An

secured. A guard was accordingly placed over him at his lodgings, at the city tavern. The officer to whose charge he was especially committed, was Mr. Francis Wade, the brewer, an Irishman of distinguished zeal in the cause, and one who was supposed to possess talents peculiarly befitting him for the task of curbing the spirit of an haughty Briton, which Skene undoubtedly was. I well recollect the day that the guard was paraded to escort him out of the city on his way to some other station. immense crowd of spectators stood before the door of his quarters, and lined the street through which he was to pass. The weather being warm, the window sashes of his apartment were raised, and Skene, with his bottle of wine upon the table, having just finished his dinner, roared out, in the voice of a Stentor, God save great George our King. Had the spirit of seventy-five in any degree resembled the spirit of Jacobinism, to which it has been unjustly compared, this bravado would unquestionably have brought the major to the lamp post, and set his head upon a pike; but, as fortunately for him, it did not, he was suffered to proceed with his song, and the auditory seemed more generally amused than offended.

ART. XVIII.-Anecdotes.

"I jest to Oberon, and make him laugh."-Shakspeare. Voltaire seems to have known his countrymen thoroughly, when he asserted that they were either monkies or tigers.

IRISH BULL.-An Irishman confessed he had stolen some chocolate." And what did you do with it," added the confessor, "Father," said he, " I made tea of it."

POT LUCK.-A German was invited, by an English family, to partake of pot-luck for dinner. He would eat no roast beef for dinner, no turkey; all the dishes passed him untouched. On being asked the reason of his loss of his appetite-"I do vaite for dat excellent pote loock," said he.

HENRY IV. This monarch coming one day into the apartment of the Countess of Cleves, he found her tablets, on which De Noaile, who was in love with the princess, had written these words: "Nul heur, nul bien me contente "Absent de ma divinitè."

Henry added these lines to them:

"N'appellez pas ainsi ma ante
"Elle aime trop l'humanité."

English of the above:

No earthly good compensates me for the absence of my divinity.
Call not my aunt thus-she is too fond of human nature.

Dr. JOHNSON and Mrs. SIDDONS.-In spite of the ill-founded contempt this great man professed to entertain for actors, he persuaded himself to treat Mrs. Siddons with great politeness, and said, when she called on him at Bolt Court, and Frank, his servant, could not immediately provide her with a chair,-" You see, madam, wherever you go there are no seats to be got."

SOBIESKI-When the great Sobieski, to whose valour not only Vienna, but the German empire, owed its preservation from the Turkish power, was asked in extremity to make his will, he laughed in the face of the bishop, who had been obliged to take the most round-a-bout method to make the proposal. The misfortune of royalty," said the king recollecting himself, "is that we are abused while we are alive, and can it be expected we should be obeyed after we are dead."

THOMAS SHERIDAN.-Some years ago the junior Sheridan, who inherited a large portion of the wit and genius of his father was dining with a party of his father's constituents, at the Swan, in Stafford. Among the company were, of course a great many shoemakers (I beg their pardon I mean shoe manufacturers.) One of the most eminent of them was in the chair, and, in the course of the afternoon, he called upon young Sheridan for a sentiment. This call not being immediately attended to, the president, in rather an angry tone, repeated it. Sheridan, who was entertaining his neighbour with a story, appeared displeased at this second interruption, and desiring a bumper might be filled, he gave-" May the manufacture of Stafford be trampled upon by all the world." It is needless to say that this sentiment given with apparent warmth, restored him to the good graces of the president.

SIR JOHN HARRINGTON used to say-The clattering of armour; the noise of great ordinace; the sound of trumpet and drumme; the neying of horses, do not so much trouble the sweete muses, as doth the barbling of lawyers, and the patering of attorneys.

ARIOSTO.-Sir John Harrington relates the following anecdote in his life of this poet.-Coming one day by a potter's shoppe, that had many earthen vessels readie made, to sell, on his stall, the potter fortuned at that time to sing some staffe or other out of Orlando Furioso, I think that where Renaldo requesteth his horse to tarrie for him, in the first booke, the 32 staffe: Or some such grave matter fit for a potter, but he plotted the verses out so ilfavouredly (as might well beseeme his durtie occupation) that Ariosto being, or at least making semblance to be, in a great rage with all, with a little walking stick he had in his hand, brake divers of the pots: the poore potter put quite beside his song, and almost beside himself, to see his market halfe mard before it was a quarter done, in a soure manner, between railing and whyning, as

ked what he meant, to wrong a poore man that had never done · him injury in all his life :-"Yes, varlet, quoth Ariosto, "I am yet scarce even with thee, for the wrong thou hast done me here afore my face, for I have broken but half a dozen base pots of thine, that are not worth so many halfe-pence: but thou hast broken and mangled a fine stanza of mine worth a marke of gold.

CURIOUS MISTAKE OF AUTHORS.-A gentleman who had moved in a very subordinate sphere of life, unexpectedly coming into a fortune, by the death of an opulent, though distant relation, pretended to set up for a critic and connoisseur in the belles lettres. One day, in a mixed assemblage, where many of the company were scholars, he contended with all the pride of imaginary learning, and criticism," that Elegant Extracts in Prose was a good author, but that Elegant Extracts in Verse was a far better.

DR. LOWTHER YATES, the late Master of Catherine Hall.—An under-graduate having passed him in the streets of Cambridge, without capping him, and it not being the first offence of the kind he took notice of it. "I did not observe you," said the freshman," I have been only entered a week at the university."-."True" said the Doctor, "I ought to have recollected that puppies do not see till they are nine days old."

MR. GOODALL, a learned Assistant at Eton.-The same morning he married Miss Prior, daughter of one of the assistants, to the great astonishment of the scholars he attended his duty as a master. A luckless boy who had played truant on the supposition "That when a lady's in the case,

"All other things, of course, give place,"

pleaded as an excuse for his absence, that he really thought Mr. G. had a prior engagement.

BON MOT.-A Cantab had been seized by the university constable; or in other words proctor. The proctor's name was Mr. Bacchus-the gownsman reeling, and hot with the Tuscan grape,

stammered out

Quo me, Bacche, rapis tui,
Plenum?

It is almost unnecessary to observe, the culprit was set at liberty.

ART. XIX.-Poetry.

A SOLILOQUY.

To fight or not to fight?-that is the question.
Whether 'tis better in this world to suffer
The snubs and cuffs of ev'ry silly knave-
Or by one great act of courage end them?-
To meet to stand-to shoot-

And by a valiant snap to say we end

The scorn, the insults, that all flesh must meet with,
'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.-
To stand, to shoot-perchance to fall?

Ay, there's the rub-for in that fearful chance,
Whose well-tried pistol best can hit the mark,
Must give us trembling pause.-There's the respect,
That makes the Man of Honour groan beneath
A load of ills.-For who would bear the sneers
Of wits, the frowns of ladies--and the duns
Of upstart wealth-when he himself might fix
His character-by sending but a challenge!
Who but would nobly dare to brave the curse,
The mother's curse-the widow's bitter tears-
But that a doubt of his opponent's aim
Might not be good-puzzles the will, and makes
Us rather bear these mighty ills, then risk
The loss of life or limb. Thus, dread of falling
Back to our native nothingness perhaps,
Or hobbling off, with but one foot, appals
The Hero's heart-and turns us all
To Cowards!

Philadelphia.

CONSTANTIA.

HOPE.

As o'er the ocean's stormy wave,
The beacon's light appears,
When yawns the seaman's wat❜ry grave,
And his lone bosom cheers.

Then, though the raging ocean foam,
His heart shall dauntless prove,
To reach secure his cherish'd home,
The Haven of his love.

So when the soul is wrapt in gloom,
To worldly grief a prey,

Thy beams, blest Hope, beyond the tomb,
Illume the Pilgrim's way,

And point to that serene abode

Where virtuous Faith shall rest;
Protected by the sufferer's God

And be forever blest.

Oh still, though sorrow's rayless night,
O'ershade my worldly way;

May pure Religion's holy light
Shed on my soul its ray.

SYDNEY.

EPIGRAM.

CHARLES, grave or merry, at no lie would stick,
And taught, at length, his memory the same trick.
Believing thus, what he so oft repeats,

He's brought the thing to such a pass, poor youth!
That now himself and no one else he cheats,
Save when unluckily he tells the truth.

SONG.

The following song by the modern Anacreon, Captain Morris, received the prize of the gold cup from a Harmonic Society.

Come, thou soul-reviving Cup,

And try thy healing art:
Light the Fancy's visions up-
And warm my wasted heart!
Touch with glowing tints of bliss
Mem'ry's fading dream;
Give me while thy lip I kiss,

The heav'n that's in thy stream.

In thy fount the Lyric muse
Ever dipp'd her wing,
Anacreon fed upon thy dews,

And Horace drain'd thy spring!
I, too, humblest of the train,
There my spirit find,

Freshen there my languid brain—
And store my vacant mind!
When, blest Cup, thy fires divine
Pierce through Time's dark reign,
All the joys, that once were mine
I snatch from Death again;
And, though oft fond anguish rise
O'er my melting mind,

Hope still starts to Sorrow's eyes--
And drinks the tear behind.

Ne'er, sweet Cup, was vot'ry blest
More through life than me,
And that life, with grateful breast,
Thou seest I give to thee!

'Midst thy rose-wreath'd nymphs I pass

Mirth's sweet hours away;

Pleas'd while time runs through the glass
To Fancy's brighter day!