a twinkling light. Around this place there liv'd the num'rous clans Of honest, plodding, foreign artizans,

Known at that time by name of Refugees: The rod of persecution, from their home Compell'd the inoffensive race to roam ;

And here they lighted like a swarm of bees.

Well! our two friends were saunt'ring through the street,

In hopes some food for humour soon to meet;
When, in a window near, a light they view,
And, though a dim and melancholy ray,
It seem'd the prologue to some merry play;

So tow'rds the gloomy dome our hero drew.
Straight at the door he gave a thund'ring knock-
The time we may suppose near two o'clock.

"I'll ask," says King, "if Thomson lodges here." "Thomson!" cries t'other, "who the devil's he?" "I know not," King replies; "but want to see What kind of animal will now appear."

After some time, a little Frenchman came-
One hand display'd a rushlight's trembling flame,
The other held a thing they call culotte;
An old strip'd woollen nightcap grac'd his head,
A tatter'd waistcoat o'er one shoulder spread-

Scarce half awake; he heav'd a yawning note. Tho' thus untimely rous'd, he courtcous smil'd, And soon address'd our wag in accents mild,

Bending his head politely to his knee

Pray, Sare, vat vant you, dat you come so late? I beg your pardon, Sare, to make you vait :

Pray, tell me, Sare, vat your coinmands vid ine! "Sir," replied King, "I merely thought to know, As by your house, I chanc'd to-night to ge

But really I distb'd your sleep, I fear!
I say, I thought that you, perhaps, could tell,
Among the folks who in this street may dwell,
If there's a Mr. Thomson lodges here!"
The shiv'ring Frenchman, tho' not pleas'd to find
The business of this unimportant kind,

Too simple to suspect 'twas meant in jeer, Shrugg'd out a sigh, that thus his rest should break; Then, with unalter'd courtesy he spake

No, Sare; no Monsieur Tonson lodges here." Our wag begg'd pardon, and tow`rds home he sped, While the poor Frenchman crawl'd again to bed;

But King resolv'd not thus to drop the jest: So, the next night, with more of whim than grace, Again he made a visit to the place,

To break once more the poor old Frenchman's rest. He knock'd-but waited longer than before; No footstep seem'd approaching to the door :

Our Frenchman lay in such a sleep profound. King with the knocker thunder'd then again, Firm on his post determin'd to remain ;

And oft, indeed, he made the door resound. At last King hears him o'er the passage creep, Wond'ring what fiend again disturb'd his sleep, The wag salutes him with a civil leer; Thus drawling out, to heighten the surprise While the poor Frenchman rubb'd his heavy eyesIs there a Mr. Thomson lodges here?"

The Frenchman falter'd with a kind of fright-
Vy Sare, I'm sure I tell you, Sare, last night!"
And here he labour'd with a sigh sincere―
"No Monsieur Tonson in the varld I know;
No Monsieur Tonson here-I told you so;

Indeed, Sare, dere no Monsieur Tonson here!"
Some more excuses tender'd, off King goes;
And the old Frenchman sought once more repose.
The rogue next night pursu'd his old career :
'Twas long, indeed, before the man came nigh;
And then he utter'd in a piteous cry-

"Sare, 'pon my soul no Monsieur Tonson here!"
Our sportive wight his usual visit paid;
And, the next night, came forth a prattling maid,
Whose tongue, indeed, than any jack went faster!
Anxious she strove his errand to inquire;
He said 'twas vain her pretty tongue to tire;

He should not stir till he had seen her master.
The damsel then began in doleful state,
The Frenchman's broken slumbers to relate,

And begg'd he'd call at proper time of day:
King told her, she must fetch her master down;
A chaise was ready-he was leaving town;

But first had much of deep concern to say. Thus urg'd, she went the snoring man to call; And long, indeed, was she oblig'd to bawl,

Ere she could rouse the torpid lump of clay : At last he wakes-he rises-and he swears; But, scarcely had he totter'd down the stairs,

When King attacks him in the usual way. The Frenchman now perceiv'd 'twas all in vain, To this tormentor mildly to complain,

And straight in rage began his crest to rear"Sare, vat de devil make you treat me so? Sare, I inform you, Sare, tree nights ago:

Got dam, I swear, no Monsieur Tonson here!" True as the night King went and heard a strife Between the harass'd Frenchman and his wife,

Which should descend to chase the fiend away: At length to join their forces they agree; And straight impetuously they turn the key, Prepar'd with mutual fury for the fray.

Our hero, with the firmness of a rock,
Collected to receive the mighty shock,

Utt'ring the old inquiry, calmly stood.
The name of Thomson rais'd the storm so high,
He deem'd it, then, the safest plan to fly,

With "Well, I'll call when you're in gentler mood."
In short, our hero, with the same intent,
Full many a night, to plague the Frenchman, went;
So fond of mischief was the wicked wit!
They throw out water, for the watch they call,
But King, expecting, still escapes from all.

Monsieur, at last, was fore'd his house to quit. It happen'd that our wag, about this time, On some fair prospect, sought the eastern clime: Six ling'ring years were, there, his tedious lot! At length, content, amid his ripening store, He treads again on Britain's happy shere,

And his long absence is at once forgot. To London with impatient hope he flies, And the same night as former freaks arise,

He fain must stroll, the well-known haunt to trace. "Ah! here's the scene of frequent mirth," he said: My poor old Frenchman, I suppose, is dead. Egad! I'll knock, and see who holds his place." With rapid strokes he makes the mansion roar ; And while he, eager, eyes the op'ning door,

Lo! who obeys the knocker's rattling peal? Why e'en our Frenchman! Strange perhaps to say, He took his old abode that very day :

Capricious turn of sportive fortune's wheel! Without one thought of the relentless foe! Who, fiend-like, haunted him so long ago,

Just in his former trim he now appears: The waistcoat and the nightcap seemed the same; With rushlight, as before, he creeping came;

And King's detested voice astonish'd hears. As if some hideous spectre struck his sight, His senses seem'd bewilder'd with affright;

His face, indeed, bespoke a heart full sore: Then, starting, he exclaim'd, in rueful straiu"Begar! here's Monsieur Tonson come again!"

Away he ran; and ne'er was heard of more.

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.

A brace of sinners, for no good,

Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood,

And, in a curl'd white wig, look'd wond'rous fine.
Fifty long miles had these sad rogues to travel,
With something in their shoes much worse than
gravel:

In short, their toes, so gentle to amuse,
The priest had order'd peas into their shoes.

A nostrum famous in old Popish times
For purifying souls that stunk with crimes,
A sort of apostolic salt,

That Popish parsons for its powers exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray,

But very different was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners gallop'd on,
Light as a bullet from a gun,

The other limp'd as if he had been shot.
One saw the Virgin, soon peccuvi cry'd—
Had his soul whitewash'd all so clever :
When home again he nimbly hied,

Made fit with saints above to live for ever.

In coming back, however, let me say,
He met his brother rogue about half way:
Hobbling with out-stretch'd bum and bending knees,
Damning the souls and bodies of the peas:
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat,
Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.

"How now!" the light-toed, whitewash'd, pilgrim broke,

"You lazy lubber!"

"Od's curse it!" cried the t'other, My feet, once hard as any rock,

"'tis no joke

Are now as soft as blubber.
Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear;
As for Loretto, I shall not get there;
No! to the dev'l my sinful soul must go,
For d-me if I ha'nt lost every toe.
But, brother sinner, do explain
How 'tis that you are not in pain;

Whilst I, just like a snail, am crawling,
What power hath work'd a wonder for your toes?

Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,
Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes.?
How is't that you can like a greyhound go,

As merry, as if nought had happen'd, burn ya!' "Why," cry'd the other, grinning, "you must know, That just before I ventur'd on my journey,

To walk a little more at ease,

I took the liberty to boil my peas." P. PINDAR.

A CHOICE.

An Irishman was once brought up before a magistrate, charged with marrying six wives. The magistrate asked him how he could be so hardened a villain? Please your Worship, (says Paddy) I was trying to get a good one.

A COOL RETORT.

Henderson the actor was seldom known to be in a passion. When at Oxford he was one day debating with a fellow-student, who, not keeping his temper, threw a glass of wine in his face. Mr. Henderson took out his handkerchief, wiped his face, and coolly said, " That, Sir, was a digression; now for the argument."

FRANK HAMAN.

Frank Haman, once a brother of the brush, Had talents much distinguish'd in his day; But for his art he hardly car'd a rush,

If some odd mischief stumbled in his way,

This wag was deem'd by all the social tribe A jovial, easy, careless, pleasant fellow, Fond of a frolic, ready at a gibe,

And sometimes in his cups a little mellow. He, being tempted by a pleasant day,

After a long contention with the gout,
A foe that oft besieg'd him, sallied out,
To breathe fresh air, and wile an hour away.
It chanc'd as he was strolling, void of care,
A drunken porter pass'd him with a hare.
The hare was o'er his shoulder flung,

Dangling behind, in piteous plight,
And as he crept in zig-zag style,
Making the most of every mile,
From side to side poor pussy swung,

As if each moment taking flight.
A dog, who saw the man's condition,
A lean and hungry politician,

On the look-out, was lurking close behind; A sly and subtle chap,

Of most sagacious smell, Like politicians of a higher kind,

Ready to snap

At any thing that fell.

The porter stagger'd on, the dog kept near,
Watching the lucky minute for a bite,

Now made a spring, and then drew back with fear,
While Haman follow'd, titt'ring at the sight.
Great was the contrast 'twixt the man and dog;
The one a negligent and stupid lout,
That seem'd to know not what he was about;
The other keen, observant, all agog.

Nor need it wonderment excite, I ween,
That Haman clos'd the train to mark the scene.
Thro' many a street our tipsy porter reels,

Then stops-as if to solemn thoughts inclin'dThe watchful dog was ready at his heels,

And Haman hobbled on not far behind.
Then rolling on again, the man survey'd
One of those happy mansions, where
A cordial drop imparts its cheering aid
To all the thirsty sons of care.

The sight of this refreshing place,

The scent that hails him from the door, Arrest at once his rambling pace

As they had often done before. Mine host, with accents that were wond'rous kind, Invites him in, a jolly crew to join;

The man the gen'rous courtesy declin'd,

Merely, perhaps, for want of thirst-or coin. Straight on a bench without, he stretched along, Regardless of the passing throng, And soon his weary eyelids close, While Somnus soothes him to repose. The hare now prostrate at his back, This was the time to get a snack. The dog, unable longer to refrain, Gaz'd at the hare,

Who caus'd his care,

Jumpt and bit, jumpt and bit, jumpt and bit, and bit again.

At length, when he had clear'd away the rest,
The sated spoiler finish'd on the breast.

Then having made a hearty meal,
He carelessly turn'd on his heel,
Nor thought of asking "What's to pay?"
But scamper'd at his ease away;
Perhaps to find some four-foot fair,
And tell the story of the hare.

And here some sage, with moral spleen, may say,
"This Haman should have driv'n the dog away,
Th' effects of vice the blameless should not bear,
And folks that are not drunkards lose their hare."
All this we grant is very true-
But in this giddy world how few
To virtue's heights sublimely move,
Relinquishing the things they love.
Not so unfashionably good,
Our waggish painter laughing stood,
In hopes more sport to find
Dispos'd to keep in view his game,
And with th' ambitious Thane exclaim,
"The greatest is behind."