French names to those English. Who can wonder, provided he has never seen the inside of Bedlam, that such a man as Napoleon Buonaparte won the fields of Austerlitz and Marengo? not, assuredly, by his sharp sword, or his sharper wit-these would be the conjectures of weak minds---but by his unheardof, pleasing, pliant, melodious, Tuscan name!

I shall not put myself to any further pains to prove what, perhaps, after all, my readers may think required no proof; but shall content myself with setting before them the pathetic complaint of a luckless correspondent, which will, I doubt not, excite the same sensations of pity in their bosoms (especially amongst the gentle sex) which it moved in mine.

"Dear Mr. Bartholomew Bouverie,

"I am one of those unfortunate beings, whose peace of mind has been utterly destroyed by the lack of "my good name." Do not mistake me: my reputation, as an attorney, has never been attacked, even by the bitterest sons of calumny: I abhor all radicals, Papists, and smugglers, as well (modesty alone forbids me to say better) as the best Christian in England: but, Sir, when I tell you my name, my abominable baptismal appellation, you will see what it is that grieves me, and will, I am sure, sympathize with my affliction. I am, Mr. Bouverie, of an old Roundhead family-the more's

my sorrow; and it has been from time immemorial the custom of our branch of the Stubbs's to christen every second son by the outlandish and 'rebellious name of Bring-the-King-to-the-Block! In the innocent days of my childhood, when I was greeted by my brothers and sisters, with the pretty, harmless, abbreviation of Blocky, which my father, when in a drunken, or grumbling humour, used frequently to improve into Blockhead, then was I contented, because I was ignorant!

'Oh happy days! once more, who would not be a boy!'

"But too soon I arrived at years of discretion, and as my father (heaven rest his soul!) had saved enough money to procure me a liberal education, forthwith I found myself in the vicinity of Eton Playing-fields; where, alas! I was soon made sensible of the horrible nature of my prænomen, by the jeers of my more fortunate comrades. I will not detain you by enumerating the various modifications of my name, which clung to me, like so many phantasms of a night-mare, during my long and laborious passage from the Nonsense to the Upper Division. Had I been a scamp in my conduct, or a leveller in my political opinions, I might have borne with patience this series of unprovoked mortifications; but ever since I read Mr. Southey's Laureate odes, the poetic feelings of a Stubbs have stedfastly attached me to Church and King: nor shall I ever

forget the solemn warning given me by my godmother, when I first stepped blubbering into the Eton Tally-ho, "that though there was many a text in the Bible which talked of the holy prophets anointing kings in Israel, she had looked twice through, with her spectacles on, from Genesis to Revelations, without finding that they ever anointed a Republic!" I am now a respectable attorney; but my unfortunate name has deprived me, to my certain knowledge, of many a fee. Pray, Mr. Bouverie, as, from the moment I saw your elegant name in the newspaper, I was sure you were a kind old gentleman, can you point out any mode of relief?

Believe me your devoted

(Would I could say anonymous)

Servant,

BRING-THE-KING-TO-THE-BLOCK STUBBS.

THE DOCTOR.

E. L.

Quod medicorum est
Promittunt medici.-HOR.

I ONCE knew a doctor, of credit and skill

In mixing a potion, and gilding a pill,

Though he kill'd half his patients, yet praise he ensured,
For the dead went to nature, himself took the cured:
He was fam'd far and wide in the neighbourhood round,
For curing the healthy, and healing the sound;

Than this, his pretensions to skill went no further:
If y you ask me his motto, 'twas "Killing no Murther."
I sent for him once, and he came in a trice;
His chin was well shaved, and his periwig nice.
He enter'd the room with a sour grimace,
Machaon and Galen were both in his face.
I gave him my wrist: "A slight fever, I see;
Hem purging and bleeding, and camomile tea :
A draught and a bolus, the blood to refine;
To drive off the ague, a dose of quinine.

You'll be better to-morrow: I'll see you again,

And send you twelve draughts that will last you till then."
The Doctor departed, and presently came

Six draughts black as coal, and six draughts red as flame.
A label to each, with "The draughts, Mr. White,
The red for the day, and the black for the night.”
The draughts on the chimney-piece quietly lay,
Till the Doctor return'd on the following day :
He came with his lancets, in case there were need,
(That's to say if I'd let him) his patient to bleed.
As soon as he saw me: 66
Why, bless us," he cried,

"In a week, at this rate, you'll be able to ride ;

In a fortnight you'll walk, in a month you'll be well;
But you're still very sick, I can perfectly tell.

But none in their senses can ever compare

Το

your health, Sir, to-day, what you yesterday were: 'Tis the draughts that have done it; I know them of old, They're the true panacea, the essence of gold."

Just then at the door came a thundering knock.
"O master! O master! quick open the lock !"
Cried a blubbering urchin, that stood in the street;
And told his sad story to all he could meet;

With his cries and entreaties he set all the boys on ;

And the street soon resounded with "Poison! oh, Poison !”

The doctor aghast, by his conscience accus'd,

Felt terrors arising the more that he mus'd;
The ghosts of his patients appear'd in his sight,
All clutching the phials that sent them from light,

At length the poor Doctor, his reverie o'er,
Screw'd up resolution, and opened the door.
"O master! O master!" the blubberer cried,
"We are lost! oh, the poison !—has any one died?

I mixed, by some horrible folly of mine,

Of arsenic ten parts, to one of quinine."

"Zounds, sirrah!-but, soft, bring the stomach-pump quick, And hark, some emetics to make the man sick."

The Doctor returned to my chamber, and said,

"You are number'd, alas! my dear Sir, with the dead;
For poison was mix'd in the draughts, and I grieve
No hope is remaining." I laugh'd in my sleeve.
The stomach-pump came, and the Doctor was stout;
He pump'd long and strong, and some liquor came out :
“'Tis arsenic all; oh, what horrible stuff.”

66

'Hold, softly," cried I, "we have jok'd long enough;

Count the draughts on the chimney, you'll find just a dozen :
I'll expose you abroad for a cheat and a cozen.
Get out, or I'll kick you myself from my gate,

With your ratsbane and stomach-pump flung at your pate;
And I'll hire the beadle, and set all the boys on,

To hoot at your heels, "That's the vender of Poison."

WILLIAM WHITE.

NOTHING.

"Nihil" est ab omni parte beatum.-HOE.

Dear Mr. Bouverie;

In my present frame of mind, I am induced to think that "nothing" is the subject, of all others, most appropriate to my feelings, and best suited to my capacity: I do not remember any authors, with