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POBTST.
gotten the affair, when it was recalled to my
mind in rather a singular manner. Owing to
indisposition, I had neglected to dine in Hall
on the last of the four days for keeping the pro
ceeding Michaelmas Term, and I therefore
was prevented, as I imagined, from being cal
led in time for the Spring Circuit. Having
kept Hillary Term, I applied to the Butler,
who takes the names of all who dine in the Hall
in order to ascertain whether my attendances
had been regular. “ I am very sorry not to
hnve kept Michaelmas Term,” said I, obser
ving him produce the parchment of that Term.
“ I believo, sir,” said he, “ you did keep it
and upon examining his record, 1 certainly ap
peared to have dined in Hall on the last of
the four days; when, it: fact, I was sick at
some distance from town. Honestly enough,
I pointed out the error to the man, but he per
sisted most earnestly in asserting thnt I had
actually made my appearance, in corroboration
of which he showed me his account book, from
which it seemed that Iliad on that day paid
some dues which 1 owed to the society—a pay
ment of which I had no recollection. The mat
ter was too much in my favor to controvert it
any further, and, though perplexed, 1 submit
ted. Having settled this affair, I went to din
ner, and seated myself next to a volatile friend
of mine, whoso lovo of pleasure led him into
continual difficulties, hut the excellence of
whose heart would redeem greater errors. I
had no sooner taken my seat, than, with his
usual gaiety, my neighbour turned to me. “ So
you thought, my dear Domino, that I did not
know you when you came into the room the
night before last ?”—“ Domino ! room !” I re
plied ; “ I was in no other room than —’
and my own on that night, and you were in
neither.” “ Oh no ! I suppose you were not
at I.adyTl s’masquerade ?” “Indeed 1
do suppose so; I nm not n person to go without
an invitation even with a mask on my face.”
Well, the mask you now wear would almost
deceive me. had 1 not the most unquestionable
evidence against you.” “ Let me hear it.”
“ Why, you know, at the close of the evening,
when von wanted to perplex me. you whisper
ed—” (here my friend mentioned a matter of
the most private nature, which he Imd confided
to me.)—“ Y\ell you are convinced that you
were there !” “ I can only say again I was not
there ; believe me or not, ns you please.” My
friend’s countenance changed. “ Once more,
have you any object in deceiving me ?” “ None
whatever.” “ Then," said lie, this must he
looked into; you hnve betrayed my confi-
, dence.—Whoever spoke to me miist have
■ OK! that l had the dart Vial 1 might fin au-ay ■ heard the circumstance from you. I shall hold
you accountable—and he roso and quitted
from Mns. Colvin's messcngf.ii.
•us irn/fAT in the Mum of a I.udy who had suggested
her work-basket as a thenu for the Poet,
t paw it in the midnight dream, _
When slumber’* charm was o’er me,
A little basket, in the beam
Of noon duy, .stood before me :
ft* beauty was exceeding rare,
And yet 'twaa no lees frail than fair—
t ; o fair, it seem'd some elfin hand
From fairy land had brought;
So frail, it seem'd some lairy hand,
Of "osaamer had wrought if.
Its lid was down, ’lwas fill’d with flowers,
Gather’d from Flora’s choicest bowers:
Vet through its side-, on every pur I,
Their sweet perfume was stealing—
Twas like a guileless maiden's ie.-ait,
Its inmost tliouohts reveali' g—
And, presently, a singing maid
Wub sitting there those flowcif, to b r aid.
A? crew, like hope, the flowery wreath,
Beneath her flying ting'eH,
t>he seem’d with half a mi’.., t-. breathe,
“ Jiow Ion" //.« numu n! ling-rs /”
Thin us I saw, to tin u;’l»t I •< ay
Came.o’or me, and I pa ascii away.
The blast of death bad o’er in* s\v ■ •
Ere yet those flow m were lira..}.,.!,
And in the silent i**a\ ( sb p»,
Ere yet those flowers we**- ,
An ) soon abovf my aslits g w
The tnournfnl cyj ress and the y* %
At length when a few yema ha.: onss’d
I dr’lim'd :ny parted “p.ri’
Ctomc hack, to trace th ^v a.id w*»cs
\\hich her. it did rr*•. oi :
tout as a man com. < b ;- k t. »n^r
'Xhe scene of uhildho "• ;.lacc.
I saw that little bam • n*l,
In all it* fairy ligr..
£'en as before, but tim ’. . .'*■ *:;»nd
Had dimm'd ifs snowy nl»i‘*..
And now itmon" ils flow* rs wi.rc *»ren
Full many a dark **d evergreen.
But where was she 7
I *ccm’d to hear an unseen “pint singing.
I woke, but on my avish'd ear
Tlie music still was rrvTi.Hr—
II The lightest, frailer ict see,
Art not so light, so fiatl as ter.”
THE WINGS OF THE DOVE.
at MKH. lif.MANS.
Oh! for thy tvings, thou dove!
Now sailing by with sunshine on thy breast;
That borne like then above,
I too might lice away and be at rest!
Where wilt thou fold those plumes,
Jjird of the forest shadows, behest bird?
In what rich leafy glooms,
*Jy the awoct voice of hidden waters stirred?
Over what blessed hoi le,
What roof with dark, d* ep summer foliapr crowned,
Oh, fair asorean’s foam !
3ha!i thy bright bosom shed a gleam around?
. Or Her.k’st thou some old shrine
Of nymph or saint, no more by \ otury wooed,
Tho still, as if divine,
Breathing u spirit*o’er the solitude?
Yet wherefore osk thy wav ?
Hh Ht, rvrr hirst, «hat**T il-unii, thouart!
LnU' the premwn d sj,rny
Beating no dink riant mbranre at my heart!
Ito echoes that will hleml
A if docs* .villi the rustlings of the grove;
No memory of a friend
liar off, or dead, or eliuug’d to tlrcc, thou Povo I
Oh! to some cool rervss
Take, take me with lin e on the summer wind!
. heaving the wearim ss,
And all tho fever of this life behind :
The aching and tho void
Witliin the heart ..’hereunto none reply,
The early hopes destroyed—
Bird! bear mo with thee thro' tho Bunny sky:
—Wild wish, and longing vain,
And brief unspriuging to he glad and free I
t.o to thy woodbind reign !
My soul is bound and held—I may not lice.
For oven by all tho fears
And thoughts that haunt my dreams—untold, on.
known,
And by the woman's tears
Vourcd from mine eyes in silence and alone:
Had I thy wings, thou Pove!
High ’midst the gorgeous islts of cloud to soar,
.Soon the strong cord of lovo
Would draw me earthward—home words—yet once
more I
FROM THE LONDON NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
'fllE NARRATIVE OK ASTI PENT AT I.AW,
“ Ro I stand there ’ I ne.cr had » brother
Nor can there he tlmt deity in my online '
Ofhcre and every where."'-- 7'ie^[s .Vigil/.
On the 29th of Jnntinrv, 17ril. fl
sbn to remember the duy.) n series t.t the most
Singular nnd mysterious even', commenced,
which have driven me from tnv homo utid coun
try, have blasted my characti r nnd my hopes,
and have compellr.i me to abjure no honorable
name which in my person has been degraded
and disgraced.
On the morning of the above dnv. as I was
Crossing tho terrace of t|„ Inner Temple,
(where I had resided for litre.' yeans, and had
nearly kept my terms.) I mot "one of my fel
low students who was always more distinguish
ed for his industry and credit on than for tho
fashionable appearance ot hi* dress. “ So you
-would not see me in the Park yesterday,” said
Jte ; “ well, Well, I dare say you will know mo
when next we meet, for I have actually a new
Coat in progress at my tailor’s.” “ Not see
you!” I replied, “it must hat. been from the
windows of my chambers thnt I saw y«u, if I
•aw you at all, for, upon my faith. I never stir-
cd out yesterday, except to hear Kennel
preach.” “Come, come.” said my friend,
the apology is worse than the offence. If uott
were not in the Park, I was not-good mom-
tng. As might bo expected, I paid little at
tention to this incident, knowing that my poor
friend had in some degree injured his eyo si<»ht
by dose application, and concluded that he
bad mistaken some other person for myself.
Before the end of the week I bad almost for-
the table. From that hour our intimacy.which
had given so rnnch pleasure to both, entirely
ceased.
Disturbed and vexed I returned to mycham-
ber, hut iny usual occupations seemed to have
lost their zest. I resolved, theiefore, to spend
the evening in Square, where beautiful
eyes nnd u warm heart, nnd n white hand,wore
always ready to give me welcome. That gen
tle and graceful presence would make mo for
get every thing but itself. 1 found Louisa at
home, nnd ns I look mv chair at the tea-table,
I was rallied by her anil her friends upon my
jaded looks. “ You seem to have lost all your
spirits since morning,” said Louisa. “ I can
not sav,” I replied, “ thut even my morning
spirits wore very light ; they were weighed
down rather too heavily with folios for that.”
“ INay," said she. “ when I snw you, yon
might never hnve beheld a folio, for you, were
laughing unmercifully loud with some of your
gav Temple friends.” “ VVImt! ltnvo you
been to the gardens to-dnv ?” “ No ; 1 snw
you in Pall Moll, ns 1 passed in tho carriage.”
I started—“ you are mistaken : I have not
been in Pall Mall to day.”'“ Well,” said she,
slightly blushing, “ I suppose it must ho a mis
take ; but 1 certainly thought- it was you.”
This conversation irtcrcascd my perplexity,and
I began to imagino thnt some one had enden-
vored to nssumo my dress and appearance;
but the total want of nil ob ject in such a scheme
seemed to render it most improbable.
For some days nothing of this kind occur
red, till at nn evening party I observed that
some persons, with whom I had n slight ac
quaintance, seemed studiously to avoid me.
Uneasy at this circumstance I called tho next
day upon the gentleman ot whose house wo
had met, nnd nflor mentioning to him the
coolness which had struck me, entreated him
to tell mo w hether ho could explain it. He
told me that as I had spoken openly to him.
lie would deal candidly with me. That one
of tho pnrty I alluded to had mentioned to him
n fart which certninly told very much against
uive rea- mP , nm | which ff true, niight in some degree
justify the chonge of manner. It was said that
a few evenings before, when the party of whose
conduct I complained had been at the Theatre,
1 had entered tho next box, evidently much
excited by wine, and had conducted myself in
a most annoying manner. I immediately pro.
tested my innocence to the satisfaclion of my
friend, and offered to prove that I was not at
the Theatre on the night in question. I reques
ted that this might be communicated to the
parties concerned, which mv friend kindly
promised should be done. " 1
I was fully persuaded that some mystery
existed, which it nearly concerned mv honour
and reputation to unravel, however difficult the
task might be; and such was the complete
possession which the subject took of mv mind,
tlmt for some days even my passion for Louisa
seemed forgotten. Nothing, however occur,
red for aomettmo again to irritate my mind,
and I was once more becoming tranquil, w hen
the persecution commenced afresh. On one
of those beautiful days which sometimes occur
in February, Iliad walked to the Serpentine
in order to see the akaitcra. I had just arrived
at tho river, when a person with whom I was
acquainted taking my hand said. “ I congratu
late you on your escape.” “ Escape!” I an
swered, “ I have just been told that a person,
whom I certainly imagined to be you, had been
precipitated through the ice, and could not bo
recovered.” I attempted to laogh at the sup
posed mistake, but turned my steps homeward
with all my vague and perplexing doubts again
renewed.
During a sleepless and feverish night, I
carne to the resolution that I would devote my
mind incessantly to my professional pursuits,
and thus endeavour to drive away tho mysteri
ous apprehensions which tormented me. I
had suffered no real inconvenience by the un
accountable circumstances whicb had occur
red, nnd I bad nothing to fear from the conti
nuance of them but their effect upon my mind,
which it should now be my part to obviate by
strict and incessant mental occupation. I,
therefore, sketched out an ex’ensivo plan of
study ; nnd in the morning arose with recover
ed spirits. 1 resolved in the first instance to
make myself thoroughly acquainted with the
elder writers of the law; and accordingly, after
breakfast, I sat down to the earnest perusal of
liracton. Though the task was difficult, I
took delight in it, and I closed the book short
ly before my dinner-hour, with feelings to
which, since the first occurrence of my misfor
tunes, I had been a stranger.—I was just pre
paring to walk to the Park, when my servant
announced Mr. B . This gentleman
had long been my father,s most valuable friend,
and despite of many eccentricities, had ac
quired the lovo nnd esteem of all who knew
him. Like another Howard, it was his fa
vourite occupation to visit tho sick and impri
soned : nor did ho hesitate to carry his bene
volence farther, nnd to seek even the scenes
of folly and profligacy, in the hope of saving
thoso who were yd unconfirmed in the paths
of vice. I welcomed him with real joy, but
I could not nvoid observing a shade of sadness,
mingled with displeasure upon his counte
nance. After a little general conversation,—
“ You will pardon me,” said he mildly, “if 1
address the son of my dearest friend in the
language of reprehension.” “ You cannot say
any thing,”said I “ which can call for pardon;
but why do you speak of reprehension ? Ho
ked calmly and steadily in my face for se
veral moments, und sighed deeply.”—“ ’Tis
marvellous, surely, that those open candid
looks should cover so deceitful a henrt I” I
whs struck silent with surprise, nnd ho conti
nued—“ Those features which last night I be
held distorted with every violent passion, arc
now calm; but is the heart at rest I” “ I know
not what vou hint at,” was all that 1 could
faintly articulate. “ Do you meat then to
deny that you were present at that scene of
jjllnny—tliai I did not. with these eyes, be
hold yon at tho gaming table, despoiling the
young and credulous victims, and yousnlf in
return the dupe of more skilful scoundrels.”
This fresh persecution seemed to rouse me to
madness, and I denied the imputation with nn
ntempurance altogether foreign to my nature.”
“ It is a base and subtlo conspiracy to min
me,” I exclaimed, “ and you are a party to it.”
' I sec,” intcruptcd my venerable visitor,
that you a^e not in a fit frame of mind, and I
shall leave you ; hut you cannot pursuado mo
thnt I did not sec you yesternight.” “You
could not see me,” I cried, “ I passed the
evening at Squire.” “ ITnvo you not
sold the Elms 1” I was surprised at this
question, for 1 hud just sold a little estate so
tnlled—“ Why do you ask t” I inquired. “To
convince you that I was present last night.
I heard you boast that your last stnko was the
produce of that sale.” “ For God’s sake leave
me I” I cried. “ my mind is bewildered, and
my reason seems to totter on the throne !”
Ho left me with a rountenaneo full of sorrow
and compassion.—[To be Continued.]
Washington— Buonaparte We publish be
low tho opinions ofOiatcaubrand, as express
ed in a recent work of his, of the two great
men of tho age, Washington and liuonnparto.
Coming from a distinguished French civilian
they will be rend with interest.
“If n comparison be instituted between
Washington and llunnapartc. between man and
man. the genius of the first appenrs to he of a
less elevated character than that of the second.
Washington docs not belong, as Buonaparte,
to that race of the Alexanders, and Caesars,
who surpass tho ordinary standard of the hu
man spocics. Nothing astonishing appertains
to Lis personal history; ho is not placed upon
a vast theatre ; ho has not to contend with tho
ablest captains and most potent monnrehs of
the age ; he docs not traverso seas ; he does
not rush from Memphis to Yionna, from Ca
diz to Moscow ; ho defends himself with a
handful ofcitizens upon a new and rcnownloss
shore, within tho narrow circle of tho domes
tic firesides. Ho engages in none of those
combats which renew the bloody triumphs of
Arbcla and Pharsalia ; he doos not prostrate
thrones in order to erect others on their ruins ;
he plates not his foot upon the neck of kings ;
ho does not cause it to bo said to them while
waiting in the vestibule of his palace :
“ Qu’ils »c font trop attendre et qa’Anilas’ can tun."
The actions of Washington seem, as it were,
to be wrapped in silence ; he acts with cau
tion. It niight be said that he feels himself res
ponsible for the liberty of the future, and that
lie fears to compromit it. It is not with his
own destinies that this hero of a new order is
charged ; it is with those of his country ; and
he does not allow himself to trifle with what is
not his own. But from this profound darkness
what effulgence is about to hurst forth ! Search
the unknown woods where glittered the sword
of Washington, and what will you find ! tombs ?
No ! a World! Washington Ims left the U. S.
as the glorious trophy of his field of battle.
Buonaparte has no trait of resemblance to
this staid American : he combats upon an an
cient soil, covered with splendor and renown ;
he is occupied with his own fate alone. He
seems to know that his mission will bo short,
that the torrent which tumbles from so lofty a
height will quickly pass away ; therefore has
tens to enjoy and abuse his glory as if it were
like fugitive youth. Similar to the gods of
Homer, he wished with four strides to reach
the oxtremsty of the world, Le appears upon
every shore, he inscribes his name precipitate
ly in the registers of every people ; he throws
crowns to his family and soldiers, in his impe
tuous progress ; ho is alike rapid in his move
ments, in his victories, in his laws. Incumbent
over the world, with one hand he strikes down
kings, with tho other he prostrates the revolu
tionary monster; but in destroying anarchy,
he stifles liberty, and ends by losing his own
on his final battlo plain.
Every one receives the recompenco due to
his works ; Washington raises a nation to in
dependence : a retired Chief Magistrate, he
tranquilly yields up his spirit under bis pater
nal roof, amid the regrets and tears ofliis coun
trymen, and tho veneration of every land.
Buonaparte deprived a nation of her liberty:
a fallen Emperor, he is hurried into exile,
where the dread of the earth deems him not
yet sufficiently imprcioned under the ocean’s
guard. As long as he struggles with the power
of death, feeble and enchained as ho is to a
rock, Europe dares not resign her arms. He
expires ; and this news, when proclaimed at
the gate of the very palace before which the con
queror had issued his orders for so many grand
catastrophes, neither stops nor surprises the
passenger; for what had the citizens to bewail f
The republic of Washington still exists :
tho empire of Buonaparte is destroyed : it has
passed away between the first and second voyage
of a Frenchman, who found a grateful and hap
py nation, where he had formerly fought for
some few oppressed colonists.
Washington and Buonaparte issued from the
bosom of a republic: born, both for liberty, the
first was faithful; the second betrayed her.
Their fato, according to their choice, will be
different with posterity.
Tho namo of Washington will spread with
liberty from age to age; it will mark Ihe com
mencement of a new tcra for the human race.
The name of Buonaparte will also be utter
ed by future generations; but it will be accom
panied with benediction, and will often servo
as an authority for oppressors, both great and
small.
Washington was tho complete representative
of the wants, the ideas, the knowledge, tho
opinions, of his epoch ; he seconded, instead
of impeding tho march of intellect; he wished
to effect, what it was his duty to effect, tho
thing to which ho was called ; Ihcnce the cohe
rence and perpetuity of his work. This man
who strikes us little because he is confined
within just and natural proportions, has con
founded his existence with that of his country;
his glory is tho common patrimony of increas
ing civilization—his famo rises like one of
those sanctuaries whence flows an inoxhausti-
ble fountain for the people.
Buonaparte might equally have enriched the
public domain : he had to do with a nation the
most civilized, tho most intelligent, the bravest,
and most brilliant of the earth. .What would
havo beoil the rank occupied by him in the uni-
verso, had he blended magnanimity with com
mon heroism, and, like Washington, appointed
liberty the heir of his glory ?
But this immeasurable colossus did .not com
pletely entwine his destinies with those of his
contemporaries: his genius belonged to mo
dern times ; his ambition to days of yore; ho
did not perceive that the prodigies of his life
surpassed by far tho value of a diadem, and
that this gothic ornament becamo him ill.
Sometimes he advanced a step with tho age;
sometimos ho retrograded towards tho past;
and whethor he ascended or followed the
course of time, by his prodigious power ho
hurriod it along with him or repelled its waves.
Men, in his eyes, were nothing but the means
of dominion; no sympathy existed between
their happiness and his- He had promised to
deliver them, and ho enchained thrim in
stead ; ho isolate d himself from them ; they
separated themselves from him. The kings
of Egypt constructed their funeral pyramids,
not among flourishing fields, but in tho midst
of sterile sands. These vast tombs rise like
eternity in solitude. It is thus that Buona
parte has erected the monuments ofliis famo.
Life in Ireland.—Tho fortunati nimittm
of tliis kingdom are wretched agricultarists. I
saw but one decently cultivated farm in Kerry;
it was on the road from Traleo to Killarney :
the farmer’s name, they told me, was Marshall.
The peasantry of Kerry fight and talk Latin
by instinct. Arriving at a village with u namo
versti quod dieera non •st, and which defies
the powers of orthography, 1 suddenly found
myself surrounded by a h ost of inhabitants, who
at that instant, commenced operations. One
fellow seized my horse, that I might not dis
turb them, and the rest leathered away most
famously. Cudgels twinkled and Paddies fell
in every direction. Meanwhile I occasionally
heard tho murmuring tones of a patriarch,who
sat nt 'ho fire of tho cabin, at the door of which
I was detained prisoner. He was rating a wench
who stood at tho only window, gazing at the
fun, and more on the scuffle than on the works
of Minerva:—“ Quid ngis in ista fenestra,
Bridgcta O’Shaughnessy ? Aut quomodo to
dccet istis humeris totum diem terere nihilum
agendo ? Estne tarn visu spectabile, homines
sic fustibus rixas componero, ut do primis mor-
talibus tradidit nostcr Flaccus ? Non ita est,
Bridgets mea : vade, age : quam multa vasa
culinaria tibi sunt adhuc deterfienda ? Cirnea
lactic coagulati agitanda, et ” Hero tho
din without became so furious, os to drown the
conclusion of the old boy’s expostulation, and
a man who seemed a sort of leader of his fac
tion,broke his shillclah on his neighbour’s pate.
As I happened to bo provided with one myself,
and was unwilling to spoil sport, or see sport
spoiled, I handed it out, and bade him play out
the play. Ho received the gift with a grim
smile of welcome, and in an instant I saw men
tumbling like nine-pins “ beneath his sturdy
stroke.” In something more than half an hour
a loud hurrah of “ The Boys of Billtnageury
forever l” announced that the fray was ended
—my friend with the stick had won. He came
up to where l stood, took off his hat, and with
propriety of speech and gesture, apologised for
the delay, I had tftet with, assuring me that
once the signal was given, it was impossible
to stop for any gentleman, and as he handed
back my stick with eloquent thanks, he hoped I
“ took no offence at the teste ofascrimmago that
had detained my honour.” " None in creation,
my good friend,” I replied“ but pray what oc
casioned this infernal row!” “Och, it tvas on
ly some words between myself and Tim Ou-
laghan, about a girl I would’nt'marry, and ho
brought his faction agin us, an’, wo fought it
out, and beat them like min.”
“And why would you not marry the girl f
Surely, had’nt she a pearl on her eye like a
biled cockle whin 1 seen her afore the Priest 1”
“ You don’t mean to aay it was then 1 first you
discerned her blindness 1” “ Whin else, your
honour? Devil a stem of her I ever seen til!
then ?” “ And were you going to many ajwo-
man the first timo ever you saw her !” “ Troth
and the same’s the custom among huz always.
When a girl takes on to be married, her fathey
or mother, or the like, goes match-making, and
spakos to any boy they fancy, and if he’s
agreeable, and they offer fortin’ according to
his expictations, the Priest is invited, and the
first thing tho girl hears of the match being
settled, or who is the man that’s to own her, is
whin the friends arrive to eat the wedding din
ner ; and late in tho evening, when all is hearty,
in comes the boy, and thin they see each other
for tho first time." “ And what fortune were
you to get with this girl whom you didn’t
marry?” Fifty pound, please your honour,
and a feather-bed. and a losset, and -four
chairs.”—JVotes of a Journey to the Lakes of
Killarney, in Blackwood's Magazine.
A singalar alternative.—It was formerly o
law in Germany, that a female, condemned to
a capital punishment, should bo saved, if any
man would marry her. A young girl at Vien
na, was on the point of being executed, when
her youth and beauty made a great impression
upon the heart of one of the spectators, who
was a Neapolitan, a middle aged man, but ex
cessive ugly. Struck with her charms, he de
termined to save her, and running immediately
to the place of execution, declared his intention
to marry tho girl, and demanded her pardon,
according to the custom of tho country. The
pardon was granted, on condition that the girl
was not averse to tho match. The Neapolitan
then gallantly told tho female that ho was a
gentleman of somo property, and that he wish
ed he was a King, that he might offer her a
stronger proof of his attachment.—“Alas!
sir” replied the girl, “ I am fully sensible of
your affection and generosity, but I am not
mistress over my own heart, anc! I cannot belie
my sentiments. Unfortunately, they centre?
my fato; and I prefer the death with which T
am threatened to marrying such an ugly fellow
as you are !” The Neapolitan retired in con
fusion, and the woman directed the execution
er to do his office.
Useful Women.—The generality of women
are brought up to bo what is called useful, in
the first instanco,—with as great a display of
this usefulness as can possibly be played off;
and in Ihe he,xt to bo——what shall I call them'
Meneatchers. Their usefulness, generally-
speaking, consists In doing that which is use
less, often worse ; but it is nil subservont to the
grand end. In middle life, they must he ex
hibited as notables ; that is, in spending threo
or four hours every day in what tho English
call dawdling, and tho Scotch, sysling; or, in
othor words, being a nuisance and hindrance to
good servants, and vainly attempting to mend
bad ones. If in easy or highlifo, an equal por.
tion of time is thrown away in making them-
solves butterfly elegantes, but with still tho
samo object in view.—Their mothers, aunts,
and provident elderly female friends, all teach
them the arts of catching ; and having little to
do that is worth doing, and that can really oc
cupy what was intended fer a rational mind,
they give a large portion of their attention to
tho study of man ; but nlaa! not in Pope’s
sense. What they arc chiefly adepts in, is tho
languago of tho eyes : not that language which
may enablo them to trace the wonders ef tho
mind, but that which leads to a knowledge
of what they call tho heart; that is, of the idle
short lived vagaries which occupy for a few
days the fools with whom thoy arc acquainted.—
Elizabeth, Evanthaw.
The Devil in the Tea.—Friday evening n
female purchased a quarter of a pound of tea
at the shop of Mr. Carter, on Gabriel’s hill,
Maidstone. The tea was tied up, paid for and
doposited in the good woman’s pocket and
away she trudged. She had not gone many
steps before she felt the tea move. She fan
cied that this might bo occasioned by her hav
ing touched some external object. On she
jogged, and every step she took, tho tea renew
ed the jumping fit. At last, when she had
reached the shop of Mr. Smith, the chemist,
she become alarmed, and began to fancy “ the
old gentleman,” was playing her a trick, or
that the tea dealer had put something alive in
hor pockot. She was afraid to put her hand in
her pooket, but ran back to the shop in a state
of agitation, scarcely able to articulate, “ tea !
—Devil .'-—alive /”—On being more composed
and relating the cause of her alarm, it turned
out that tho person who tied up the tea, had
forgot to cut the string." and she had’fcccn
walking down the hill with the tea dealer’s
twine unrolling itself as she went.
A good yame.—Their Majesties of Sardinia,
according to ihe Genoa Gazette, lately stood
sponsors to a noble child, who was baptised
simply and shortly, Charles Felix Joseph Ma-
rius Christinus Denis Paul Francis de Paula
Bernandid Anthony Raymons Cactanus Jean
Nepomucemis Andrew Avellin Mariusdes
Miracles Diego Peter d’ Alacantra. When
this young gentleman who is tho son of an am
bassador, comes to sign despatch notes, it will
he for brevity, in initiuls, C. F. J. M. C. D.
P. F-de-P. B. A. R. G. N. J. A. A. M-dcs
M. D. P. d’Alacontra,!