He thinks that DR JOHN JOHNSTONE died worth £50,000. He says that, if you throw an apple at a man, he closes his legs to catch it ; if you throw it at a woman, she opens her legs to catch it [in her lap.]

The other night, GEO. MERREL, the Quaker draper, who is in the prison, was getting the worst of an argument with Rowland, his fellow-prisoner, about eels, their properties, and habits, and mode of generation; a small pause ensued, when I said,—“I will tell you what, MR MERREL, you are now on slippery ground," which produced a roar of laughter, and closed the subject.

CXXVI. THE BURIAL OF SIR J. MOORE.

Nor a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his
And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,—
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

[head,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory!

The author of this beautiful and deservedly celebrated poem was the Rev. Charles Wolfe: it was for a long time ascribed to Lord Byron; but the latter disclaimed the authorship, and it was at last attributed to its true author. The works of the Rev. C. Wolfe have been published in one volume: but they contain nothing of value except this poem- a rare instance of a poet concentrating all his powers for a single effort and that effort so short. [E. H. B. 1837.]

CXXVII. Mrs Clark, &c.

When the notorious MARY ANN CLARKE was a witness in a cause, the flippant counsel, who was cross-examining her, asked,

Under whose protection are you now?' she replied, 'Under the protection of his Lordship on the Bench.'

The Corps of Volunteers was commanded by Colonel Erskine [the late Lord Erskine]: the Earl of Harrington reviewed it, and as he passed along the line, said, "The Law Association, Sir?' 'Yes, my Lord.' Not a word more. Harrington said, 'I never knew lawyers so silent before.' 'No pay, my Lord,' said Erskine.

A carpenter of Bolton, who was very sick, sent for the clergyman of the parish, to pray with him; there was much said about heaven, when the carpenter said drily, Aye, heaven may be as fine a place as you say it is, but Old England for me!'

CXXVIII. Black Prince, &c.

MR RODD says that there is a discrepancy in the Historians about Edw. the Black Prince, and the Battle of Poictiers as to the 'loss of teeth;' I did not quite understand him. He remarked that such a discrepancy unexplained might throw discredit on the whole narrative. The Spanish Historians deny the fact of the cruelties alleged against Peter, king of Castile.

Curran the Orator at a French Hotel was charged high for a bad dinner; he mortified French vanity by saying that France was a strange country, where a man could get only a Bill for his dinner.

At the examination of some boys at question was, What do you believe in ? Father.'

a Sunday-School, one I believe in God the

You? In God the Son.' You? The boy who believes in the Holy Ghost, is ill!'

CXXIX. Dr Mountague.

"Dr MOUNTAGUE, Chaplain to King James I, waiting upon his Majesty, when he was walking in St James's Park, the King told the Doctor that he was more troubled how to dispose of the Bishopric of London (then void,) than he was of anything in his life, for there are many, that make for it with so strong an interest, that I know not,' said the King, 'to whom to give it.' The DOCTOR told his Majesty that, if he had faith, he might easily dispose of it.' 'Do 'Do you take me for an infidel?' said the King. 'No, please your Majesty,' said the DOCTOR, 'but I say, if your Majesty had faith, you might remove this mountain,' (clapping his hand upon his breast,) into the sea.' The King was so well pleased with the humour, that he said, "By my sol, man, thou shalt have the bishopric,' and so he had it, and enjoyed it.”

W. DE BRITAINE's Humane Prudence, LOND. 1693. 12mo p. 221.

CXXX. Duchess of Hamilton.

1. The DUCHESS of Hamilton, speaking of the invasion, and of the propriety of being prepared for coming events, asked the Marquis of Huntley what trade he would take up? Oh, said he, I will manufacture garters for the ladies. Why, then, said she, you will soon be above your business.

2. The Duchess, when Miss Hamilton and very young, was warned by her mother lest she should fall into the dam, but said in reply, "I will be damned, if I do."

CXXXI. Fox and Pitt.

"On this point he might quote the dictum of GEORGE III, and in the course of a long reign, it was the only bon mot he had been ever known to utter. GEORGE III said that he believed Mr Pitt was generally in the right; he believed that Mr Fox was occasionally in the right; but when both Mr Pitt and Mr Fox agreed on the same point, then he was sure they were both in the wrong."

LORD STANHOPE's Speech, Morn. Chron., June 28, 1837.

CXXXII. THE DYING SAILOR BY PETER PINDAR.

Now the rage of battle ended,

And the French for mercy call,

Death no more in smoke and thunder
Rode upon the vengeful ball:
Yet what brave and loyal heroes

Saw the morning rise so bright,
Ah! condemn'd by cruel fortune

Ne'er to see the star of night:

From the main deck to the quarter

Strew'd with limbs, and wet with blood,

Poor Tom Halliard, pale and wounded,
Crawl'd where his brave captain stood:

"Tell me, Captain, tell me truly

Ere from life I pass away;

Have I done a seaman's duty

On this great and glorious day?”
"Ah! brave Tom," the Captain answer'd:
"Thou a sailor's part hast done,

I revere thy wounds with sorrow,

Wounds, by which our glory's won."