resides, with a prolific wife, in affluent circumstances. Barney is now as old a man as Jack : his character is unimpeached for integrity and benevolence; and in his appearance I can see that he is at peace with the world and himself. Indeed, sobriety, temper, industry, and honesty stamp our bodily conformation in a manner not misunderstood by the observing. On his cheek there is the natural rouge of health; in his manner, a tranquil self-satisfaction; in his whole aspect, contentment; and in his look, gesture, and air, confidence, composure, and firmness. On the contrary, Jack, when I saw him last, was emaciated and sickly; for, though never addicted to intemperance, disappointment had broken up his constitution. When I spoke to him, he appeared embarrassed, but at the same time impudently familiar. He wore dissatisfaction on his brow; complaint hung on his tongue; and in his eye were apprehension and doubt. I have, in rural retirement, felt all the luxury of an old coat; but he wore one, then, in a town, from necessity, not choice; his whole dress being very shabby, and his person in a neglected state. I have heard

since, that he has taken to his bed, where he lies cursing others, instead of blaming himself.

:

"Such, reader, is a living sketch of Roguery and Honesty in their practical effects! The man who trusts to his industry and fair-dealing is generally successful. He may be compared to a wise and honourable friend of mine, who said, he never gamed because he could not afford to lose. The rogue may be likened to a gamester, who hazards all at a throw if he lose, he is ruined; if he win, he carries off an equivalent of loss along with seeming gain, in the reflection that he has ruined another, or at least endeavoured to do so; for evil intention punishes itself even in failure; and it is not often that honesty is ruined by roguery, as industry repairs the injuries which credulity sustains. A wise man, therefore, will never be a rogue: the wisdom of a rogue is but cunning; and the justice of Providence is vindicated by arming the scoundrel with folly to render his villany less dangerous."

No. XX.

STORY-TELLING.

"Behold, our infancies in tales delight,
That bolt, like hedgehog-quills, the hair upright.
The handsome bar-maids stare, as mute as fishes;
And sallow waiters, frighten'd, drop their dishes!

PETER PINDAR.

"I HAVE always been delighted with the sweet credulity of children. How pleased I am to sit surrounded by my own, and a party of their young friends, telling stories, on a winter's night, with a lump of Kendal coal blazing before us, lending at once light and warmth; leaving, at the same time, a shadowy back-ground for imagination to fill with dark outlines. Two of my little rogues will at such times creep up on my knees, which they call their horses, and listen with devouring appetite to an entertaining tale. Indeed, I am quite an infant

in this respect myself; and, therefore, my most welcome drop-in guest is an old bachelor, who has travelled a great deal; either picked up or invented a number of childish or laughable stories, and acquired a manner of telling them so truly pathetic or comic, that he can do what he pleases with the tear and smile of his hearers.

"This pleasing gentleman is of small square stature, and possesses a face which he can convert into as many varieties of portrait as the famous Monsieur Alexandre or the facetious Mr. Mathews. By throwing back his head, he exhibits a chin that would honour a bearded goat; by drawing in his mouth, he shews a perfect pair of nut-crackers; when he purses it out, he is a most excellent Briefwit; in short, he can be an old man, an old woman, or a ghost, at pleasure. He is not very fond of our Irish after-dinner beverage; and, therefore, we wheel the table and glasses away, as a signal for mother and all her flock to ornament the sofa and chairs round the spirit-cheering fire, or, as it has been called, the centre of attraction. Now we shall have a story,' one of my boys or girls will say. Then the little ones clap hands, leave

off play, and one of them, put up to it' by the rest, runs to my friend, Mr. Beaumont, creeps up his knee, and, looking wistfully in his face, entreats, O now, dear Mr. Beaumont, do pray please to tell us a story.' So he takes the rogue up, and kissing her, replies, Come then, listen now, and ask no questions. Be a good mouse, sit still, and let your sisters and brothers hear my story.—

"There was an old man who wore a false nose,
And he took it off every night with his clothes,
In battle right bravely he lost his right leg,
But the dish-turner made him one out of a peg;
With which he could march so well that, to you,

It seem'd as though nature had still left him two.'

"O, but that is not the "Green Castle,' Mr. Beaumont.'-' O, do pray tell us the Green

Castle,' if you please,' added every voice.

Why

I told you the Green Castle' only the other night; surely you wish to hear something new, like the rest of the world? Now, open your ears, and shut your mouth,' said Mr. Beaumont, giving the child another kiss:

"There was a crow sat on a stone;
He flew away, and there was none.

There was an ape sat on a tree,
When he fell down, down fell he.

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