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ous, he insists that it is material to the strength or
decoration of the rest, and the harmony of the
whole; and swears that the parts are so built into
each other, that if you pull down one, you run the
risk of having the whole about your ears.
The secret of the matter is, that John has a
great disposition to protect and patronize. He
thinks it indispensable to the dignity of an ancient
and honorable family, to be bounteous in its ap-
pointments, and to be eaten up by dependants; and
so, partly from pride, and partly from kind-heart-
edness, he makes it a rule always to give shelter
and maintenance to his superannuated servants.

mazes, and dusky chambers; and though these have been partially lighted up in modern days, yet there are many places where you must still grope in the dark. Additions have been made to the original edifice from time to time, and great alterations have taken place; towers and battlements have been erected during wars and tumults: wings built in time of peace; and outhouses, lodges, and offices, run up according to the whim or convenience of different generations, until it has become one of the most spacious, rambling tenements imaginable. An entire wing is taken up with the family chapel, a reverend pile, that must have been exceedingly sumptuous, and, indeed, in spite of The consequence is, that, like many other venehaving been altered and simplified at various pe- rable family establishments, his manor is incumriods, has still a look of solemn religious pomp. Its bered by old retainers whom he cannot turn off, walls within are storied with the monuments of and an old style which he cannot lay down. His John's ancestors; and it is snugly fitted up with mansion is like a great hospital of invalids, and, soft cushions and well-lined chairs, where such of with all its magnitude, is not a whit too large for his family as are inclined to church services, may its inhabitants. Not a nook or corner but is of use doze comfortably in the discharge of their duties. in housing some useless personage. Groups of veteran beef-eaters, gouty pensioners, and retired heroes of the buttery and the larder, are seen lolling about its walls, crawling over its lawns, dozing under its trees, or sunning themselves upon the benches at its doors. Every office and outhouse is garrisoned by these supernumeraries and their families; for they are amazingly prolific, and when they die off, are sure to leave John a legacy of hungry mouths to be provided for. A mattock cannot be struck against the most mouldering tumble-down tower, but out pops, from some cranny or loop-hole, the gray pate of some superannuated hanger-on, who has lived at John's expense all his life, and makes the most grievous outcry at their pulling down the roof from over the head of a worn-out servant of the family. This is an appeal that John's honest heart never can withstand; so that a man, who has faithfully eaten his beef and pudding all his life, is sure to be rewarded with a pipe and tankard in his old days.

To keep up this chapel has cost John much money; but he is stanch in his religion, and piqued in his zeal, from the circumstance that many dissenting chapels have been erected in his vicinity, and several of his neighbors, with whom he has had quarrels, are strong papists.

To do the duties of the chapel he maintains, at a large expense, a pious and portly family chaplain. He is a most learned and decorous personage, and a truly well-bred Christian, who always backs the old gentleman in his opinions, winks discreetly at his little peccadilloes, rebukes the children when refractory, and is of great use in exhorting the tenants to read their Bibles, say their prayers, and, above all, to pay their rents punctually, and without grumbling.

The family apartments are in a very antiquated taste, somewhat heavy, and often inconvenient, but full of the solemn magnificence of former times; fitted up with rich, though faded tapestry, unwieldy furniture, and loads of massy, gorgeous old plate. The vast fireplaces, ample kitchens, extensive cellars, and sumptuous banqueting halls, all speak of the roaring hospitality of days of yore, of which the modern festivity at the manor-house is but a shadow. There are, however, complete suites of rooms apparently deserted and time-worn; and towers and turrets that are tottering to decay; so that in high winds there is danger of their tumbling about the ears of the household.

John has frequently been advised to have the old edifice thoroughly overhauled; and to have some of the useless parts pulled down, and the others strengthened with their materials; but the old gentleman always grows testy on this subject. He swears the house is an excellent house-that it is tight and weather-proof, and not to be shaken by tempests that it has stood for several hundred years, and, therefore, is not likely to tumble down now that as to its being inconvenient, his family is accustomed to the inconveniences, and would not be comfortable without them-that as to its unwieldy size and irregular construction, these result from its being the growth of centuries, and being improved by the wisdom of every generation—that an old family, like his, requires a large house to dwell in; new, upstart families may live in modern cottages and snug boxes; but an old English family should inhabit an old English manor-house. If you point out any part of the building as superflu

A great part of his park, also, is turned into paddocks, where his broken-down chargers are turned loose to graze undisturbed for the remainder of their existence-a worthy example of grateful recollection, which, if some of his neighbors were to imitate, would not be to their discredit. Indeed, it is one of his great pleasures to point out these old steeds to his visitors, to dwell on their good qualities, extol their past services, and boast, with some little vain-glory, of the perilous adventures and hardy exploits through which they have carried him.

He is given, however, to indulge his veneration for family usages, and family incumbrances, to a whimsical extent. His manor is infested by gangs of gipsies; yet he will not suffer them to be driven off, because they have infested the place time out of mind, and been regular poachers upon every generation of the family. He will scarcely permit a dry branch to be lopped from the great trees that surround the house, lest it should molest the rooks that have bred there for centuries. Owls have taken possession of the dove-cote; but they are hereditary owls, and must not be disturbed. Swallows have nearly choked up every chimney with their nests; martins build in every frieze and cornice; crows flutter about the towers, and perch on every weather-cock; and old gray-headed rats may be seen in every quarter of the house, running in and out of their holes undauntedly in broad day

light. In short, John has such a reverence for every thing that has been long in the family, that he will not hear even of abuses being reformed, because they are good old family abuses.

All these whims and habits have concurred wofully to drain the old gentleman's purse; and as he prides himself on punctuality in money matters, and wishes to maintain his credit in the neighborhood, they have caused him great perplexity in meeting his engagements. This, too, has been increased by the altercations and heart-burnings which are continually taking place in his family. His children have been brought up to different callings, and are of different ways of thinking; and as they have always been allowed to speak their minds freely, they do not fail to exercise the privilege most clamorously in the present posture of his affairs. Some stand up for the honor of the race, and are clear that the old establishment should be kept up, in all its state, whatever may be the cost; others, who are more prudent and considerate, entreat the old gentleman to retrench his expenses, and to put his whole system of housekeeping on a more moderate footing. He has, indeed, at times, seemed inclined to listen to their opinions, but their wholesome advice has been completely defeated by the obstreperous conduct of one of his sons. This is a noisy rattle-pated fellow, of rather low habits, who neglects his business to frequent ale-houses-is the orator of village clubs, and a complete oracle among the poorest of his father's tenants. No sooner does he hear any of his brothers mention reform or retrenchment, than up he jumps, takes the words out of their mouths, and roars out for an overturn. When his tongue is once going, nothing can stop it. He rants about the room; hectors the old man about his spendthrift practices; ridicules his tastes and pursuits; insists that he shall turn the old servants out of doors; give the broken-down horses to the hounds; send the fat chaplain packing, and take a field-preacher in his place -nay, that the whole family mansion shall be levelled with the ground, and a plain one of brick and mortar built in its place. He rails at every social entertainment and family festivity, and skulks away growling to the ale-house whenever an equipage drives up to the door. Though constantly complaining of the emptiness of his purse, yet he scruples not to spend all his pocket-money in these tavern convocations, and even runs up scores for the liquor over which he preaches about his father's extravagance.

It may readily be imagined how little such thwarting agrees with the old cavalier's fiery temperament. He has become so irritable, from repeated crossings, that the mere mention of retrenchment or reform is a signal for a brawl between him and the tavern oracle. As the latter is too sturdy and refractory for paternal discipline, having grown out of all fear of the cudgel, they have frequent scenes of wordy warfare, which at times run so high, that John is fain to call in the aid of his son Tom, an officer who has served, abroad, but is at present living at home, on halfpay. This last is sure to stand by the old gentleman, right or wrong; likes nothing so much as a racketing, roystering life; and is ready at a wink or nod, to out sabre, and flourish it over the orator's head, if he dares to array himself against paternal authority.

These family dissensions, as usual, have got

abroad, and are rare food for scandal in John's neighborhood. People begin to look wise, and shake their heads, whenever his affairs are mentioned. They all "hope that matters are not so bad with him as represented; but when a man's own children begin to rail at his extravagance, things must be badly managed. They understand he is mortgaged over head and ears, and is continually dabbling with money lenders. He is certainly an open-handed old-gentleman, but they fear he has lived too fast; indeed, they never knew any good come of this fondness for hunting, racing, revelling and prize-fighting. In short, Mr. Bull's estate is a very fine one, and has been in the family a long while; but, for all that, they have known many finer estates come to the hammer." What is worst of all, is the effect which these pecuniary embarrassments and domestic feuds have had on the poor man himself. Instead of that jolly round corporation, and smug rosy-face, which he used to present, he has of late become as shrivelled and shrunk as a frost-bitten apple. His scarlet goldlaced waistcoat, which bellied out so bravely in those prosperous days when he sailed before the wind, now hangs loosely about him like a mainsail in a calm. His leather breeches are all in folds and wrinkles, and apparently have much ado to hold up the boots that yawn on both sides of his once sturdy legs.

Instead of strutting about as formerly, with his three-cornered hat on one side; flourishing his cudgel, and bringing it down every moment with a hearty thump upon the ground; looking every one sturdily in the face, and trolling out a stave of a catch or a drinking song; he now goes about whistling thoughtfully to himself, with his head drooping down, his cudgel tucked under his arm, and his hands thrust to the bottom of his breeches pockets, whieh are evidently empty.

Such is the plight of honest John Bull at present; yet for all this the old fellow's spirit is as tall and as gallant as ever. If you drop the least expression of sympathy or concern, he takes fire in an instant; swears that he is the richest and stoutest fellow in the country; talks of laying out large sums to adorn his house or buy another estate; and with a valiant swagger and grasping of his cudgel, longs exceedingly to have another bout at quarterstaff.

Though there may be something rather whimsical in all this, yet I confess I cannot look upon John's situation without strong feelings of interest. With all his odd humors and obstinate prejudices, he is a sterling-hearted old blade. He may not be so wonderfully fine a fellow as he thinks himself, but he is at least twice as good as his neighbors represent him. His virtues are all his own; all plain, homebred, and unaffected. His very faults smack of the raciness of his good qualities. His extravagance savors of his generosity; his quarrelsomeness of his courage; his credulity of his open faith; his vanity of his pride; and his bluntness of his sincerity. They are all the redundancies of a rich and liberal character. He is like his own oak, rough without, but sound and solid within; whose bark abounds with excrescences in proportion to the growth and grandeur of the timber; and whose branches make a fearful groaning and murmuring in the least storm, from their very magnitude and luxuriance. There is something, too, in the appearance of his old family mansion that is extremely poetical and pieturesque; and, as long as it can be rendered com

fortably habitable, I should almost tremble to see it meddled with, during the present conflict of tastes and opinions. Some of his advisers are no doubt good architects, that might be of service; but many, I fear, are mere levellers, who, when they had once got to work with their mattocks on this venerable edifice, would never stop until they had brought it to the ground, and perhaps buried themselves among the ruins. All that I wish is, that John's present troubles may teach him more prudence in future. That he may cease to distress his

mind about other people's affairs; that he may give up the fruitless attempt to promote the good of his neighbors, and the peace and happiness of the world, by dint of the cudgel; that he may remain quietly at home; gradually get his house into repair; cultivate his rich estate according to his fancy; husband his income-if he thinks proper; bring his unruly children into order-if he can; renew the jovial scenes of ancient prosperity; and long enjoy, on his paternal lands, a green, an honorable, and a merry old age.

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A late London paper mentions that the celebrated Manheim Telescope, the master-piece of the famous Spaiger, a Hungarian optician, was recently destroyed in a singular manner. A servant of the Observatory having taken out the glasses to clean them, put them in again without observing that a cat had crept into the tube. At night, the animal being alarmed at the strong powers of the Lunar rays, endeavored to escape: but the effort threw down the instrument, which, falling to the ground, from the top of a tower, was broken to pieces. The writer, presuming that the cat was killed by the fall, imagines the daughter of the astronomer as breaking forth in the following lament.

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Was it for this he gave such strict command,
To clean the glasses with a careful hand,
And then to search the tube with nicest care,
To see nor cat, nor kit, were nestling there?
Lest, like old Sidrophel, star-gazing wight,
Who wisely made a comet of a kite,
My cat, perhaps, 'twixt Mercury and Mars,
Had help'd to swell the cat-alogue of stars.

O! say what led thee to that giddy height,
Thou queen of cats! that witching time of night?
Was it cat-optrics fired thy feline heart?
And didst thou dare to act the sage's part?
And peeping at the moon, while stretch'd at ease,
Discover, with delight, 'twas all green cheese?
Or did'st thou wish to take a near survey

Of that delicious stream, the milky-way?
And while the dog-star in the welkin raves,

To take a leap, and lap its cream-clad waves?

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Ah me! what terrors through thy frame were spread,
When Luna's rays refracted on thy head,

And fill'd thy gooseberry eyes with beams so thick,
No wonder thou becam'st a lunatic;

Lost all reflection: scarce retain'd a hope,
Immured in a reflecting telescope.
The concave mirror first thy fury bore,
The convex lens but vexed thee the more:
Then all thy rage was to a focus brought;
To tilt the tube was now thy only thought.

Flounce-bounce:-it tumbles from the turret wall,
Breaking itself, but breaking not thy fall!
Oh direful fall!-But why indulge this wo?
Can cat-aracts of tears avail thee now?
No; thou art bound to Hecate's wizard shore,
Where Whittington's famed cat has gone before;
And to appease thy ghost my task shall be,
To consecrate a cat-acomb to thee.

Embalm'd, dear shade, with true Egyptian care,
Across the Atlantic wave thy corpse I'll bear,
And where old Catskill props the western sky,
The fur-clad relics of my cat shall lie.

There shall thy favorite herbs and plants be found,
The cat-mint there shall shed its sweets around;
The savory mushroom from the sod shall start,
And to the breeze its catsup sweets impart.
While the tall cat-tail, on the reedy shore,
Shall hang his head, and thy sad fate deplore.

One warbler of the grove will ne'er forget
To pay to thee his grateful, tuneful debt;
The cat-bird, perch'd on the catalpa tree,
Shall squall that note he learnt, poor puss, from thee.
While from the mount, the valley, and the plain,
The weeping pole-cat shall repeat the strain.

THE KROUT CLUB.

BY DOCTOR SAMUEL LATHAM MITCHILL. 1822.

[The Doctor was President or Grand Krout of a social gathering of descendants from the original settlers of New York City. On his inauguration, he delivered the following address, arrayed in the insignia of his office-crowned with a cabbage, and cloaked with its leaves.]

THIS association owes its origin to our venerable and festive ancestry. The cabbage is its emblem, and a good symbol it is. The Bourbons displayed their exalted lily, and the Bonapartes their humble violet. The pine tree gave character to the money coined before the revolution, in Massachusetts, and the white rose and red rose distinguished the parties of York and Lancaster as they formerly existed in England. The Scotch are proud of their thistle, the Irish of their shamrocks, and the Welch of their leeks. The virtues of the cabbage surpass all these, and are worthy of the highest eulogium. The plant belongs to the natural family of antiscorbutics. It is capable of purifying the blood, and of rectifying the humors. Whether eaten raw, or boiled, or after preparation in our excellent way of Sour Krout, the article is worthy of particular commendation. The sherrissack celebrated by Falstaff is, notwithstanding its extraordinary virtues, far inferior to Krout. I recommend to all scurvy fellows, wherever they may be, a course of this sovereign remedy to make them sound and whole. Great exertions are made by gardeners and farmers to cultivate the precious vegetable in large quantity and of good quality.

Their industry is stimulated by the premium of patriotic societies. They do well in granting such premiums. Its nutritious and suculent leaves increases the cow's measure of milk, which when mingled with eggs, gives us custards; with isinglass regales us with blanc-mange; and when converted into butter, ministers to our taste and luxury in an hundred ways. Best member in the family of Brassica! salubrious is the employment and sweet the reward of rearing thee, of tending thee, and preparing thee for the mouth and the stomach! Moral, and sober, and industrious are the persons who are devoted to thee! Thou impartest strength to the muscles, sensibility to the nerves, and integrity to the brain. The social principle is safe-in thy keeping. Thy constitution is such that ardent and intoxicating drink cannot be prepared from thee. Thou sustainest without exhausting, and invigoratest without depression. Thy votaries here present give evidence in their looks and conduct, how admirably thou conducest to innocent recreation and to festive joy. Thy name has been abused, as if to cabbage were to pilfer or steal. I repel with indignation this attempt to sully thy fame.

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CAPTAIN COPP AND HIS NIECE.
BY JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. 1824.

A Scene from the Comedy of Charles the Second.

COPP. What, Mary, my little blossom, what cheer? what cheer? Keep close, my little heartwhy do you stir out of port? Here be cruizers abroad.

MARY. Who are those people, uncle, that make such a noise?

COPP. Two hearty blades-mad roysterers-oons how they drink. I was obliged to part company, old cruiser as I am, or they would soon have had me on my beam ends.

MARY. Are they sailors, uncle?

COPP. To be sure they are: who else would fling about money as they do, and treat a whole bar-room? The tallest in particular is a very devil. Hollo, Captain Copp, cries he every minute, another bottle to treat my brother tars.

MARY. By their swaggering about so, they must be very rich.

COPP. Pho, child, 'tisn't the deepest laden ships that make the most rolling.

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The

MARY. But they spend their money so freely. COPP. A sure sign that it's running out. longest cable must come to an end. He that pays out fastest, will soonest be brought up with a round

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COPP. Well, and can't you sing without him? MARY. Without him I can't sing well. COPP. And what's become of him? MARY (pettishly). I can't tell, its very tiresome. If he did not mean to come again, he might have said so.

MARY. I should like to have a look at them. COPP. Avast there-what, trust thee in the way of two such rovers? No, no, I recollect too well what it was to get on shore after a long voyage. The first glimpse of a petticoat-whew! up board- COPP. Oddsfish, neglect thee-neglect his duty! Thou shalt have ing pikes and grappling irons!-(Recollecting him--I'll break him on the spot. self.) Ahem-no, no, child, mustn't venture in another master, my girl.

these latitudes.

MARY. Ah, my good uncle, you are always so careful of me.

COPP. And why not? What else have I in the whole world to care for, or to care for me? Thou art all that's left to me out of the family fleet-a poor slight little pinnace. I've seen the rest, one after another, go down; it shall go hard but I'll convoy thee safe into port.

MARY. I fear I give you a great deal of trouble, my dear uncle.

COPP. Thou'rt the very best lass in the whole kingdom, and I love thee as I loved my poor brother; that's because you're his very image. To be sure, you haven't his jolly nose, and your little mouth is but a fool to his. But then, there are his eyes, and his smile, and the good humored cut of his face-(sighing) poor Philip! What I'm going again, like the other night-(wiping his eyes). Psha! let's change the subject, because, d'ye see, sensibility and all that, it does me no good-noneso let's talk of something else. What makes thee so silent of late, my girl? I've not heard a song from thee these three days!

MARY. It's three days since I've seen my musicmaster.

MARY (eagerly). Oh no, on no account; I dare say he is not well, some accident has happened. Besides, there is no other teacher in town equal to him, he sings with such feeling.

COPP. Ah! girl, if I had my old messmate, Jack Ratlin, here, he'd teach thee to sing. He had a voice-faith it would make all the bottles dance, and glasses jingle on the table!-Talk of feeling! Why, when Jack would sit of an evening on the capstan when on watch, and sing about sweethearts and wives, and jolly tars, and true lovers' knots, and the roaring seas, and all that; smite my timbers, but it was enough to melt the heart of a grampus. Poor Jack, he taught me the only song I ever knew; it's a main good one though (SINGS A STAVE.)

In the time of the Rump,
As old Admiral Trump,

With his broom swept the chops of the Channel;
And his crew of Tenbreeches,
Those Dutch sons of-

MARY (putting her hand on his mouth.) Oh, uncle, uncle, don't sing that horrible rough song.

COPP. Rough? that's the beauty of it. It rouses one up, pipes all hands to quarters like a boatswain's call. Go in, Mary, but go in at the other

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