Nor is this munificence confined to females. I was executor to my old friend Ned Evelyn, who left ten thousand pounds to each of his nephews, Sidney and Frank Stapleton; the former of whom, a prudent man with a young family, made no alteration in his establishment, and was immediately anathematized as an avaricious old hunks; in fact, a complete miser, who kept living on in the same mean style, although his rich old uncle had lately left him twenty-five thousand pounds! Frank, a thoughtless fellow, embarked his legacy in an unfortunate speculation, and fell into speedy embarrassment, when the world fairly raised up its eyes and shoulders in amazement at the wasteful profligacy which, in so short a time, could have run through forty thousand pounds; though they were aware that much could be done when a man combined mistresses, horses, and gaming. In vain did I protest that he inherited no such sum; they happened to know it: one of their particular friends had seen the receipt for the legacy-duty paid in Doctors' Commons, and it really was scandalous in a man who had three such dear beautiful little children. What can be more amiable than the sympathy universally expressed upon such occasions for a man's unprovided, and interesting, and charming cherubs? It must be confessed, that their beauties and accomplishments are frequently left unnoticed until they can be converted into a reproach against the parent; and after they have served that purpose, are too often forgotten; but then the feeling at the moment is so kindhearted-so considerate-so benevolent!

Let me repeat, however, that a man is sure of ultimate justice from the world, however his virtues may be for a time eclipsed. My neighbour Sir Toby Harbottle always appeared to me to deserve the character universally assigned to him—that of an ignorant, drunken profligate; but no sooner did his wife, a most amiable and exemplary woman, separate herself from him in the unconquerable disgust of his incurable vices, than she was assailed with every species of obloquy; while it turned out that Sir Toby, as good and honest a fellow as ever lived, had been originally driven to drinking by the unkindness of his demure Xantippe of a wife. Now, I should have known nothing of all this, but for that stern and inflexible, though sometimes tardy, justice which the world delights to exercise upon those who are the objects of its notice.

A certain author's first publication appeared to me sufficiently common-place; but the last is admitted, even by his friends, to be a decided failure, and I now hear people exclaiming—" Well, there was talent and genius in his former production; and so I always said, though many thought otherwise, and I am the more surprised that he should publish such miserable trash and rubbish as this." I have not the least recollection of the admission for which these good folks take credit as to the preceding work; but it is truly pleasing to observe with what ingenuous candour they acknowledge a man's early merits when they serve to signalize his late failure.

PETER PINDARICS.

The Biter Bit.

JACK DOBSON, honest son of tillage,

The Toby Philpot of his village,

Laugh'd and grew fat, Time's gorgon visage braving ;

To hear him cackle at a hoax,

Or new edition of old jokes,

You'd think a Roman Capitol was saving.

Not Boniface, when at a mug

Of ale he gave a hearty tug,

Was fuller of his subject-matter;

And Dobson had a better plea
For boasting of its pedigree,
For his was brew'd at home, and he
Himself was infinitely fatter.

One cask he had, better and stronger

Than all the rest-brew'd at a christening

To pass it set his eyes a-glistening;

In short he couldn't tarry longer,

But seizing spiggot and a faucet,

He tapp'd it-quaff'd a luscious posset

Then, like a hospitable fellow,

Sent for his friends to make them mellow.

Among them he invited one

Call'd Tibbs, a simple-witted wight,
Whom Mister Dobson took delight

To make the subject of his fun :
For Nature such few brains had put
In neighbour Tibbs's occiput,

That all the rustic wags and wits
Found him a most convenient butt
For their good hits ;

.

Though sometimes, as both great and small aver,
He
gave them Rowland for their Oliver.

The guests all met, and dinner spread,
Dobson first tipp'd the wink, then said,
"Well, now, my lads, we'll all draw lots,
To settle which of us shall go
Into the cellarage below,
To fill the pots."

So saying, he adroitly wriggled

The shortest into Tibbs's paw,
Whereat the others hugely giggled,
And Tibbs, obedient to the law,
Went down, the beverage to draw.
Now, Farmer Dobson, wicked wag!
Over the cellar-door had slung
A water-bowl, so slyly hung
That whoso gave the door a drag
Was sure to tumble down at once
A quart of liquid on his sconce.

Our host and all his brother wits,

Soon as they heard their victim's tramp,
Who look'd half-drown'd, burst into fits,
Which in fresh peals of laughter flamed,
When Tibbs, in drawling tone, exclaim'd:
"Isn't your cellar rather damp?”

Grace being said, quick havoc follow'd;
Many good things were said and swallow'd ;—
Joking, laughing, stuffing, and quaffing,
For a full hour they push'd about

The canns, and when there came a pause,
From mere exhaustion of their jaws,

Tibbs, with his nasal twang, drawl'd out—

Suppose we now draw lots again,

Which of us shall go down to put

The spiggot back into the butt.”

Why, zounds!"—the farmer roar'd amain,——

"The spiggot back !-come, come, you're funning, You hav'n't left the liquor running?”

"I did as I was order'd, Jack,"

Quoth Tibbs, "and if it was intention'd That I should put the spiggot back, It's a great pity 'twasn't mention'd :You've lost a cask of precious stuff, But I for one have drunk enough.""Ass! numscull! fool!" the farmer cried,"What can one get, confound their souls! By asking such half-witted lubbers?" "This lesson, neighbour," Tibbs replied,"That those who choose to play at bowls, Must expect rubbers!"

The Parson at Fault.

A COUNTRY parson took a notion
Into his head, one Whitsuntide,
That it was more like true devotion

To preach extempore ;-he tried :—
Succeeded once-twice-thrice-but, lo!

His fourth discourse was not forthcoming ;-
Spite of his hawing and his humming,

Not a word farther could he go ;

So that the worthy man perforce

Was fain to leave them in the lurch,

And say, that, since he came to church,
He'd lost the thread of his discourse.

Whereat a man below exclaim'd,
"Lock the doors, beadle-search us round,
All, every one, until it's found :
The thief should really be ashamed.—
Here are my pockets,―ransack both;
I have it not, I'll take my oath.”