orator?

He had half his head shaved, and locked himself up in a coal-cellar.

Old F. Ah! he was perfectly right to lock himself up, after baving undergone such an operation as that. He certainly would have made rather an odd figure abroad.

Tri. I think I see him now, awakening the dormant patriot. ism of his countrymen-lightning in his eye, and thunder in his voice-he pours forth a torrent of eloquence, resistless in its force, the throne of Philip trembles while he speaks-he denounces, and indignation fills the bosoms of his hearershe exposes the impending danger, and every one sees impend ing ruin-he threatens the tyrant, they grasp their swords— he calls for vengeance, their thirsty weapons glitter in the air, and thousands reverberate the cry. One soul animates a nation, and that soul is the soul of an orator.

Old F. Oh! what a figure he 'll make in the King's Bench! But come, I will tell you now what my plan is, and then you will see how happy this determination of yours will further it. You have (Tristram makes extravagant gestures as if speaking) often heard me speak of my friend Briefwit the barrister

Tri. Who is against me in this cause-
Old F. He is a most learned lawyer-
Tri. But, as I have justice on my side-

Old F. Bless me! he does n't hear a word I say!—Why, Tristram !

Tri. I beg your pardon, sir; I was prosecuting my studies. Old F. Now attend

Tri. As my learned friend observes,-go on, sir, I am all attention.

Old F. Well-my friend, the counsellor

Tri. Say my learned friend, if you please, sir.

men of the law always

Old. F Well, well, my learned friend

We gentle.

Old F. My friend, I say, has a ward, who is very handsome, and who has a very handsome fortune. She would make you a charming wife.

Tri This is an action-

Old F. Now, I have hitherto been afraid to introduce you to my friend, the barrister, because I thought your lightness and his gravity

Tri. Might be plaintiff and defendant.

Old F. But now you are grown serious and steady, and have resolved to pursue his profession, I will shortly bring you together: you will obtain his good opinion, and all the rest follows, of course.

Tri. A verdict in my favor.

Old F. You marry, and sit down happy for life.

Tri. In the King's Bench.

Old F Bravo! ha, ha, ha! But now run to your studyrun to your study, my dear Tristram, and I'll go and call upon the counsellor.

Tri. I remove by habeas corpus.

Old F. Pray, have the goodness to make haste, then. (Hurrying him off.)

Tri. Gentlemen of the jury, this is a cause-(Old Fickle pushes him off)

Old F. The inimitable boy! I am now the happiest father living. What genius he has! He'll be lord chancellor, one day or other, I dare be sworn-I am sure he has talents. Oh, how I long to see him at the bar!

(Enter SERVANT.)

Servant. Mr. Briefwit, sir.

Old F. Ah, my good friend, Mr. Briefwit!
Briefuit. The aforesaid. (Shaking hands.)

Old F. You are welcome to Whimshall.

Bri. Whimshall-the locus in quo-good.

(Exit.

Old F. This is all right; this gives me an opportunity of talking to you a little.

Bri. Consult-take an opinion-good.

Old F. Come, I'll introduce you to my son. you, sir?

Bri. Good.

What say

Old F. Good-aye, I hope so. I have to tell you, that my son is one of the most serious, studious young men living. Bri. Id certum est quod certum reddi potest: vulgarly, in the proverb," the proof of the pudding is in the eating." Old F. Always at his books.

Bri. Good.

Old F. And what, now-what, of all things, do you think employs his mind? (Briefwit looks at him without speaking.) Come, guess, now; what do you think he reads?

Bri. (After a pause.) Books.

Old F. You are not far from the mark there, old Caution; he does read books-he studies the law.

Bri. Dat operam legibus Angliæ—good.

Old F. Ay, I thought you would say so. The law is a fine profession, is it not? I am sure I have a specimen before me of what the law will do for a man.

Bri. Hum! It will do for a man-good.

Old F. I knew you would be doubly anxious about this match between your ward and him, when you heard of his having embraced that profession.

Bri. Hum!

Old F. Conversation fatigues you.

Bri. Non liquet-it appeareth not.

Old F. And when you do speak, there 's no understanding you. (Aside. Briefwit reads his papers.) A very entertaining companion, truly. Pray, sir, read out.

Bri. (Looks suspiciously at him, and pockets his papers.) Good.

Old F. So good, that you seem determined to keep it all to yourself. Come, we'll go and see my boy, if you please: it's a pity to disturb him, though. Oh! he's so studious, you 'll be delighted with him-so steady-so like yourself. He will talk to you in your own way. (Going, he stops.) I beg pardon; the law takes precedence of every profession.

Bri. Good. (Walks off with great gravity.)

M

Old F. Very good, indeed. You certainly are one of the most pleasant, agreeable, facetious, conversable, witty, and entertaining disciples of Lycurgus, that ever wore a wig with two tails.

(Exit.

PARODY WRITTEN AFTER A BAD DINNER.*-ANON.

Lo! the plain eater, whose untutor'd taste,

Finds health in salads and in homely paste;
His tongue proud science never taught to lave
In charbone cream, or gravy's poignant wave.
Yet simple cook'ry piles his earthen plate
With England's honest beef, an humble treat.
Guiltless of ortolans his spit whirls round,

Nor catchup strains his kitchen's wholesome ground,
Where no disguise affronts the genuine meal,
Nor Chloe tortures salmon into veal.

To eat, contents his hunger 's nat❜ral call,
He chews no latent gout in forc'd-meat ball;
But throws to faithful Tray, his dinner down,
Th' applauded beef's reversionary bone.
Come nicer thou, come, let thy palate try,
'Gainst Moll's plum-pudding, Chloe's lobster-pie.
In ev'ry dish find some important fault,

The broth wants relish, and the edge-bone salt.
Condemn each joint not dress'd by learned rule,
Yet cry, if hunger fails, that Moll's a fool.
If fricassees employ not all her skill,

Studious to nourish, not expert to kill,

Snatch from her care the hangers, and the hooks

Redress her dressings, be the cook of cooks.

*The above which appeared in a British Magazinein June, 1757, is a Parody on that celebrated passage of Pope's Essay on Man, commencing:

Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutor'd mind,

Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind, &c.

CONVERSATION.-CowPER.

YE powers, who rule the tongue,—if such there are,And make colloquial happiness your care,

Preserve me from the thing I dread and hate-
A duel in the form of a debate.

Vociferated logic kilis me quite;

A noisy man is always in the right:

I twirl my thumbs, fall back into my chair,
Fix on the wainscot a distressful stare,
And, when I hope his blunders are all out,
Reply discreetly-" To be sure—no doubt!"
Dubious is such a scrupulous, good man-
Yes you may catch him tripping, if you can.
He would not, with a peremptory tone,
Assert the nose upon his face his own;
With hesitation admirably slow,

He humbly hopes-presumes-it may be so.
His evidence, if he were called by law
To swear to some enormity he saw,
For want of prominence and just relief,
Would hang an honest man, and save a thief.
Through constant dread of giving truth offence,
He ties up all his hearers in suspense;
Knows what he knows as if he knew it not;
What he remembers seems to have forgot;
His sole opinion, whatsoe'er befall,
Centering, at last, in having none at all.

A story, in which native humor reigns,
Is often useful, always entertains:
A graver fact, enlisted on your side,
May furnish illustration, well applied;
But sedentary weavers of long tales
Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails.
'Tis the most asinine employ on earth,
To hear them tell of parentage and birth,