He saw a lawyer killing a viper

On a dunghill, beside his own stable ;
And the Devil smiled, for it put him in mind
Of Cain and his brother Abel.

An apothecary, on a white horse,

Rode by on his avocations :

"Oh!" says the Devil, "there's my old friend Death in the Revelations!"

He saw a cottage, with a double coach-house,
A cottage of gentility!

And the Devil was pleased, for his darling vice
Is the pride that apes humility.

He stepp'd into a rich bookseller's shop;
Says he, "We are both of one colledge,
For I, myself, sat, like a cormorant, once,
Hard by on the tree of knowledge."

As he pass'd through Cold-Bath-Fields, he saw

A solitary cell:

And the Devil was charm'd, for it gave him a hint

For improving the prisons of hell.

He saw a turnkey in a trice

Fetter a troublesome jade!

"Ah! nimble," quoth he, " do the fingers move When they 're used to their trade.”

He saw the same turnkey unfetter the same,
But with little expedition ;

And the Devil thought on the long debates
On the Slave Trade Abolition.

Down the river did glide, with wind and with tide,

A pig, with vast celerity!

And the Devil grinn'd, for he saw all the while

How it cut its own throat, and he thought, with a smile,
Of" England's commercial prosperity!"

He saw a certain minister

(A minister to his mind) Go up into a certain house, With a majority behind.

The Devil quoted Genesis,

Like a very learned clerk,

How "Noah, and his creeping things,
Went up into the ark!"

General Gascoigne's burning face

He saw with consternation,

And back to hell his way did take;

For the Devil thought, by a slight mistake,

'Twas the General Conflagration!

Porson.

"I

PRIDE OF AUTHORSHIP.

AM going to fly," cried the gigantic ostrich; and the whole assembly of birds gathered round in earnest expectation. "I am going to fly," he cried again; and stretching out his immense pinions, he shot, like a ship with outspread sails, away over the ground, without, however, rising an inch above it. Thus it happens when a notion of being poetical takes possession of unpoetical brains; in the opening of their monstrous odes they boast of their intention to soar over clouds and stars, but nevertheless remain constant to the dust.

Lessing.

P

IN

Fetter'd in hands and feet-in heart and soul; The youthful captive hangs his troubled head, While sad reflections through his mem'ry roll.

Thoughts of home, of happiness, of friends,

Of country loved, and freedom's voice now hush'd,
Of glorious future fondly conjured up;

But now, alas! by war's sad havoc crush'd.

Condemn'd to die! Yet not afraid of death!
Nay, proud that he is martyr to the cause
Of freedom. And in high heaven he hopes
As life's last moment near him draws.

RUSSIAN WATCHMAN'S SONG.

HEARKEN, folks, to what I'm singing-
Ten o'clock the bell is ringing:

Ten commandments were from heaven

By th' Almighty to us given.

Ill our watching would defend you,

Did not God himself befriend you ;

Fount of goodness, power, and might,
Give to all a happy night!

བ༼བ»བ»7

LACONICS.

FEAR sometimes adds wings to the heels, and sometimes nails them to

the ground, and fetters them from moving.

Montaigne.

A poet hurts himself by writing prose; as a race-horse hurts his motions by condescending to draw in a team. Shenstone.

Those beings only are fit for solitude, who like nobody, are like nobody, and are liked by nobody. Zimmerman.

Satire is a sort of glass, wherein beholders generally discover every body's face but their own,-which is the chief reason for that kind of reception it meets in the world, and that so very few are offended by it.

Swift.

It is with wits as with razors, which are never so apt to cut those they are employed on, as when they have lost their edge.

Swift.

THE USE OF HISTORY.

To teach and to inculcate the general principles of virtue, and the

general rules of wisdom and good policy which result from such details of actions and characters, comes, for the most part, and always should come, expressly and directly into the design of those who are capable of giving such details; and, therefore, whilst they narrate as historians, they hint often as philosophers: they put into our hands, as it were, on every proper occasion, the end of a clue, that serves to remind us of searching, and to guide us in the search of that truth which the example before us either establishes or illustrates. If a writer neglects this part, we are able, however, to supply his neglect by our own attention and industry and when he gives us a good history of Peruvians or Mexicans, of Chinese or Tartars, of Muscovites or Negroes, we may blame him, but we must blame ourselves much more, if we do not make it a good lesson of philosophy. This being the general use of history, it is not to be neglected. Every one may make it who is able to read, and to reflect on what he reads; and every one who makes it will find, in his degree, the benefit that arises from an early acquaintance contracted in this manner with mankind. We are not only passengers or sojourners in this world, but we are absolute strangers at the first steps we make in it. Our guides are often ignorant, often unfaithful. By this map of the country, which history spreads before us, we may learn, if we please, to guide ourselves. In our journey through it, we are beset on every side. We are besieged sometimes, even in our strongest holds. Terrors and temptations, conducted by the passions of other men, assault us; and our own passions, that correspond with these, betray us. History is a collection of the journals of those who have travelled through the same country, and been exposed to the same accidents and their good and their ill success are equally instructive. In this pursuit of knowledge an immense field is opened to us: general histories, sacred and profane; the histories. of particular countries, particular events, particular orders, particular men ; memorials, anecdotes, travels. But we must not ramble in this field without discernment or choice, nor even with these must we ramble too long.

Bolingbroke.