Part 3

All is now of the _past_. The "schoolmaster is abroad," and not only is the belief in witches, but all the tribe of ghosts and spirits is fast melting away. The latter have also added in no inconsiderable degree to the sum of human suffering. The number of the good was small compared to the evil, and though it was in their power to come in what shape or guise they chose, "dilated or condensed, bright or obscure," yet it must be confessed they generally chose to assume "forms forbidden," and their visitations were much oftener accompanied with "blasts from hell" than "airs from heaven." It has been justly remarked that "they were potent agents in the hands of the priest and the tyrant to delude and to enslave; for this business they were most admirably fitted, and most faithfully did they perform it." Those inevitable evils which man is destined to endure in this present state, are enough without the addition of the almost unmingled bitterness of the infusion, which superstition would pour into his cup.

_(To be continued.)_

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SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

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LONDON LYRICS.--THE IMAGE BOY.

Whoe'er has trudged, on frequent feet, From Charing Cross to Ludgate-street, That haunt of noise and wrangle, Has seen, on journeying through the Strand, A foreign image-vender stand Near Somerset's quadrangle.

His coal-black eye, his balanced walk, His sable apron, white with chalk, His listless meditation, His curly locks, his sallow cheeks, His board of celebrated Greeks, Proclaim his trade and nation.

Not on that board as erst, are seen A tawdry troop; our gracious Queen With tresses like a carrot, A milk-maid with a pea-green pail, A poodle with a golden tail, John Wesley, and a parrot;--

No; far more classic is his stock; With ducal Arthur, Milton, Locke, He bears, unconscious roamer, Alemena's Jove-begotten Son, Cold Abelard's too tepid Nun, And pass-supported Homer.

See yonder bust adorned with curls; 'Tis her's, the Queen who melted pearls Marc Antony to wheedle. Her bark, her banquets, all are fled; And Time, who cut her vital thread, Has only spared her Needle.

Stern Neptune, with his triple prong, Childe Harold, peer of peerless song, So frolic Fortune wills it, Stand next the Son of crazy Paul, Who hugg'd the intrusive King of Gaul Upon a raft at Tilsit.

"Poor vagrant child of want and toll! The sun that warms thy native soil Has ripen'd not thy knowledge; 'Tis obvious, from that vacant air, Though Padua gave thee birth, thou ne'er Didst graduate in her College.

"'Tis true thou nam'st thy motley freight; But from what source their birth they date, Mythology or history. Old records, or the dreams of youth, Dark fable, or transparent truth, Is all to thee a mystery.

"Come tell me, Vagrant, in a breath, Alcides' birth, his life, his death, Recount his dozen labours: Homer thou know'st--but of the woes Of Troy, thou'rt ignorant as those Dark Orange-boys, thy neighbours."

'Twas thus, erect, I deign'd to pour My shower of lordly pity o'er The poor Italian wittol, As men are apt to do, to show Their 'vantage-ground o'er those who know Just less than their own little.

When lo, methought Prometheus' flame Waved o'er a bust of deathless fame, And woke to life Childe Harold: The Bard aroused me from my dream Of pity, alias self-esteem, And thus indignant caroll'd:--

"O thou, who thus in numbers pert And petulant, presum'st to flirt With Memory's Nine Daughters: Whose verse the next trade-winds that blow Down narrow Paternoster-row Shall 'whelm in Lethe's waters:

"Slight is the difference I see Between yon Paduan youth and thee: He moulds, of Pans plaster, An urn by classic Chantrey's laws,-- And thou a literary vase Of would-be alabaster.

"Were I to arbitrate betwixt His terra cotta, plain or mix'd, And thy earth-gender'd sonnet; Small cause has he th' award to dread:-- Thy Images are in the head, And his, poor boy, are on it!"

_New Monthly Magazine._

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PUNCH.

Punch was first made by the English at Nemle, near Goa, where they have the _Nepa die Goa_, commonly called arrack. This fascinating liquor got the name of _punch_, from its being composed of _five_ articles--that word, in the Hindostanee language, signifying five. The legitimate punch-makers, however, consider it a compound of _four_ articles only; and some learned physicians have, therefore, named it _Diapente_ (from Diatesseron,) and have given it according to the following prescription--

Rum, miscetur aqua--dulci miscetur acetum, fiet et ex tali foedere--nobile Punch.

and our worthy grand-fathers used to take a dose of it every night in their lives, before going to bed, till doctor Cheyne alarmed them by the information, that they were pouring liquid fire down their throats. "Punch," said he, "is like opium, both in its nature and manner of operation, and nearest arsenic in its deleterious and poisonous qualities; and, so," added he, "I leave it to them, who, knowing this, will yet drink on and die."

Who, that has drunk this agreeable accompaniment to calapash, at the City of London Tavern, ever found themselves the worse for it? They may have felt their genius inspired, or their nobler passions animated--but _fire_ and _inflammation_ there was none. The old song says--

It is the very best of physic.

and there have been very excellent physicians, who have confirmed the opinion by their practice. What did the learned Dr. Sherard, the grave Mr. Petiver, and the apothecary Mr. Tydall, drink in their herborizing tour through Kent? Why--punch! and so much were they delighted with it, at Winchelsea, that they made a special note in their journal, in honour of the _Mayoress_, who made it, that the punch was not only excellent, but that "each succeeding bowl was better than the former!"--_Brande's Journal_.

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CHOICE OF A RESIDENCE.--ADVICE TO BACHELORS.

There is a sort of half-way between town and the country, which some assert combines the advantages, others the defects, of each; and this is a country-town. Here, indeed, a little money, a little learning, and a little fashion, will go ten times as far as they will in London. Here, a man who takes in the Quarterly or Edinburgh, is a literary character; the lady who has one head-dress in the year from a Bond-street milliner, becomes the oracle of fashion, "the observed of all observers;" here dinners are talked of as excellent, at which neither French dishes nor French wines were given, and a little raspberry ice would confer wide celebrity on an evening party, and excite much animadversion and surprise. Here, notwithstanding a pretty strong line of demarcation between the different sets of society, every one appears to know every body; the countenances and names of each are familiar; we want no slave, who calls out the names; but are ready with a proper supply of condescending nods, friendly greetings, and kind inquiries, to dispense to each passenger according to his claims. Indeed, in calculating the length of time requisite for arriving at a certain point, the inhabitant of a country town should make due allowance for the necessary gossip which must take place on the road, and for the frequent interchange of bulletins of health, which is sure to occur; and after a residence of any length in these sociable places, a sensation of solitude and desertion is felt in those crowded streets of our metropolis, where the full tide of population may roll past us for hours without bringing with it a single glance of recognition or kindness. Here round games and Casino still find refuge and support amidst a steady band of faithful partizans; here old maids escape ridicule from being numerous, and old bachelors acquire importance from being scarce. It is, indeed, to this latter description of persons that I would especially recommend a residence in a country town; and, as Dr. Johnson said, that "wherever he might dine, he would wish to breakfast in Scotland;" so, wherever I may pass my youth, let my days of old bachelorship, if to such I am doomed, be spent in a country town. There the genteel male population forsake their birthplace at an early age; and since war no longer exists to supply their place with the irresistible military, the importance of a single man, however small his attractions, however advanced his age, is considerable; while a tolerably agreeable bachelor under sixty is the object of universal attention, the cynosure of every lady's eye. In the cathedral city, where I visited a friend some years since, there were forty-five single women, from sixteen to fifty, and only three marriageable men. Let any one imagine the delight of receiving the most flattering attentions from fifteen women at once, some of them extremely pretty and agreeable; or, I should rather say, from forty-five, since the three bachelors, politically avoiding all appearance of preference, were courted equally by nearly the whole phalanx of the sisterhood. One of the enviable men, being only just of age, was indeed too young to excite hopes in the more elderly ladies, but another more fortunate, if he knew his happiness, ("_sua si bona norit_"), was exposed to the attacks, more or less open, of every unmarried woman. Alas! he was insensible to his privileges; a steady man of fifty-five, a dignitary of the church, devoted to study, and shy in his habits, he seemed to shrink from the kind attentions he received, and to wish for a less favoured, a less glorious state of existence. His desires seemed limited to reading the Fathers, writing sermons, and doing his duty as a divine; and he appeared of opinion that no helpmate was required to fulfil them. But still the indefatigable phalanx of forty-five, with three or four widows as auxiliaries, continued their attacks, and his age, as I before observed, was fatally encouraging to the hopes of each. The youngest looked in their glasses and remembered the power of youth and beauty; the middle-aged calculated on the good sense and propriety of character of their object, and were "sure he would never marry a girl;" and the most elderly exaggerated his gravity, thought of his shovel hat, and seemed to suppose that every woman under fifty must be too giddy for its wearer. Meanwhile, what a life he led!--his opinions law; his wishes gospel; the cathedral crowded when he preached; churches attended; schools visited; waltzing calumniated; novels concealed; shoulders covered; petticoats lengthened--all to gain his approving eye. The fact is, his sphere of useful influence was much enlarged by his single state; as a married man, he could only have reformed his wife; as a bachelor, he exercised undisputed power over every spinster in his neighbourhood. He was, indeed, unconscious of, or ungratified by the deference and incense he received; but the generality of men are less insensible, and half the homage he so carefully rejected would have been sufficient to intoxicate with delight and self-complacency the greater part of his fraternity. What object in nature is more pitiable than a London old bachelor, of moderate fortune and moderate parts? whose conversational powers do not secure him invitations to dinners, when stiffness of limb and a growing formality have obliged him to retreat from quadrilles. The rich, we know, thrive everywhere, and at all seasons, safe from neglect, secure from ridicule. I speak of those less strongly fortified against the effects of time; those who, scarcely considered good speculations in their best days, are now utterly insignificant, concealed and jostled by a crowd of younger aspirants, overlooked by mammas, except when needed to execute some troublesome commission; and without a chance of receiving a single word or glance from their daughters unmarked by that provoking ease and compassionate familiarity, which tell them, better than words, that their day of influence has closed for ever. Let such unhappy men fly from the scenes of former pleasure and power, of former flirtation and gaiety, to the quieter and surer triumphs of a country town. Here crowds of young women, as certainly devoted to celibacy as the inmates of a nunnery, accustomed from necessity to make beaux out of the most unprecedented materials, and concoct flirtations in the most discouraging circumstances, will welcome him with open arms, underrate his age, overrate his merits, doubt if his hair is gray, deny that he wears false teeth, accept his proffered arm with an air of triumph, and even hint a wonder that he has given up dancing. To their innocent cheeks his glance will have the long-lost power of calling up a blush; eyes as bright as those which beamed upon his youth will sparkle at his approach; and tender hearts, excluded by fate from palpitations for a more suitable object, must per force beat quicker at his address. Here let him revel in the enjoyment of unbounded influence, preserve it by careful management to the latest possible moment, and at length gradually slide from the agreeable old beau into the interesting invalid, and secure for his days of gout, infirmity, and sickness, a host of attentive nurses, of that amiable sex which delights and excels in offices of pity and kindness; who will read him news, recount him gossip, play backgammon or cribbage, knit him comfortables, make him jellies, and repay by affectionate solicitude and unselfish attentions the unmeaning, heartless, worthless admiration which he bestowed upon them in his better days.--_New Monthly Magazine_.

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THE ANECDOTE GALLERY.

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OTHELLO.

On the crew of the Flora being treated to see _Othello_ at the Portsmouth Theatre, Cassio's silly speech proved an exquisite relish to the audience, where he apostrophizes heaven, "Forgive us our sins," and endeavours to persuade his companion that he is sober. "Do not think, gentlemen, I am drunk? this is my Ancient: this is my right hand, and this is my left hand: I am not drunk now." "No, not _you_," roared a Jack, who no doubt would have been a willing witness in Cassio's defence, had he been brought to the gangway for inebriety. "I can stand well enough," continued the representative of Cassio. "Then, hang it! why don't you walk the _plank_ at once, and prove yourself sober?" vociferated a long-tailed wag, determined not to slip this opportunity of having a shot on the sly at his first lieutenant, who had only a night or two before put his perpendicularity to a similar test.

At the last scene the shouts became alarming; volleys of imprecations were hurled at his head--his limbs--his life. "What!" said one of the rudest of the crew, "can the black brute cut her lifelines? She's a reg'lar-built angel, and as like my Bet as two peas."--"Ay," said a messmate, "it all comes of being jealous, and that's all as one as mad; but you know, if he's as good as his word, he's sure to be hanged,-- that's one comfort!" When the Moor seized her in bed by the throat, Desdemona shrieking for permission to repeat but one short prayer, and he rancorously exclaims, in attempting to strangle her, "It is too late!" the house, as it is said a French audience had done ere now, could endure no more; and the sailors rose in their places, giving the most alarming indications of angry excitement, and of a determination to mingle in the murderous scene below. "I'm ----, Dick, if I can stand it any longer," said the spokesman of the gallery. "You're _no_ man, if you can sit and look on quietly; hands off, you blood-thirsty niggar," he vociferated, and threw himself over the side of the gallery in a twinkling; clambering down by a pillar into the boxes, and scrambled across the pit, over every person in his way, till he reached the noisy boatswain's mate. Him he "challenged to the rescue," and exclaimed, "Now's your time, Ned,--Pipe the boarders away--all hands,--! if you're a man as _loves_ a woman. _Now_, go it," said he, and dashed furiously over all obstacles,--fiddles, flutes, and fiddlers. Smash went the foot-lights--Caesar had passed the Rubicon. The contagion of feeling became general; and his trusty legions, fired with the ambition that inspired their leader, followed, sweeping all before them, till the whole male population of the theatre crowded the stage _en masse_, amid shouts of encouragement, or shrieks of terror; outraging, by their mistaken humanity, all the propriety of this touching drama; and, for once, rescuing the gentle Desdemona from the deadly grasp of the murderous Moor, who fled in full costume, dagger in hand, from the house, and through the dark streets of Dock, until he reached his home in a state of inconceivable affright. The scene of confusion which followed, it would be fruitless to attempt to describe. All was riot and uproar.--_Sailors and Saints._

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DEATH OF DAUBENTON.

We have had countless instances of "the ruling passion strong in death;" but perhaps we can adduce nothing more illustrative of that feeling than the following fact, which may vie with the sublimity of Rousseau's death, when he desired to look on the sun ere his eyes were closed in the rayless tomb:--M. Daubenton, the scientific colleague of Buffon, and the anatomical illustrator of his "Histoire Naturelle," on being chosen a member of the Conservative Senate, was seized with apoplexy the first time he assisted at the sessions of that body, and fell senseless into the arms of his astonished colleagues. The most prompt assistance could only restore him to feeling for a few moments, during which he showed himself, what he had always been--a tranquil observer of nature. _He felt with his fingers, which still retained sensation, the various parts of his body, and pointed out to the assistants the progress of the disease!_ He died on the 31st of December, 1799. The _Edinburgh Philosophical Journal_ states, "it may be said of him, that he attained happiness the most perfect, and the least mixed, that any man could hope to attain. His life was marked by an undeviating pursuit of science; and to him was Buffon indebted for instruction and example. Naturally of a mild and conciliatory disposition, and gifted with cool and dispassionate consideration, he was just such a preceptor as was calculated to curb the imagination of Buffon, whose fiery and ardent genius was apt to substitute theory for proof, and fancy for fact; and often did the 'biting smile' of M. Daubenton check the ardency of Buffon, and his well-weighed words arrest him in his headlong progress." What more noble picture of scientific devotion can we imagine than the feeble and aged Daubenton, shut up for whole days in his cabinet of natural history, ardently exerting himself in the complex and weary task of arranging the objects according to their several relations? But Buffon, with the wayward negligence which clings to genius, did wrong to his friend in publishing an edition of his "Histoire Naturelle" without the dissections. Yet such a step, discountenanced by all the liberal body of science, was forgiven by the philosophic and gentle Daubenton; and Buffon made atonement for his aberration, by re-uniting himself to the companion of his childhood, the participator in his studies, and the preceptor of his genius.

H.

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STORY ON A MARCH.

An officer in India, whose stock of table-linen had been completely exhausted during the campaign,--either by wear or tear or accident,--had a few friends to dine with him. The dinner being announced to the party, seated in the _al fresco_ drawing-room of a camp, the table appeared spread with eatables, but without the usual covering of a cloth. The master, who, perhaps, gave himself but little trouble about these matters, or who probably relied upon his servant's capacity in the art of borrowing, or, at all events, on his ingenuity on framing an excuse, inquired, with an angry voice, why there was no table-cloth. The answer was, "Massa not got;" with which reply, after apologizing to his guests, he was compelled, for the present, to put up. The next morning he called his servant, and rated him soundly, and perhaps beat him, (for I lament to say that this was too much the practice with European masters in India,) for exposing his poverty to the company; desiring him, another time, if similarly circumstanced, to say that all the table-cloths were gone to the wash. Another day, although the table appeared clothed in the proper manner, the spoons, which had probably found their way to the bazar, perhaps to provide the very articles of which the feast was composed, were absent, whether with or without leave is immaterial. "Where are all the spoons?" cried the apparently enraged master. "Gone washerman, sar!" was the answer. Roars of laughter succeeded, and a teacup did duty for the soup-ladle. The probable consequence of this unlucky exposure of the domestic economy of the host, namely, a sound drubbing to the poor maty-boy, brings to my mind an anecdote which, being in a story-telling vein, I cannot resist the temptation of introducing. It was related to me, with great humour, by one of the principals in the transaction, whose candour exceeded his fear of shame. He had been in the habit of beating his servants, till one in particular complained that he would have him before Sir Henry Gwillam, then chief justice at Madras, who had done all in his power to suppress the disgraceful practice. Having a considerable balance to settle with his maty-boy on the score of punishment, but fearing the presence of witnesses, the master called him one day into a bungalow at the bottom of his garden, at some distance from the house. "Now," said he as he shut the door and put the key into his pocket, "you'll complain to Sir Henry Gwillam, will you? There is nobody near to bear witness to what you may say, and, with the blessing of God, I'll give it you well."--"Massa sure nobody near?" asked the Indian.--"Yes, yes, I've taken good care of that."--"Then I give massa one good beating." And forthwith the maty-boy proceeded to put his threat into execution, till the master, being the weaker of the two, was compelled to cry mercy; which being at length granted, and the door opened with at least as much alacrity as it was closed, Maotoo decamped without beat of drum, never to appear again.--_Twelve Years' Military Adventures, &c._

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THE GATHERER.

A snapper up of unconsidered trifles. SHAKSPEARE.

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MEMENTO MORI.

_Inscribed on a Tombstone._

When you look on my grave, And behold how they wave, The cypress, the yew, and the willow, You think 'tis the breeze That gives motion to these-- 'Tis the laughter that's shaking my pillow.

I must laugh when I see A poor insect like thee Dare to pity the fate thou must own; Let a few moments slide, We shall lie side by side, And crumble to dust, bone for bone.

Go, weep thine own doom, Thou wert born for the tomb-- Thou hast lived, like myself, but to die; Whilst thou pity'st my lot, Secure fool, thou'st forgot Thou art no more immortal than I! H.B.A.

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TEA-DRINKING.