LETTER FROM NAPOLEON TO JOSEPH

BONAPARTE.

SAID TO HAVE BEEN INTERCEPTED BY THE INSURGENTS OF CALABRIA.

[From the Morning Poft.]

HITHERTO, my dear Jofeph, you have no reafon to repent of having followed my advice. Believe me, the fortune which feated us on thrones will alfo fupport us there. Europe is palfied; it will be our own faults if we fuffer it to recover; continue to act with rigour; punish without mercy your oppofers; and terrors, more than rewards, will make you fecure of your adherents. Mifplaced humanity has loft Princes more fceptres than injuftice or cruelty. We can never hope to capitulate with men or with destiny. There is no fpace left us between a throne and a grave; when we cease to reign, we must cease to live. But I repeat again, our own want of energy alone can prevent the ftability of our power. Let us never fear any body, but dare every thing; and what have we to fear? The agony of England is indeed violent; but you know I hold her by the hair, as well as Pruffia by the nofe, while I trample upon Auftria, and will foon have Ruffia by both her ears. Italy, France, Holland, Switzerland, Spain, Portugal, and Germany, are in my power. Turkey and Denmark tremble at my frowns, and with my little finger I can crufh Sweden the inftant I think proper. proper. Do not you be fo timid as to fuppofe that the fate which elevated me to be Ruler of Europe, will not alfo fupport me in forging the fetters of Afia, Africa, and America.

brow of a bare, infulated, and fteep hill, commanding an entrance to the Ochil mountains. It has obtained the appellation of the Caftle of Gloom: the hill on which it has its fite is washed by the Burn of Care, and, to complete the catalogue of difmal names, it lies within the parish of Dolor.-See PENNANT'S Tour.

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Energy

Energy and vigour, audacity, and confidence in our fortune and fupremacy, will not only be respected by our contemporaries, but our memory will be revered by future ages. Above all, no half measures, no retrogreffions, nor retrospection, and ça ira.

(Signed)

Yours affectionately,

St. Cloud, May 30, 1806.

Avifo de Syracufe, July 2d.

NAPOLEON.`

THE SICK PLANTER AND HIS SLAVE.
[From the Morning Herald.]

A

PLANTER, near Jamaica town,
Was fick beyond the art of healing;

He was a man of high renown,

And rich in ev'ry thing-but feeling.

Vafa, his flave, a faithful lad,

graces;

Was fomewhat in his mafter's
And, as one day the fool look'd fad,

He took him to his kind embraces.
Quoth he, "Good fellow, I've a thought

To leave thee free, with ftore of money."
Blacky the notion quickly caught,

And fobb'd-" Sweet maffa-tank you, honey."

And when you die, that you may reft

Near him whofe bounty thus conferr'd is,

I'll have it in my will expreft,

That in my vault your corpfe interr'd is.”

"Oh! my goot maffa-never care,”

The Slave return'd" Me no disgrace you,
Me fatisfy de gold to fhare :

Your own relations me give place to."

"How!" faid the Planter in a pet.
Trembling, the Boy replied, "Dear maffa,
Me fear old Divil may forget,

And, 'stead of

Carey Street.

you-may take poor Vafa."

THE COMPOSITION OF A KISS.

FRST Cytherea, rapt in fweet employ,

A foft invention fram'd of wanton joy;
With myftic skill her temp'ring hands infufe
The nectar's fragrance and ambrosia's dews;
And honey, which the aid of am'rous art
Stole from the bee, yet thrilling with the fmart;
She blends the perfume which the violet throws,
The balmy spoils of ev'ry opening rofe:
And adds to thefe enticements o'er and o'er,
Of winning wiles a thousand thousand more;
Adds all thofe eager tremblings of defire,
That whirl of fenfe, that gently frenzying fire,
Which in its magic round her zone contains,
And tender tumults and delicious pains;
Then pours on Chloe's lip the mingled blifs,
And names the quinteffence of joy-a kifs!

JOANNES SECUNDUS.

A RECEIPT FOR A LOVE EPISTLE TO A
MODERN BELLE.

TA

AKE of fighs and of tears a prodigious large number, Of days without joy, and of nights without flumber; Of raptures, and dreams, and fantastical bliffes,

Of heart-burning glances, and foul-thrilling kiffes.

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Talk of love everlasting, and pure adoration,
Say for her you would die without one hesitation;
Add, that Mahomet's houris are loft in her charms,
And that more than his Paradife dwells in her arms.

Conjure up from Don Quixote fome high-flying ftory,
How that love is the rampart of fame and of glory;
That the Don his Tobofo, and Sancho his ifle,
Would have eagerly barter'd to purchase one fmile.
If the be not contented with chivalric ages,
You may go a few centuries back to the fages;
And, with old heathen poets, proteft, that had Jove
Beheld but her face-he had melted with love.

Then tell her that nothing but love is your food,
And with darts, Cupid's flames in great plenty, conclude;
And if this the receive, I will dare lay my life,
In a fortnight you gain her for mistress or wife.

IN

R. H. M.

N Park to drive, with dashing stroke,
His chariot till the wheels quite smoke,

Rapid to turn each corner clear,
And make the Sunday folk all ftare,
Is Squire Sapfcull's chief ambition,
And highest point of all fruition,
"Jack!-while I 'm driving with fuch fire,
Liften to hear the folk's discourses."

"I do, Sir, and they all admire

Your honour's carriage and the horfes."

WHILE boneft Frank Dawfon has giv'n up the ghost,
The good Matthew Dodsworth comes blown to the post,
Alas! what avails all our training and feeding,
When a check fo uncivil is put to-good breeding?
But Life is a courfe!" and whatever our pace,
When Death drops the flag, there's an end of the race.
But the grave to the racer renews his life part,
For the turf had him first, and the turf has him laft;
Then no more at the Irishman 's toast let us wonder,
Long life to the turf!--whether over or under !”

R1

THE FIDDLE-CASE.

[From the Obferver.]

IGHT fhrewdly has the fong expreft,
"Of a bad bargain make the best;"

How good for every care and trouble!
Its ufe in matrimony, double:

In

In vain against the ftream we tug;
'T were wiler far to kifs and hug.
But hang fuch ferious truths, fay I;
Let a fhort tale their room fupply.

Join'd in this bleffed state of life,
Liv'd old Crowdero * and his wife;
In humour and caprice unfteady
As any modern lord and lady;
Just as you fee an April morn,
Smiling and frowning each in turn:
At length, ambitious, honeft creatures,
For once to imitate their betters,
They fairly took it in their heads
Outright to feparate their beds,
And make, by lying all alone,

A Doctors' Commons of their own.
But what the deuce was to be done?
-When all came out-they had but one!
Here, as in obftacles as ftout,

A fuccedaneum helps them out;

You'd laugh'd your eyes out had you feen 'em,
-They plac'd the fiddle-cafe between 'em ;
And flept, delighted with their notion,

As funder'd by Pacific Ocean.

For many a day, and many a moon, Partition Treaty still went on;

Till feuds grew cooler by degrees;

-At length the Fiddler chanc'd to fneeze;
With melting heart, and milky tone,

"Bleis you, my dear!" cries gentle Joan;
"And did you really mean your pray'r ?”
Replies her ipoule, with loving ftare:
"Indeed," fays he, "my fweet! I did;
What! with you evil ?-Heav'n forbid!"
"Nay, then," fays he, (and strok'd her face,)
"Let's e'en remove the fiddle-cafe !"

Crowdero, the name of the fiddler, in Hudibras.

RECIPE