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"Tom! see that girl, how well she walks !

But faith, I must confess,

I never saw a girl before

In such a style of dress."

"Why, really, Jack, I think you're right, Just let me look a while;

(looking through his glass)

I like her gait at any rate,

But don't quite like her style."
With a "How do you do,
Ma'am?" "How are you?
How dear the things all are !"
Throughout the day

You hear them say,

At fam'd Soho Bazaar.

"That vulgar lady's standing there

That every one may view her ;""Sir, that's my daughter;""No, not her; I mean the next one to her:"

Oh, that's my niece,"—" Oh no, not her,""You seem, sir, quite amused;"

"Dear ma'am,-heyday !—what shall I say? I'm really quite confused."

With a "How do you do,
Ma'am ?" "How are you?
How dear the things all are !"
Throughout the day

You hear them say,

At fam'd Soho Bazaar.

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Omníana.

THE SEASON OUT OF TOWN.
For the Table Book.

The banks are partly green; hedges and trees
Are black and shrouded, and the keen wind roars,
Like dismal music wand'ring over seas,

And wailing to the agitated shores.

The fields are dotted with manure-the sheep

In unshorn wool, streak'd with the shepherd's red, Their undivided peace and friendship keep,

Shaking their bells, like children to their bed..

The roads are white and miry-waters run With violence through their tracks-and sheds, that flowers

In summer graced, are open to the sun,

Which shines in noonday's horizontal hours.

Frost claims the night; and morning, like a bride, Forth from her chamber glides; mist spreads her vest;

The sunbeams ride the clouds till eventide,

And the wind rolls them to ethereal rest.

Sleet, shine, cold, fog, in portions fill the tiine;

Like hope, the prospect cheers; like breath it fades;

Life grows in seasons to returning prime,

And beauty rises from departing shades.

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Xerxes, Ximenes, Xanthus, Xaviere!

Yield, yield, ye youths! ye yeomen, yield your yell;
Zeno's, Zampatee's, Zoroaster's zeal,
Attracting all, arms against acts appeal!

NAMES OF PLACES.

For the Table Book."

The names of towns, cities, or villages, which terminate in ter, such as Chester, Caster, Cester, show that the Romans, in their stay among us, made fortifications about the places where they are now situ ated. In the Latin tongue Castra is the name of these fortifications-such are Castor, Chester, Doncaster, Leicester; Don signifies a mountain, and Ley, or Lei, ground widely overgrown.

In our ancient tongue wich, or wick, means a place of refuge, and is the termi nation of Warwick, Sandwich, Greenwich, Woolwich, &c.

Thorp, before the word village was borrowed from the French, was used in its stead, and is found at the end of many towns' names.

Bury, Burgh, or Berry, signifies, metaphorically, a town having a wall about it, sometimes a high, or chief place.

Wold means a plain open country.
Combe, a valley between two hills.
Knock, a hill.

Hurst, a woody place.

Magh, a field.

Innes, an island.

Worth, a place situated between two

rivers.

Ing, a tract of meadows.

Minster is a contraction of monastery.

Cossack commanders cannonading come,
Dealing destruction's devastating doom;
Every endeavour engineers essay,

For fame, for fortune fighting-furious fray!
Generals 'gainst generals grapple, gracious G-d!
How honours heaven heroic hardihood!
Infuriate-indiscriminate in ill-

Kinsmen kill kindred-kindred kinsmen kill:
Labour low levels loftiest, longest lines,

Men march 'mid mounds, 'mid moles, 'mid murderous mines:

Now noisy noxious numbers notice nought

Of outward obstacles, opposing ought,-
Poor patriots!-partly purchased-partly press'd,

Quite quaking, quickly, “Quarter! quarter!" quest;
Reason returns, religious right redounds,
Suwarrow stops such sanguinary sounds.
Truce to thee, Turkey, triumph to thy train,
Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine!
Vanish, vain victory! vanish, victory vain!

Why wish we warfare? Wherefore welcome were

SONNET

SAM SAM'S SON.

For the Table Book.

The snowdrop, rising to its infant height,
Looks like a sickly child upon the spot
Of young nativity, regarding not

The air's caress of melody and light
Beam'd from the east, and soften'd by the bright
Effusive flash of gold :-the willow stoops

And muses, like a bride without her love,

On her own shade, which lies on waves, and droops Beside the natal trunk, nor looks above:The precipice, that torrents cannot move, Leans o'er the sea, and steadfast as a rock, Of dash and cloud unconscious, bears the rude. Continuous surge, the sounds and echoes mock: Thus Mental Thought enduring, wears in solitude. *.*, P.

1827.

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Some years ago, the fine old font of the ancient parish church of Harrow-on-the hill was torn from that edifice, by the 66 gentlemen of the parish," and given out to mend the roads with. The feelings of one parishioner (to the honour of the sex, a female) were outraged by this act of parochial Vandalism; and she was allowed to preserve it from destruction, and place it in a walled nook, at the garden front of her house, where it still remains. By her obliging permission, a drawing of it was made the summer before last, and is engraved above.

wardens during whose reign venality or stupidity effected the removal of its precessor. If there be any persons in that parish who either venerate antiquity, or desire to see "right things in right places," it is possible that, by a spirited representation, they may arouse the indifferent, and shame the ignorant to an interchange; and force an expression of public thanks to the lady whose good taste and care enabled it to be effected. The relative situation and misappropriation of each font is a stain on the parish, easily removable, by employing a few men and a few pounds to clap the paltry usurper under the spout of the good lady's house, and restore the noble original from that degrading destination, to its rightful dignity in the church.

On the exclusion of Harrow font from the church, the parish officers put up the marble wash-hand - basin - stand-lookingthing, which now occupies its place, inscribed with the names of the churchVOL. I.-6.

Garrick Plays.

No. III.

Unlawful Solicitings.

When I first

Mention'd the business to her all alone,

Poor Soul, she blush'd, as if already she

[From the "Rewards of Virtue," a Comedy, Had done some harm by hearing of me speak; by John Fountain, printed 1661.]

Success in Battle not always attributable to the General.

Generals oftimes famous grow

By valiant friends, or cowardly enemies ;

Or, what is worse, by some mean piece of chance.
Truth is, 'tis pretty to observe

How little Princes and great Generals
Contribute oftentimes to the fame they win.

How oft hath it been found, that noblest minds

With two short arms, have fought with fatal stars;
And have endeavour'd with their dearest blood
To mollify those diamonds, where dwell
The fate of kingdoms; and at last have faln
By vulgar hands, unable now to do

More for their cause than die; and have been lost,
Among the sacrifices of their swords;
No more remember'd than poor villagers,
Whose ashes sleep among the common flowers,
That every meadow wears: whilst other men
With trembling hands have caught a victory,
And on pale foreheads wear triumphant bays.
Besides, I have thought

A thousand times; in times of war, when we
Lift up our hands to heaven for victory;
Suppose some virgin Shepherdless, whose soul
Is chaste and clean as the cold spring, where she
Quenches all thirsts, being told of enemies,
That seek to fright the long-enjoyed Peace
Of our Arcadia hence with sound of drums,
And with hoarse trumpets' warlike airs to drown
The harmless music of her oaten reeds;
Should in the passion of her troubled sprite
Repair to some small fane (such as the Gods
Hear poor folks from), and there on humble knees
Lift up her trembling hands to holy Pan,
And beg his helps: 'tis possible to think,

That Heav'n, which holds the purest vows most rich,
May not permit her still to weep in vain,
But grant her wish, (for, would the Gods not hear
The prayers of poor folks, they'd ne'er bid them pray);
And so, in the next action, happeneth out
(The Gods still using means) the Enemy
May be defeated. The glory of all this
Is attributed to the General,

And none but he's spoke loud of for the act;
While she, from whose so unaffected tears
His laurel sprung, for ever dwells unknown.*

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Whilst from her pretty eyes two fountains ran
So true, so native, down her fairest cheeks;
As if she thought herself obliged to ery,
'Cause all the world was not so good as she..

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Dying for a Beloved Person.

There is a gust in Death, when 'tis for Love,
That's more than all that's taste in all the world.
For the true measure of true Love is Death;
And what falls short of this, was never Love:
And therefore when those tides do meet and strive,
And both swell high, but Love is higher still,
This is the truest satisfaction of
The perfectest Love: for here it sees itself
Indure the highest test; and then it feels
The sum of delectation, since it now
Attains its perfect end; and shows its object,
By one intense act, all its verity:

Which by a thousand and ten thousand words
It would have took a poor diluted pleasure
To have imperfectly express'd.

Urania makes a mock assignation with the King, and substitutes the Queen in her place. The King describes the supposed meeting to the Confident, whom he had employed to solicit for his guilty passion.

Pyrrhus, I'll tell thee all. When now the night
Grew black enough to hide a sculking action;
And Heav'n had ne'er an eye unshut to see
Her Representative on Earth creep 'mongst
Those poor defenceless worms, whom Nature left
An humble prey to every thing, and no
Asylum but the dark; I softly stole
To yonder grotto thro' the upper walks,
And there found my Urania. But I found her,
I found her, Pyrrhus, not a Mistress, but

A Goddess rather; which made me now to be
No more her Lover, but Idolater.

She only whisper'd to me, as she promised,
Yet never heard I any voice so loud;

1 And, tho' her words were gentler far than those
That holy priests do speak to dying Saints,
Yet never thunder signified so much.

And (what did more impress whate'er she said)
Methought her whispers were my injured Queen's,
Her manner just like her's! and when she urged,
Among a thousand things, the injury

I did the faithful'st Princess in the world;
Who now supposed me sick, and was perchance
Upon her knees offering up holy vows

For him who mock'd both Heav'n and her, and was
Now breaking of that vow he made her, when
With sacrifice he call'd the Gods to witness:
When she urged this, and wept, and spake so like
My poor deluded Queen, Pyrrhus, I trembled ;
Almost persuaded that it was her angel
Spake thro' Urania's lips, who for her sake
Took care of me, as something she much loved.
It would be long to tell thee all she said,
How oft she sigh'd, how bitterly she wept:
But the effect-Urania still is chaste;
And with her chaster lips hath promised to
Invoke blest Heav'n for my intended sin.

THE CUSHION DANCE.

For the Table Book.

C. L.

The concluding dance at a country wake, or other general meeting, is the "Cushion Dance;" and if it be not called for when the company are tired with dancing, the fiddler, who has an interest in it which will be seen hereafter, frequently plays the tune to remind them of it. A young man of the company leaves the room; the poor young women, uninformed of the plot against them, suspecting nothing; but he no sooner returns, bearing a cushion in one hand and a pewter pot in the other, than they are aware of the mischief intended, and would

certainly make their escape, had not the bearer of cushion and pot, aware of the invincible aversion which young women have to be saluted by young men, prevented their flight by locking the door, and putting the key in his pocket. The dance then begins.

The young man advances to the fiddler, drops a penny in the pot, and gives it to one of his companions; cushion then dances round the room, followed by pot, and when they again reach the fiddler, the cushion says in a sort of recitative, accompanied by the music, "This dance it will no farther go."

66

The fiddler, in return, sings or says, for it partakes of both, “ I pray, kind sir, why say you so?"

The answer is, "Because Joan Sanderson won't come to."

66

But," replies the fiddler, "she must come to, and she shall come to, whether she will or no."

The young man, thus armed with the authority of the village musician, recommences his dance round the room, but stops when he comes to the girl he likes best, and drops the cushion at her feet; she puts her penny in the pewter pot, and kneels down with the young man on the cushion, and he salutes her.

When they rise, the woman takes up the cushion, and leads the dance, the man following, and holding the skirt of her gown; and having made the circuit of the room, they stop near the fiddler, and the same dialogue is repeated, except, as it is now the woman who speaks, it is John Sanderson who won't come to, and the fiddler's mandate is issued to him, not her.

The woman drops the cushion at the feet of her favourite man; the same ceremony and the same dance are repeated, till every man and woman, the pot bearer last, has been taken out, and all have danced round the room in a file.

The pence are the perquisite of the fid-
H. N.

dler.

P.S. There is a description of this dance in Miss Hutton's " Oakwood Hall."

THE CUSHION DANCE. For the Table Book. "Saltabamus." The village-green is clear and dight Under the starlight sky; Joy in the cottage reigns to night, And brightens every eye:

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