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Papa's angry exclamation-" Why, drat it! the girl's bewitch'd-I'll be hang'd if she hasn't wasted half-a-pound of my best Lundy Foot upon these confounded A violent fit of sneezing fortunately prevented the completion of the sentence, and as I made good haste to repair my error by tendering him a cup (which he will persist in calling a dish) of genuine souchong by the time he had done wiping his eyes and blowing his nose, he suffered himself to be pacified. Dispatching as rapidly as possible this repast of the body, I hastened to the feast of reason, which I began by reciting a little song of my own composition, entitled

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Forgetful Cupid.

A ROSE one morning Cupid took,

And fill'd the leaves with vows of love,
When Zephyr passing fann'd the book,
And wafted oaths and leaves above.

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-Seizing his dart, the god then traced oral Meteor
Pledges to Psyche in the sand,

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1.00But soon the refluent tide effaced

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I frankly admitted that I thought the flow of these verses somewhat Moore-ish, and observed that they adapted themselves happily to one of the Irish Melodies, when I overheard Miss Caustic whisper to her neighbour, that if I was correct as to the metre, there wanted nothing but different words and sentiments to make it really very like Moore. Envy does merit like its shade pursue," and we all know Miss Caustic's amiable propensities. If I were to require her to write a better, before she presumed to criticize my production, I fancy she would be condemned to a pretty long silence.

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Mr. Scribbleton, a multifarious operator for the theatres, particularly in getting up farces, next favoured us with a comic song, which he assured us was the easiest thing in the world to compose, as it was" only to take a story from Joe Miller, versify it, and add a little nonsense by way of chorus, and he had never known the experiment fail. He relied confidently on a double encore for the following, inserted in a forthcoming piece, put into the mouth of a Yorkshireman.

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HOME GRIPE's chimney were smother'd wi' soot and wi' smoke,
But I won't pay for sweeping, he mutter'd ;
So he took a live goose to the top-gave a poke,
100 yh And down to the bottom it flutter'd.

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Wauns! how cruel, cries one-says another, I'm shock'd-
Quoth Gripe, I'm asham'd on't, adzooks:

But I'll do so no more. So the next time it smok'd,
He popp'd down a couple of ducks.

Quaak, flippity! quaak, flappity!
Flippity, flappity, quaak!

At my earnest solicitation, Mr. Schweitzkoffer next recited some farther extracts from "The Apotheosis of Snip." This hero is conducted to the Dandelion Tea Gardens, formerly established in the vicinity of Margate, where he delivers a political harangue, which a part of the company receive in dudgeon while others supporting the orator, a pelting of stones and general combat ensue, of which the particulars are thus humorously detailed.

Not with more dire contention press'd

The Greeks and Trojans, breast to breast,
When, brandish'd o'er Patroclus dead,
Gleam'd many a sword and lance,
And from their flashing contact shed
Light on his pallid countenance,
Than did these Dandelion wights,
Rivals of Greek and Trojan knights,
Who all as thick and hot as mustard,
O'er Snip, the prostrate, fought and bluster'd.
Nor was that combat so prolific

Of doleful yells and screams terrific ;

For Trojan stout and stubborn Greek,

Tho' wounded, scorn'd to whine or squeak,

While those who were from wounds most safe

Did here most clamorously chafe.

Mothers, aunts, sisters, nieces, grannies,
Always more voluble than man is,
Might here, by their commingled gabble,
Have stunn'd the chatterers of Babel,-
As if the warriors made their doxies
Their vocal deputies and proxies ;
And by their better halves confess'd
The feelings they themselves suppress'd-
As when a bagpipe's squeezed behind,
It squeaks by pipe to which 'tis join'd.
Questions, calls, cries, and interjections,
Were intermix'd in all directions
Where's Jacky, Harry, Ned, and Billy?-
Coom hither, Tummas, or they'll kill ye-
Good gracious! where is Mr. Wiggins?
Mamma, we can't find uncle Spriggins.
Dear me! that lady's in a swound :—
Well, ma'am, you needn't tear one's gownd.
Jacky, do you take care of Polly.
O heavens! there's another volley!
O Mr. Stubbs! what shall I do?
Has any lady found a shoe?

Sally's face veil is gone, I vow

I'll take my oath twas here just now.
Why do you stare at me, good madam?
I know no more of it than Adam.
Why, see, you thoughtless little fool,
You popp'd it in your ridicule.

OI shall ne'er survive the squeedge!
A smelling-bottle would obleege.-
I vow I feel quite atmospheric:
Salts! salts! she's in a strong hysteric!
O that a person of my station

Should be exposed to such flustration!
You haven't, madam, seen Sir John?—
Where is my stupid coachman gone?-
Well, goodness me, and lackadaisy !
I'm sure the people must be crazy.
What do you mean, ma'am, by this riot ?
Mean?-why you 've almost poked my eye out.
Those parasols are monstrous sharp.-

Ma, that's the man as play'd the harp.

Well, this is Dandelion, is it?

I sha'n't soon make another visit.

George Crump, the inspired carman, of whose original Muse I have already furnished interesting specimens, having completed a poem entitled "The Skittle Ground," with the exception of the introductory stanzas, applied to me for that difficult portion; and as I was very sure that he would never imitate the discourteousness of Dr. Darwin, who received a similar contribution from Miss Seward, and prefixed it to his Botanic Garden without the smallest acknowledgment, I resolved to gratify his wish, running over in my mind the opening lines of the most celebrated epics. Virgil's "Arma virumque cano"-Tasso's "Canto l'arme pietose"-Ariosto's "Canto le Donne e' i Cavalieri" -Milton's "Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit," with many other initiatory verses, occurred to my recollection; but Mr. Crump, having intimated at our conversazione that he had himself hit upon a happy exordium, I obtained silence, when he recited the following four lines as his proposed commencement, assuring us that the fact corresponded with his statement, which he considered a most auspicious augury.

While playing skittles, ere I took my quid,
The Muses I invoked my work to crown;
"Descend, ye Nine!" I cried,—and so they did,

For in a trice I knock'd the nine-pins down!

It was my intention to have furnished some farther poetical flowers from the literary garland woven at this interesting Symposium, but the recollection of an incident which occurred towards the end of the entertainment actually paralyzes my faculties, and makes the pen flutter in my hand. My father, who is passionately fond of whist, had stipulated for a table in one corner of the room; and for the purpose of tenanting it had invited four or five humdrum neighbours, who could only be called men of letters in the postman's sense of the phrase, although they were perfectly competent to go through the automatical movements of shuffling, cutting, and dealing. After the rubber had been played once over in fact, and twice in subsequent discussion, they prepared to depart, and I heard the announcement of their servants' arrival with a pleasure that I could ill conceal." Mrs. Waddle's maid and umbrella!" sounded up the stairs, and the corpulent old lady slowly obeyed the summons. "Miss Clacket's pattens stop the way!" was the next cry; and her shrill voice, still audible from below,

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continued without ceasing till the hall-door closed upon her clangour. "Mr. Wheeze's boy and lantern !" followed, when the worthy oilman, having put on two great coats, and tied as many handkerchiefs round his throat, coughed himself out of the house, wishing that he was well Dover Tower Hill on his way to Ratcliffe. Mrs. Dubbs's shopman came to claim the last of this quartetto of quizzes; and I was just congratulating myself on the prospect of renewing our feast of intellect, free from the interruptions of uncongenial souls, when my father, running up to the table, cried out- "Well, now let's see what card-money they have left." So saying, he looked under one of the candlesticks, took up a shilling, bit it, rung it upon the table, and exclaiming, "Zounds! it's a bad one-it's Mrs. Dubbs's place-Hallo! Mrs. Dubbs, this won't do though, none of your raps" rushed hastily out of the room. After two or three minutes, passed by me in silent horror, he reentered, nearly out of breath, ejaculating, as he spun another shilling with his finger and thumb-" Ay, ay, this will do; none of your tricks upon travellers, Mrs. Dubbs: a rank Brummagem!"

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Miss Caustic began the titter-but I can describe no farther. I fell into as complete a state of defaillance as the subject of Sappho's cele brated ode-my blood tingled, my eyes swam, my ears with hollow murmurs rang," and yet this fainting of the mind did not afford any relief to the shame and mortification that overwhelmed the too refined and sensitive bosom of

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WHEN I look forth into the face of night,
And see those silent orbs that gem the sky

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The moon that holds her glorious path on high-valefa
The countless host of stars of lesser light,
All moving on their destined course aright,

Through the broad ocean of infinity,

Steer'd by the hand of Him whose glories lie
Beyond the stretch of mortal sense or sight-
When I behold all Heaven divinely bright,

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With this array, and downward turn mine eyes,——
My soul expands into its native might,

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And loathes the burden of that coil that liesimon Jadt al Like lead upon the soul, and clogs its flight rearstil Unto its purer seat and kindred skies. Mods glad "stonɔ zen (ing Jon Dapol ad of er stadi adtbesibogobysau ne ovadow tud letmora, trang a subory dɔidw zɔans. adi-evang tons engide a tour wit to yah out to wobi m

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HOMEMOIRS, as compared with those curious specimens of fine writing and false reasoning which pass under the name of " histories," are a decided step in literary civilization. The earlier historical composi-tions, with their ready-made orations and indiscriminate collections of sprobable and improbable events, and the more recent and elaborate productions, having some show of criticism as to the details, but stamped in their ensemble with the brand of system,-belong more to the class of belles-lettres, than to morality and political philosophy; and they are much better adapted to form part of a College course, than to afford the statesman or philosopher an insight into the human heart, and enable him to regulate the future by the experience of the past.

It has been objected to memoirs, that they reflect too faithfully the passions and prejudices of the times in which they are written, to admit of their being received with confidence as historical; or rather, it is insinuated that they are mere registers of the lie of the day, and worthy of consideration only as a species of romance. Yet it is in this very particular and distinctive characteristic that the superior utility of such compositions consists-namely, that they are reflections of the passing hour, that they are fac-similes of the society of which they speak, and, as it were, dried preparations of the anatomy of the times. A single memoir, it is true, may exhibit individual facts in false colours; may detail anecdotes that are defective, embroidered, or wholly untrue; but the entire work will rarely fail to exhibit so faithful a transcript of the author's mind, so complete an exposure of his prejudices, leanings, credulity, means of information, and capability of using them, that his credibility may be estimated like that of a living man; while the testimony of contemporary writers will confirm or contradict any particular statements which may appear questionable and uncertain. The superiority of memoirs over the cold digests of chronicles and state papers is marked in this single circumstance; that while we know little more of general history than a few leading events, of which we only guess at the remote and predisposing causes, without any acquaintance with the personal trifles which are the immediate springs of the greatest, as of the smallest actions, while we remain in ignorance of all the humanity of events, and are presented only with the abstractions and generalities of the history of other nations,-we appear to live and breathe in the court of France; and to have a personal acquaintance with all the leading personages who have figured in that corrupt and intriguing, but active and enterprising arena of conflicting interests. In the memoirs with which French literature abounds, there is to be found not only "le dessous des cartes," the little causes which produce great events, but we have an encyclopedia of the current ideas of the day, of the mental fashions that prevail,—the forms and qualities of the "walking gentlemen" of society, no less than of its heroes,--the average of prevailing virtues and vices, ignorance and knowledge, the materials with which statesmen work, the mass

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* Mémoires sur la Vie privée de Marie Antoinette, &c. &c.

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