NEW TESTAMENT.

Middle Book, 2d Thessalonians; Middle Chapter is between Romans 13th and 16th; Middle Verse, Acts 17th, and 17th verse; Least Verse, John 11th, 35th verse.

The word and occurs in the Old and New Testament 46,227 times; the word Jehovah occurs 6,855 times.-Ezra 7th, and 21st verse, contains the whole alphabet; 2d Kings, chap. 19th, and Isaiah, chapter 37th, are alike.

CONSCIENCE. The following is stated in the newspapers, as a fact which occurred a few days ago, in the garden of a gentleman in the vicinity of Bristol. Upon going to inspect his cucumber frame, at an unusually early hour in the morning, he observed a stranger in conversation with his gardner,and overheard the following Dialogue:

Gardener.-Seven shillings is the price of that cucumber.

Stranger.-I can give you but four for it. Gardener. Four shillings! I'll see you d-d first; I would sooner my master should have it, than sell it for four shillings.

Puns.

a house, asked a bye-stander whose body it A WAG, on seeing a coffin conveyed from contained; and having received for a reply, that it was one Vowel, said, "thank God then! its neither U nor I."

WOMEN AND STARS.
THAT Women resemble each star,
In yon heaven a notion I've got,
For some in the milky way are,

And a great many others are not.
Besides, they avoid the bright sun,
And they like to exhibit their spark,
And their beauty which brightly has shone,
In the twilight, looks best after dark.
Oh! look on yon element pure,

In profusion the planets are swimming;
So here, in dear England, I'm sure,

Are an equal abundance of women; And the light which their loveliness shows, Like the blaze of yon heaven-lit tapers, It's sickliest glimmering throws,

When its brilliance is troubled with vapours.

And like stars they are all of them fair, Whether widows, or maidens, or mothers; But then, like yon creatures of air,

Oh some are much fairer than others; And did I not fear to affright,

I might add-and he doing my dutyThat as some planets borrow their light, So some women borrow their beauty,

But fate has one difference given,

"Tween each earthly and heavenly gem, For the stars cannot shine without Heaven, Though Heaven oft shines without them; But women-I'm too sure of this

Have not always a Heaven about 'em ; Although to us mortals there is,

I am certain, no Heaven without 'em.

Scraps.

THE DYING CHILD.

THE taper was just glimmering in the socket, as the weary and sorrowful mother awaked from a momentary slumber, to renew her anguish: she turned her eyes on her expiring infant, whose dim orbs were slowly turning in their hollow abodes. It was midnight, and nothing was heard but the strokes of the clock pendulum, and the heavy sighs of a disconsolate father, which mingled with the short, deep breath of his suffering darling.

Half raised, and leaning on his pillow, he had been watching the dread moment when a sigh or a struggle should announce, that hope and life had together taken their everlasting fight. A sudden flutter drew the attention of the wretched parents from the melancholy object of their meditation: it was the expiring innocent's favourite bird, whose food had been neglected ever since the danger of its little admirer had absorbed all other care, and,

as the sad presage of his fate, it now expired! The parents looked alternately on each other, and on the bird, but at this instant, to add to their distress, the candle ceas'd to burn,-the father seized his infant's hand, the mother felt for its forehead, but the pulse was still, and

all was cold!

J. M. FINDALL.

two

19

them for having flown so hastily from his dwelling.

He wanted some ripe apples to present to Phillis, and he reached the basket, which she had given to him. The doves fluttered, and flew upon the floor. "Ah!" he cried, "now I know ye! Ye belong to Phillis-I will run with ye to her cottage."

Damon culled the choicest flowers, and strewed them over the little wanderers. His fond heart bounded in his breast as he tripped along, and he found Phillis repining for her doves, "How happy should be," she exclaimed," could I have my doves!" "If you will suffer me," said Damon, "to sip the Maydew from your sweet lips, I will endeavour to find them, See! I have brought some of the most charming flowers that spring has blown." Phillis did not regard the tender offering, but the roguish doves fluttered in their bed. Delighted, Phillis then denied not Damon the tender kiss, and while he pressed her to his palpitating breast, she rapturously exclaimed, How happy am I now!”

THE OLD HORSE.

LEOPOLD.

to speak to him; the horse stood still without The boy met an acquaintance, and stopped bidding, and I advanced towards him. His bong and points said he had once been strong and vigorous-but now old age and labour had reduced him to a skeleton.

Poor fellow!

poor fellow!" said I, as I patted his lank sides, "thy better days have been spent in the service of man, then was thy meal plentiful and thy coat sleek, but age has weakened thy sinewy strength, and he will reward thy past toils by giving thy labour worn carcase to the dogs-in sooth! in sooth! 'tis ungrateful." A cart loaded with hay passed, and methought the old horse looked towards it wistfully-I stretched out my hand and reached him a mouthful. There are times, and those times are frequent with me, when the heart will conceive what the judgment would ridiculesuch was this, for I thought the old horse looked gratefully in my face; and sensibility treasured the idea of having rendered even so small a gratification to an animal, who had devoted his powers to the pleasures and uses of my species. Small, indeed!" say you. True, but were our spirits tried (and wherefore should they not) by the creatures with which they had dealings in "this our short baiting-place," my old horse would recollect him who did him the last service, however

Why heaves in my bosom the tremulous sigh,
Why sparkles mine eye with a tear;
Why rages the passion I strive to deny,

And softens my bosom sincere ?

Oh! 'twas one little glance at sweet Emma I spied, But a cold haughty look she return'd;

I spake not-I wept not-but inwardly sigh'd, Alas! I am cruelly spurn'd,

PARTING.

Adieu-adieu, thou cruel maiden;
Oh fare thee well, for now 'tis past;
Tis past-and on my bosom's laden
The sadness of love's icy blast.

Adieu-adieu, fond hopes are blighted,
For once all those were set on thee;
The vision which so oft delighted,

Now hurls the shaft of misery. I'll hie to some secluded quiet,

There chase away the lingering hour; And far from idle mirth and riot, Forget thy fascinating pow'r. But can my heart so soon forget thee; Can I erase its maddening pain; My pride may teach me to regret thee, But oh! thy form must still remain.

Sonnets.

TO THE MOON.

J.

J.

Hail Queen of night-in this lone solitude
Shine in thy lustre-though thou be
From Sol's pellucid rays-delightfully
I'll gaze nor murmur-in this wild wood
Shrouded by brambles thick-with pensive mood
I'd wear my life away to think and look on
thee.

Tales.

THE AFFECTED IGNORAMUS.

It chanced one day, so I've been told,
(The story is not very old)

As Will and Tom, two servants able,
Were waiting at their master's table,
Tom brought a fine fat turkey in,
The sumptuous dinner to begin;
Then Will appear'd-superbly cook'd,
A tongue upon the platter smok'd.
When oh! sad fate, he struck the door
And tumbled flat upon the floor.
The servants star'd, the guests look down,
When quick uprising, with a frown,
The master cried, "Sirrah, I say,
Begone, nor wait a single day;
You stupid cur you've spoil'd the feast;
How can another tongue be drest ?"
While thus the master storm'd and roar'd;
Will, who with wit was somewhat stor'd,
(For he by no means was a fool,
Some latin too he'd learnt at school)

Said, (thinking he might change disgrace
For laughter, and thus save his place)
"Oh! call me not a stupid cur,

"Twas but a lapsus lingua, Sir."

"A lapsus lingua," one guest cries;

"A Pun," another straight replies.

The joke was caught-the laugh went round-
Nor could a serious face be found.
The master, when the uproar ceas'd,
Finding his guests were all well pleas'd,
Forgave the servant's slippery feet,
And quick revok'd his former threat.
Now Tom had all this time stood still
And heard the applause bestowed on Will;
Delighted he had seen the fun

Of what his comrade late had done,

And thought should be but do the same,
An equal share of praise he'd claim.
As soon as told the meat to fetch in,
Bolted like lightning to the kitchen,
And, seizing there a leg of lamb,
(I am not certain, perhaps 'twas ham)
No matter which—without delay,
Off to the parlour march'd away,
And stumbling as he turn'd him round
Twirl'd joint and dish upon the ground.
For this my lord was ill prepar'd;
Again the astonish'd servants star'd.
Tom grinn'd-but seeing no one stir,
Another lapsus lingua, Sir,

Loud he exclaim'd-no laugh was rais'd,
No "clever fellow's" wit was prais'd.
Confounded, yet not knowing why
llis wit could not one laugh supply;
And, fearing lest he had mistook

The words, again thus loudly spoke ;
(Thinking again it may be tried)
"Tis but a lapsae linguus,” cried.
My lord, who long had quiet sat,
Now clearly saw what we was at.
lowrath, this warning loud he gave,
When next thou triest, unletter'd knave,
To give, as thine, another's wit,

Mind well thou know'st what's meant by it;

Nor let a lapsus lingua slip

From out thy pert, assuming lip,

Till well thou knows't thy stolen song,

Nor think a leg of lamb a tongue.
He said-and quickly from the floor,
Straight kicked him through the unlucky door.

but had, also, the art of counterfeiting any voice which he had ever once heard.

Of this extraordinary man, the following story is related; and as, at the period when he lived, the existence of this quality was far from being generally known, it seems by no means incredible.

Our Ventriloquist, it seems, had fallen most desperately in love with a young, beautiful, and rich heiress: but was rejected, by the parents, as an unsuitable match for their daughter.

The father happening to die, Louis waited on the widow, who was totally ignorant of his singular talent, pretending to condole with her on her loss; when, suddenly, in the open day, in her own house, and in the presence of several friends, she hears herself addressed, in a voice perfectly resembling that of her deceased husband, and seeming to proceed from above"Give my daughter in marriage to Louis Brabant! he is a man of great fortune, and of an excellent character. I now suffer the inexpressible torments of purgatory, for having refused her to him. If you obey this admonition, I shall soon be delivered from this place of torment. You will, at the same time, provide a worthy husband for your daughter, and procure everlasting repose for the soul of your poor husband."

The widow could not for a moment resist this dreadful summons; which had not the most distant appearance of proceeding from Louis Brabant; whose countenance exhibited no visible change, and whose lips were close and motionless during the delivery of it. She consents, immediately to receive him for her son-in-law.

Louis's finances, however, were in a very low situation; and the formalities attending the marriage-contract rendered it necessary for him to exhibit some shew of riches: nor must his real circumstances give the ghost the lie direct.

Accordingly, he goes to work on a fresh subject, one Cornu, an old rich banker, at Lyons, who had accumulated immense wealth by usury and extortion, and was known to be haunted by remorse of conscience, on account of the manner in which he had acquired it.

Passing over preliminary stays, and preparations, behold Louis Brabant tete-a-tete with the old usurer, in his little back parlour at Lyons, preparing him for the ensuing operations, by artfully turning the conversation on religious subjects, the reality of demons spectres, the pains of purgatory, and the never ceasing torments of hell.

During an interval of silence between them, a voice is heard-which, to the astonished banker, seems that of his deceased fathercomplaining of his dreadful situation in purgatory; and calling on him, instantly to deliver him from thence, by putting into the hands of the worthy Louis Brabant, then with him, a large sum of money, for the redemption

of Christians in slavery with the Turks: threatening him, at the same time, with eternal dainnation, if he did not likewise take this method to expiate his own sins!

It may readily be supposed, that Louis Brabrant affected a due degree of astonishment on the occasion; and that he farther promoted the deception, by acknowledging his having devoted himself to the prosecution of the charitable design imputed to him by the ghost.

An old usurer, however, is naturally suspicious: accordingly, the wary banker made an appointment with the ghost's delegate for the next day to render any design of imposing on him utterly abortive, he took him into the open fields, where not a house, a tree, a bush, or even a pit was in sight, capable of screening any possible confederate.

This extraordinary caution called forth all the powers of our Ventriloquist. Wherever the banker conducts him, at every step, his ears are saluted, on all sides, with the complaints, not only of his father, but of all his deceased relations; imploring him for the love of God, and in the name of every saint in the Calendar, to have mercy on his soul, and their's, by effectually seconding, with his purse, the holy intention of his righteous companion.

Cornu could no longer resist the voice of Heaven; and, accordingly, carries his guest home with him, and pays him down ten thousand crowns! With which sum, the honest Ventriloquist returns to Paris, and marries his mistress.

Tke catastrophe proved fatal to the old usurer: for, the secret being revealed, and reaching his ear, he was so greatly affected at the loss of his money, and the mortifying railleries of his neighbours, that he took to his bed, and soon died.

Translations.

HORACE,

Book the First-Ode the Third.

He implores protection for the Ship in which kis
friend Virgil had embarked for Athens, and
then inveighs against the temerity of Man.
OH may the fair inconstant Queen of Love,
Thy speedy course attend;

May'st thou, great Eolus propitious prove,
And all the twinkling stars that shine above,
Thee, precious ship, defend.

Let the rude winds engaged in fierce debate,
Their haughty rage controul;

A milder breeze thy swelling sails dilate,
To thee Intrusted is my Virgil's fate,
Thou bearest half my soul,

Each day for thee will I with lifted hand,
Th' Almighty Gods beseech;

Then shalt thou quickly reach th' Athenian land,
Where ready crowds attend thee on the strand,
Along the sandy beach.

Oh sure his heart was oak, and girt beside,
Who first committed to the ocean wide,
With triple iron chain:
His fragile bark, the sport of wind and tide,

Tossed on the foaming main.

Undaunted when the North with furious rage,

Assails the torrid south; The Adriatic tyrant to engage,

He rushes on, nor can the Heavens assuage,

The whirlwinds of his mouth.

And fearless when the searching noontide ray,
When baleful Hyades their force display,
Darts on his weary head;
When death itself is stationed in the way,

He feels no anxious dread.

Who is there can behold with careless eye,
Unmoved, unused to weep;

Ceraunia's rocks whose bases hidden lie,
With monsters huge; and still resolve to try
The boundless vasty deep.

In vain did providence, with wisest hand,
The spacious world divide;
In vain did separate the sea from land,
If impious ships, unawed by its command,
The foaming ocean ride.
Mankind the very name of evil love,

And every vice below;

So bold Prometheus stole the fire above,
And quickly made the infected nations prove
Death which before was slow!
So, Icarus with wings to man denied,

Rash youth essayed to fly;

In vain to soar thro' empty air he tried,
The Gods soon punished his presumptuous pride,
And dashed him from on high.

So, Hercules a gloomy passage found,

Through shades of deepest hell; Nor should we fear tho' Heaven itself resound, And vivid fight'nings hurl us to the ground, Blaspheming as we fell.

Lord Strangford's Translation of Camoen. Canst thou forget the silent tears

Which I have shed for thee?

And all the pangs, and doubts, and fears,
Which scatter'd o'er my bloom of years
The blights of misery,

I never close my languid eye,

Unless to dream of thee;
My every breath is but the sigh,
My every sound the broken cry,

Of lasting misery!

O! when in boyhood's happier seene
I pledg'd my love to thee,
How very little did I ween
My recompence should now have been
So much of misery.