him that Mrs. Hoppner had no such stores; but Porson, insisting that a search should be made, a bottle was at last discovered in the lady's apartment, to the surprise of Hoppner, and the joy of Porson, who soon finished its contents, pronouncing it to be the best gin he had tasted for a long time. Next day, Hoppner, somewhat out of temper, informed his wife that Porson had drunk every drop of her concealed dram. "Drunk every drop of it!" cried she. "Good Heavens ! it was spirit of wine for the lamp !"

Early in life, Porson accepted the situation of tutor to a young gentleman in the Isle of Wight; but he was soon forced to relinquish that office, having been found drunk in a ditch or turnip-field. When in company, he would not scruple to return to the dining-room, after the guests had left it, pour into a tumbler the drops remaining in the wineglasses, and drink off the omnium gatherum. If he left the house soon after twelve o'clock, he would indignantly call it being "turned out of doors like a dog!" When living in the Middle Temple, he often came home dead-drunk, sometimes falling on the floor, to the disturbance of his neighbours; putting out the candle in his fall, then staggering down stairs to re-light it, and dodging and poking about the lantern, and cursing "the nature of things."

THE GOUTY SHOE.

James Smith used to relate this incident, showing the general conviction of his dislike to ruralities. He was sitting in the library at a country-house, when a gentleman proposed a quiet stroll into the pleasure-grounds.

"Stroll! why, don't you see my gouty shoe?

"Yes, I see that plain enough, and I wish I'd brought one too; but they are all out now.'

"Well, and what then?"

"What then? why, my dear fellow, you don't mean to say that you have really got the gout? I thought you had only put on that shoe to get off being shown over the improvements."

A CLOSE ESCAPE.

One of James Smith's favourite anecdotes related to Colonel Greville. The Colonel requested young James to call at his lodgings, and in the course of their first interview related the

particulars of the most curious circumstance in his life. He was taken prisoner, during the American war, along with three other officers of the same rank. One evening they were summoned into the presence of Washington, who announced to them that the conduct of their Government, in condemning one of his officers to death as a rebel, compelled him to make reprisals and that, much to his regret, he was under the necessity of requiring them to cast lots, without delay, to decide which of them should be hanged. They were then bowed out, and returned to their quarters. Four slips of paper were put into a hat, and the shortest was drawn by Captain Asgill, who exclaimed, "I knew how it would be; I never won so much as a hit at backgammon in my life." As Greville told the story, he was selected to sit up with Captain Asgill, under the pretext of companionship, but in reality to prevent him from escaping, and leaving the honour amongst the remaining three. "And what," inquired Smith, "did you say to comfort him?" "Why, I remember saying to him, when they left us, 'D—n it, old fellow, never mind!'" But it may be doubted (added Smith) whether he drew much comfort from the exhortation. Lady Asgill persuaded the French Minister to interpose, and the Captain was permitted to escape.

A SLIGHT MISTAKE.-NICE SCRUPLES.

Mrs. Richard Trench tells the following story, much after the manner of Horace Walpole, about Lord John Russell, then a rising statesman and literary celebrity.

"The Bishop said, on going down to dinner with the prima donna, Lord John Russell, take Mrs. Trench.' I felt much pleasure at the thought of sitting by the historian, the political economist, the successful author, and prepared to treasure up his sayings and doings with that due degree of awe for his talents which is always a little unpleasant to me at first, though it soon subsides into a pleasant feeling of respect. Well, we sat down, and he talked of Harrow, and wished he had been at a private clergyman's, saying that he should have read more there, and been much happier; that at Harrow he had been subdued, and that he always had wanted encouragement. How amiable!' thought I; 'how modest!' He went on to say, 'If I had been at a private clergyman's, I should have been quite a different person.'

Still more modesty! How can a person who is so lauded,' thought I, 'have so moderate an opinion of himself?' Well, he drank his due proportion of wine with everybody, and watched their wants with a scrupulous attention. 'How very attentive to all the little forms of society,' thought I; 'this is so pleasing in an author of eminence.' In the evening, he played cards, and I went into the music-room, and sang in quite another way from what I do when I am afraid you are anxious I should please. I came home, and gave such an account of the author of Memoirs of the Affairs of Europe from the Peace of Utrecht, that all at home were dying to see him. Not that he said much to mark him out,' said I; 'but you could see the possession of talent under the veil of simple and quiet manners it pleased him to assume.'

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Well, the Bishop had mistaken the name, and I had been led down by one who passes for the greatest proser of his day, Lord John and I had all my feelings of awe

for nothing. So much for a name."

A few of Mrs. Trench's best points are in her casual commentaries on more ordinary things and ordinary people. For example :

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tête.

Lady Buckingham has engaged me for a month's tête-àIf our friendship survives this ordeal, it may be immortal." "At Mrs. Walker's masquerade, we supped in the chapel. Some were shocked at this, who, when they heard it was a Roman Catholic chapel, felt their consciences perfectly at ease." In the case of a lady at Madame Recamier's, who was loud in applauding the dancing of another, Mrs. Trench interpellates, "Some women, conscious of envy, take this vulgar mode of hiding it. Frenchwomen, to do them justice, never do; you scarcely ever hear them admire another woman." When a friend of Mrs. Trench was stopping åt an hotel in Cheltenham, and the propriety of certain other ladies would not allow them to visit her where they might meet so many men on the stairs, she observes, "What strange points people choose for their propriety, and how few are there who may not go up and down stairs with perfect security!"

Mrs. Trench, in imparting her lively gossip to her husband, which she does with a very remarkable tact to allay his apprehensions on account of her unprotected position, says very prettily: "I have a generosity of soul about a good

story which makes me uneasy at having no one to tell it to. I feel about it like a hospitable epicure about a delicacyquite uneasy if I must feast on it alone."

PRAYING BY ROTE.

Cyrus Redding relates not a bad story told of the sailors. of the three nations, in a storm: the Scotchman prayed extempore; the Irishman had his prayers by heart, to the Virgin, and the eleven thousand virgins, perhaps, into the bargain; but the Englishman went through the ship, hunting for a prayer-book, and could not find one, until the storm

was over.

The foregoing story recalls one told by Mr. Polwhele, in whose parish I once resided. The storms from the Atlantic break with great fury upon the coast of Cornwall. There was a solitary inn, upon a cold exposed spot in a hamlet on a cliff near the sea; one dark evening a tremendous storm of wind, thunder, and lightning, rocked the houses to their foundations; there was but one little inn, the mistress of which was the oracle of the hamlet. The frightened cottagers all left their own homes and ran to the inn, the walls of which were substantial, and with such an oracle as the landlady they could not but be safer there! The storm increased in fury, and terror was upon every face; at length it was proposed that some one should read prayers, and a lad of all work, in the service of the landlady, was told to go upstairs and fetch the prayer-book. He was the only one of the party who could read tolerably. The lad obeyed, and, on opening the book, all the party fell upon their knees. The boy began, and read on for a little time uninterruptedly, until he came to the words, "and his man Friday," when the mistress called out

"Why, Jan, thee art reading Robinson Crusoe !"

Being piqued at the interruption, the boy replied"An' if I be, missis, I 'spose Robinson Crusoe will keep away the thunder as well as the other book!"

There were but two books-the Prayer-Book and De Foe's novel-in the house, and Jan, in his hurry, had brought the wrong one.

We remember a Commissioner of Bail, in a country-town to have similarly disregarded the identity of the Book for a long period he had sworn the bail by Goldsmith's History of England instead of the New Testament, both volumes externally resembling each other.

A POET'S INVITATION TO DINNER.

The following was one of the latest productions of the poet Moore, addressed to the Marquess of Lansdowne :—

"Some think we bards have nothing real-
That poets live among the stars, so

Their very dinners are ideal

(And heaven knows, too oft they are so :)

For instance, that we have, instead

Of vulgar chops and stews, and hashes,
First course,-a phoenix at the head,
Done in its own celestial ashes:
At foot, a cygnet, which kept singing
All the time its neck was wringing.
Side dishes, thus,-Minerva's owl,
Or any such like learned fowl.
Doves, such as heaven's poulterer gets
When Cupid shoots his mother's pets.
Larks stewed in morning's roseate breath,
Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendour;
And nightingales, be-rhymed to death-
Like young pigs whipp'd to make them tender.
Such fare may suit those bards who're able
To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table;
But as for me, who've long been taught
To eat and drink as other people,
And can put up with mutton, bought

Where Bromham rears its ancient steeple ;

If Lansdowne will consent to share
My humble feast, though rude the fare,
Yet, seasoned by that salt he brings
From Attica's salinest springs,

"Twill turn to dainties; while the cup,
Beneath his influence brightening up,
Like that of Baucis, touched by Jove,
Will sparkle fit for gods above!

MEANING IT.

After Mat. Lewis had produced his first novel, he was courted in the highest circles, which was pleasing to his vanity, for his leading foible was a love of great people. "He had always dukes or duchesses in his mouth," remarks