Conspicuous for the skill he then display'd,
Or with the tragic or the comic maid.
At length, when summer veil'd her radiant
fire,

Reflecting autumn warn'd him to retire ;
Yet, propp'd by health, he scarcely felt decay,
And Winter cheer'd him with the glow of
May.

Time kept aloof, as if inclin'd to spare
A work that nature form'd with partial care,
And when resolv'd no longer to delay,
He gently wafted lingering life away.
His mournful widow plac'd this tablet here,
And paid the tribute of a silent tear;
Sooth'd by the hope, when her brief scene
is o'er,

To meet in purer realms, and part no more.
JOHN TAYLOR.

Humour.

MATRIMONY,

By DR. SHERIDAN.

In the Christmas holidays, the schoolboy's welcome season, I forget the year, Tom and I were resolved to enjoy all the pleasures of it; for this purpose we paida visit to a distant relation,a sprightly female, who, though she had been married ten years, could enter into all our amusements with as much spirit as any boarding-school miss in the kingdom.

Her husband was what we called a bon vivant, that loved his bottle and friend, and if he could enjoy the present moment, never thought of the next; and that is more than some of your boasted sages could, notwithstanding all their preach

ments. We were received in the most

friendly manner by the lady, with that look and tone which conveyed the cordial welcome; we were conducted into a room, where we found a table ready furnished with wholesome viands and a bottle of sparkling champaign. This sunshine was for a moment overcast by an envious cloud, that sometimes darkens the matrimonial sky; nay, even the most serene. The Husband soon after entered, when the following dialogue commenced; and as there was a pen and ink in the room, Tom took down every word, the reading of which after dinner, afforded a great deal of laughter to the loving couple, for in reality they were so, notwithstanding these little gusts.

Receipt to brew a Storm.
Husband. Woman-aye!

Wife. You are always railing at our

sex.

Husb. And without reason?

Wife. Without either rhyme or reason; you'd be miserable beings without us, for all that.

Husb. Sometimes: there is no general rule without an exception; I could name some very good women

Wife. Without the head, I suppose? Husband. With a head, and with a heart too.

Wife. That's a wonder!

Husband. It would be a still greater, if I could not; for instance, there is Mrs. Dawson, the best of wives; always at home, whenever you call, always in good humour; always neat and clean, sober and discreet.

Wife I wish you were tied to her. Always at home! the greatest gossiper in the parish; she may well smile, she has nothing to ruffle her temper; neat and clean-she has nothing else to do; sober-she can take a glass as well as her another neighbours; discreet---that's word, she can tip a wink---but I detest scandal: I am surprised you did'nt say she was handsome?

Husband. So she is in my eye.

Wife. You have a fine eye to be sure; you're an excellent judge of beauty: what do you think of her nose?

Husband. She's a fine woman in spite of her nose.

Wife. Fine feathers make fine birds; she can paint her withered cheeks, and pencil her eye-brows.

Husband. You can do the same if you please.

Wife. My cheeks don't want paint, nor my eyebrows pencilling.

Husband. True; the rose of youth and beauty is still on your cheeks, and your brow the bow of Cupid.

Wife. You once thought so; but that moving mummy, Molly Dawson, is your favourite. She's, let me see, no gossip, and yet she's found in every house but her own; and so silent too, when she has all the clack to herself; her tongue is as thin as sixpence with talking; with a pair of eyes burned into the socket, and painted pannels into the bargain; and then as to scandal---but her tongue is no scandal.

Husband. Take care, there's such a thing as standing in a white sheet! Wife. Curse you! you would pro

voke a saint.

Husband. You seem to be getting into a passion.

Wife. Is it any wonder? A white sheet! You ought to be tossed in a blanket. Handsome! I can't forget that word: my charms are lost on such a tasteless fellow as you.

Husband. The charms of your tongue. Wife. Don't provoke me, or I'll fling this dish at your head.

Husband. Well, I have done.

Wife. But I hav'nt done: I wish I had drowned myself the first day I saw

you.

Husband. It's not too late.

Wife. I'd see you hung first. Husband. You'd be the first to cut me down.

Wife. Then I ought to be tied up in your stead.

Husband. I'd cut you down.
Wife. You would.

Husband. Yes, but I'd be sure you were dead first.

Wife. I cannot bear this any longer. Husband. Then it's time for me to withdraw; I see by your eyes, that the storm is collecting.

Wife. And it shall burst on your head.

Husband. I'll save my poor head, if I can: a good retreat, is better than a bad battle. (Husband flies--the dish flies after him.)

Hymn.

When like some unspotted corse, Shrouded in its virgin white, Nature yields to Winter's force, Only to revive more bright; Glorious Author of the year! Teach us at thy shrine to bow; As thy varying months appear, Let our lips renew the vow.

Impromptu.

On the appointment of CAPTAIN LYON, R. N. (just returned from his Travels in Africa,) to accompany CAPTAIN PARRY in the New Expedition, for which the HECLA and FURY Sloops are at this time preparing.

Though the Lion we know, is a valorous creature,

It is yet unaccountably droll, That one now should be found so to alter his nature,

From the Tropics to roam to the Pole.

Yet, though midst ice he has ne'er been a ranger,

But e'er coveted climes that are warm, He now has a comrade to PARRY off danger,

And in safety protect him from harm.

And lest of those feats so high-priz'd he forget all,

Which in Afric for years he has done, A FURY attends him, in head of the Jackall,

And Mount HECLA in head of the SUN.
Bath.

R.

TO THE SEASONS.

Glorious Author of the year!
Teach us at thy shrine to bow;
As thy varying months appear,
Let our lips renew the vow!
When the dove-eyed Spring looks out
From her infant nest of flowers,
On the green fresh woods about,
Sparkling in the sunny showers !
When, as up the blue profound

Summer climbs her noon-day height,
Not the breathing of a sound
Wanders through the depth of light.
When o'er harvest-waving hill,

And on gaily-blossom'd heath, Autumn glows, or, beauteous still, Wears the golden veil of death;

Miscellanies.

THEATRICAL CLIMAX. --- The following moving account of Mrs. Siddons's first appearance in Dublin is taken from an old Irish paper; we recommend it to the attention of the Proprietors of the London Theatres, as it may give them some new ideas in describing their performance. "On Saturday, Mrs. Siddons, about whom all the world has been talking, exposed her beautiful, adamantine, soft, and lovely person, for the first time, at Smock Alley Theatre, in the bewitching, melting, and all-tearful character of Isabella. From the repeated panegy

rics in the impartial London newspapers, we were taught to expect the sight of an heavenly angel; but how were we supernaturally surprised into the most awful joy at beholding a mortal goddess. The house was crowded with hundreds more than it could hold, with thousands of admiring spectators, that went away without a sight. This extraordinary phenomenon of tragic excellence! this star of Melpomene! this comet of the stage! this sun of the firmament of the Muses! this moon of blank verse! this queen and princess of tears! this Donnellan of the poisoned bowl! this empress of the pistol and dagger! this chaos of Shakespear! this world of weeping clouds thisJuno of commanding aspects! this Terpsichore of the curtain and scenes! this Proserpine of fire and earthquake! this Katterfelto of wonders! exceeded expectation, went beyond belief, and soared above all the natural powers of description! She was nature itself! She was the most exquisite work of art! She was the very daisy, primrose, tuberose, sweetbriar, furze-blossom, gilliflower, wallflower, cauliflower, auricular, and rosemary! In short, she was the bouquet of Parnassus! Where expectation was raised so high, it was thought she would be injured by her appearance; but it was the audience who were injured; several fainted before the curtain drew up! but when she came to the scene of parting with her wedding-ring, ah! what a sight was there! the very fiddlers in the orchestra," albeit unus'd to the melting mood," blubbered like hungry children crying for their bread and butter; and when the bell rang for music between the acts, the tears ran from the bassoon-players' eyes in such plentiful showers, that they choked the finger-stops, and making a spout of the instrument, poured in such torrents on the first fiddler's book, that, not seeing the overture was in two sharps, the leader of the band actually played in one flat. But the sobs and sighs of the groaning audience, and the noise of the corks drawn from the smelling bottles prevented the mistake between the flats and sharps being discovered. One hundred and nine ladies fainted! forty-six went into fits! and ninety-five had strong

hysterics! The world will scarcely credit the truth, when they are told that fourteen children, five old women, one hundred tailors, and six common-council men, were actually drowned in the inundation of tears that flowed from the galleries, the slips, and the boxes, to increase the briny pond in the pit; the waterw as three feet deep, and the people that were obliged to stand upon the benches, were in the position up to their ancles in tears! An Act of Parliament against her playing any more, will certainly pass."

MORAL MECHANISM.---It is said that an artist has invented a machine for seminaries which, by means of steam, not only warms the rooms, but flogs all the children on a general scale!!!

LUDICROUS INCIDENT.---Lately a countryman was trudging homewards from our market, with a bottle of barm in his pocket. An acquaintance overtook him, and they began to walk at a pretty brisk pace. This set the barm aworking, and at last the cork flew out with a crack as loud as the report of a pistol. His companion, believing they were beset by robbers,cried out-"Lord's mercy, ye're shot, John; rin to that house, mun, and get help." John, in dreadful agitation, made for the house. Evils come upon the unfortunate thick and three-fold. He had just entered the house, when he went full drive against the lintel of a low inner door. He was overturned in a moment, and tumbled heels-over-head into the apartment. The amazed inmates, recovering from the astonishment of this strange rencontre, went towards him, "I'm shot-I'm murdered," roared he.---" Ye look gey like it, nasty beast that ye are (said the girl of the house); look at his breeks." The barm escaping from the bottle, had spread in copious streams down his nether garments. This occasioned the girl's mistake. O, ye powers! such a mistake, and such a discovery! The murdered man got up, and without speaking a word, sneaked off.

Odes.

ON THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM,

WRITTEN BY R. SOUTHEY, ESQ.
Poet-Laureate.

It was a summer evening.
Old Kaspar's work was done;
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green,
His little grand-child Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
That he beside the rivulet,

Whilst playing there, had found;
He came to ask what he had found
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And first the old man shook his head,

Then heav'd a deep-drawn sigh; ""Tis some poor fellow's scull," said he, "Who fell in the GREAT VICTORY."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about?" Young Peterkin he cries, And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they kill'd each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried, "That put the French to rout And what they kill'd each other for, I ne'er could well make out; But every body said," quoth he, That 'twas a famous Victory.

"My father liv'd at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by, They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forc'd to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide; And many a chilling mother then And new-born infant died: But things like these you know must be At every famous Victory.

"And every body prais'd the Duke, Who such a fight did win." "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin; "Why that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a FAMOUS VICTORY."

Satire.

THE LAW STUDENT; (Written some years ago, in imitation of Phillips's Splendid Shilling.")

Happy the youth, who doom'd the laws to

scan,

On third or second floor, sublimely pores
O'er pages pregnant with the mystic lore
Of law-inditing sage; or whom his fate
Auspicious tempts to climb the fearful height
Of statutes undigested,-venturous task-
Yet glorious too! Thus erst (as poets chaunt)
Huge mountains rose, by sons of earth up-
heav'd,

O'ertopping mountains to the wond'ring skies,

Fabric stupendous! dreadful e'en to Jove. Whilst, happy thus employed, the student kills

The toilsome hour, no agitating cares
His life perplex; but, steep'd in thought,
he sinks,

Or roams in mazy labyrinths of law,
Or sagely ponders o'er the well profound,
Where lie, deep hidden from unhallow'd ken
And vulgar search, embucketed below,
Quibbles and quirks,and all the secret springs
Of bliss litigious. Fondly here his eyes
Feast covetous; nor quits he yet the sight,
So charm'd he seems, till halcyon slumbers
roll

His ravish'd brain athwart, leading along
A honied train of ecstacies divine
And joys ineffable. The mistress, too,
Of legal science, fair Confusion, comes,
Washing with floods of Lethe from the soil
Present and past and with bewild'ring shade
Of dark conjecture clouding scenes to come.
These the delights that wait in certain round
The student's envied life. How vain are those
The poet idly boasts, with these compar'd!
What sounds melodious of his lyre belov'd
Can so entrance or chain the raptured sense,
As the soul-moving mysteries of Law?
Such transports fill the meditative hours
Of Templar, (as in citadel aloft
He muses solitary,) luring sleep

And sweetest dreams with learned reveries Unnumber'd. But more happy far the youth,

Far happier he, whose weighty purse contains The golden spell! He wants no means to know

The arts mysterious of that sapient tribe,
Draftsmen, to wit, or special pleaders, hight
By mortal men,-but on Olympus known
As guardian wights and oracles of law.
To these the favor'd youth, by Plutus arm'd
With magic wand, gains readiest access:
As once, (so bards have sung,) in days of
yore,

* See Lord Coke's "Proem" to his Notes upon Lyttleton.

Admission unmolested to the realms Of Stygian night: for glittering gold, we know,

Hath charms, not less than music, to relax Breasts hard as adamant. But who shall sing His secret bliss, who, through the lent haunts

Of Elm or Fig-Tree Court, thrice-hallow'd shades!

His solemn pace extends, musing along On some yet embryo-pleading, soon, perchance,

In chambers of some special sage to shine In form mature, emerging from the womb Of murky fiction: as the noon-day sun, Through clouds o'ershadowing and through vapours dense,

Darts his full beam, enlight'ning all around, As thus the sun, so bursts to light the plea.

Scraps.

TEMPER OF MIND OF THE PARISIANS. BY accident, nine people, of different stations in life, happened to meet together in the same diligence, or stagecoach: a non-commissioned officer, a farmer, a sexton, a physician, a journalist, an author, a timber-merchant, a lawyer, and a Jew.

It is a pity, says the Soldier, that we should have peace; in war, to be sure, I might have made my fortune, but, as things go, I must remain a Serjeant as I am.

Farmer. Why, for aught you care, the world might be turned upside down, so you get promotion; I too certainly wish for war, but then my reasons are very different: the price of corn is continually falling, and bread may be had almost for nothing.

Timber-merchant. O Lord, send us but two sharp winters! But Monsieur Lamark's almanack prophesies nothing but fog, rain, and southerly winds. Formerly, indeed, we used to have the frost at eighteen degrees, but now-!!

Lawyer. Thank God, we have warm weather! else we poor lawyers must be frozen to death. The number of our fraternity has been so much increased, justices of peace and arbitration offices have been introduced; nay, we are even threatened with a civil code as in Prussia. Formerly a lawyer could retire from bu siness with an annual income of 40,000 livres.

Journalist. If you complain, what am I to do? During the war, we had every day battles won or lost, towns besieged and captured, a thousand contradictory laws, sedition every where; there was no province, no borough, that had not its earthquake, its inundation, and parties were fighting together like the elements; but all of a sudden a man appears, who, like Neptune, has hushed every thing. All the news we now have is, at farthest, now and then about an infernal machine, or a couple of stones dropping down from the moon.

Physician. Since people have left off letting blood, and take so little diet-drink, it is all over with our art. Vapours and nervous diseases are now quite out of fashion; no pretty woman takes a fancy to swoon, if it were but once or twice a week, to appear interesting; on the contrary, they carelessly run about halfnaked, and, at the most, only catch a tedious consumption.

Serton. That is the very thing that makes me desperate; I purchased the situation of sexton in my parish, and relied at least upon ten funerals a week. But I am now ruined.

Physician. Then you cannot blame me; for of my patients one-half generally die every week.

Jew. But we are the worst of all. Every body wants to be a Jew now-2days. Every house now is a pawnbroker's shop, &c. &c. The name of Jew, however, is entirely forgotten. Whoever wants money, goes to the first person he chances to fall in with, be he a Christian or a Jew; and both serve him alike. Besides, the term of a majority has been shortened, and young people have various ways of extricating themselves. Under the ancient government we could work four years longer, and that was sufficient to enable us to make hay.

Author. And I, gentlemen, do I sleep upon roses, pray? Do you think that writers abound with milk and honey? I have been writing these twenty years, and only see how my coat looks! I have tried every thing, but nothing would succeed. I have pledged a capital play with my creditors; well, it has been hissed and damned, for there is no taste left.

At last I wrote an excellent little work upon the yellow fever, at the time it desolated Cadiz. What happened? No sooner was my book printed than the fever ceased; and the copies lie as heavy

N