Old F. Come, I'll introduce you to my son. you, sir?

Bri. Good.

What say

Old F. Good-aye, I hope so. I have to tell you, that my son is one of the most serious, studious young men living. Bri. Id certum est quod certum reddi potest: vulgarly, in the proverb," the proof of the pudding is in the eating."

Old F. Always at his books.

Bri. Good.

Old F. And what, now-what, of all things, do you think employs his mind? (Briefwit looks at him without speaking.) Come, guess, now; what do you think he reads?

Bri. (After a pause.) Books,

Old F. You are not far from the mark there, old Caution; he does read books-he studies the law.

Bri. Dat operam legibus Anglia-good.

Old F. Ay, I thought you would say so. The law is a fine profession, it not? I am sure I have a specimen before me of what the law will do for a man.

Bri. Fam! It will do for a man-good.

Old L. I knew you would be doubly anxious about this match between your ward and him, when you heard of his having embraced that profession.

Bri. Hum!

Old F. Conversation fatigues you.

Bri. Non liquet-it appeareth not.

Old F. And when you do speak, there's no understanding you. (Aside. Briefwit reads his papers.) A very entertaining companion, truly. Pray, sir, read out.

Bri. (Looks suspiciously at him, and pockets his papers.) Good.

Old F. So good, that you seem determined to keep it all to yourself. Come, we'll go and see my boy, if you please: it's a pity to disturb him, though. Oh! he's so studious, you'll be delighted with him-so steady-so like yourself. He will talk to you in your own way. (Going, he stops.) I beg pardon; the law takes precedence of every profession.

Bri. Good. (Walks off with great gravity)

Old F. Very good, indeed. You certainly are one of the Inost pleasant, agreeable, facetious, conversable, witty, and entertaining disciples of Lycurgus, that ever wore a wig with two tails.

(Exit.

PARODY WRITTEN AFTER A BAD DINNER.*-ANON.

Lo! the plain eater, whose untutor'd taste,
Finds health in salads and in homely paste;
His tongue proud science never taught to lave
In charbone cream, or gravy's poignant wave.
Yet simple cook'ry piles his earthen plate
With England's honest beef, an humble treat.
Guiltless of ortolans his spit whirls round,

Nor catchup strains his kitchen's wholesome ground,
Where no disguise affronts the genuine meal,
Nor Chloe tortures salmon into veal.

To eat, contents his hunger 's natʼral call,
He chews no latent gout in forc'd-meat ball;
But throws to faithful Tray, his dinner down,
Th' applauded beef's reversionary bone.
Come nicer thou, come, let thy palate try,
'Gainst Moll's plum-pudding, Chloe's lobster-pie.
In ev'ry dish find some important fault,

The broth wants relish, and the edge-bone salt.
Condemn each joint not dress'd by learned rule,
Yet cry, if hunger fails, that Moll's a fool.
If fricassees employ not all her skill,

Studious to nourish, not expert to kill,

Snatch from her care the hangers, and the hooks

Redress her dressings, be the cook of cooks.

*The above which appeared in a British Magazinein June, 1757, is a Parody on that celebrated passage of Pope's Essay on Man, commene

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutor❜d mind,

Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind, &c.

CONVERSATION.-CowPER.

YE powers, who rule the tongue,-if such there are,-And make colloquial happiness your care,

Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate-
A duel in the form of a debate.

Vociferated logic kilis me quite;

A noisy man is always in the right:

I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair,
Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare,
And, when I hope his blunders are all out,
Reply discreetly-" To be sure—no doubt!"
Dubious is such a scrupulous, good man-
Yes you may catch him tripping, if you can.
He would not, with a peremptory tone,

Assert the nose upon his face his own;
With hesitation admirably slow,

He humbly hopes-presumes-it may be so.
His evidence, if he were called by law
To swear to some enormity he saw,
For want of prominence and just relief,
Would hang an honest man, and save a thief.
Through constant dread of giving truth offence,
He ties up all his hearers in suspense;
Knows what he knows as if he knew it not;
What he remembers seems to have forgot;
His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall,
Centering, at last, in having none at all.

A story, in which native humor reigns,
Is often useful, always entertains:
A graver fact, enlisted on your side,
May furnish illustration, well applied;
But sedentary weavers of long tales
Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails.
'Tis the most asinine employ on earth,
To hear them tell of parentage and birth,

And echo conversations, dull and dry,
Embellished with, " He said," and "So said I."
At every interview their route the same,
The repetition makes attention lame:
We bustle up, with unsuccessful speed,

And, in the saddest part, cry, " Droll indeed!"

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.-GOLDSMITH.

GOOD people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;

And if you find it wondrous short,--
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,—
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,-
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain some private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighboring streets,

The wondering neighbors ran,

And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied;
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

CHRISTMAS TIMES.-MOORE.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In the hope that St. Nicholas* soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads,
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap;
When out of the lawn there rose such clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of midday to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer,
With a little old driver so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name; "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer! now, Vixen ! On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Dunder and Blixen !

* Santa Claus.