away with your mother, I would not have touched any thing old or ugly to have gained an empire. Capt. Not to please your father, sir? Sir A. To please my father-Zounds, not to please-0, my father-Oddso,—yes, yes; if my father, indeed, had desired -that's quite another matter- -Though he wasn't the indulgent father that I am, Jack. Capt. I dare say not, sir. Sir A. But, Jack, you are not sorry to find your mistress is so beautiful? Capt. Sir, I repeat it, if I please you in this affair, 'tis all I desire. Not that I think a woman the worse for being handsome; but, sir, if you please to recollect, you before hinted something about a hump or two, one eye, and a few more graces of that kind-now, without being very nice, I own I should rather choose a wife of mine to have the usual number of limbs, and a limited quantity of back; and, though one eye may be very agreeable, yet as the prejudice has always run in favour of two, I would not wish to effect a singularity in that article. Sir A. What a phlegmatic sot it is. Why, sirrah, you are an anchorite. A vile, insensible stock! You a soldier! you're a walking block, fit only to dust the company's regimentals on. Odds life, I've a great mind to marry the girl myself. Capt. I am entirely at your disposal, sir; if you should think of addressing Miss Languish yourself, I suppose you would have me marry the aunt; or, if you should change your mind, and take the old lady,-'tis the same to me, I'll marry the niece. Sir A. Upon my word, Jack, thou'rt either a very great hypocrite, or-but come, I know your indifference on such a subject must be all a lie, I'm sure it must-come, now, damn your demure face, come, confess, Jack, you have been lying-ha'n't you? You have been playing the hypocrite, hey?—I'll never forgive you, if you ha'n't been lying and playing the hypocrite. Capt. I'm sorry, sir, that the respect and duty which I bear to you should be so mistaken. Sir A. Hang your respect and duty! But come along with me, I'll write a note to Mrs. Malaprop, and you shall visit the lady directly. Her eyes shall be the Promethean torch to youcome along, I'll never forgive you, if you don't come back, stark mad with rapture and impatience--if you don't, 'egad, I'll marry the girl myself. RICHARD THE SECOND IN HIS DUNGEON. I HAVE been studying how I may compare A generation of still-breeding thoughts, And these same thoughts people this little world; For no thought is contented. The better sort,- As thus, Come little ones;' and then again,— Thus play I, in one person, many people, And straight am nothing:-But, whate'er I am, [Music. Ha, ah, keep time:-How sour sweet music is, To check time broke in a disorder'd string; Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. EMANCIPATION. ABOUT sixteen years ago, the writer of this article was conversing with a Roman Catholic who farmed a few acres of land, and was not well satisfied with the general state of affairs; but,' said he, things won't be so bad when we are mancipated. "What, Barney,' said I, are you a politician? do you understand the question of emancipation?' Understand it,' said Barney, do you think I am a goose? who is it that doesn't understand it? Well, and what do you mean by emancipation?' 'Mane by it; why, what every body else manes by it, to be sure. But tell me what you mane by it yourself, and then in troth I'll tell you what I think of it.' Well, Barney, if you were emancipated, your son Paddy might propose himself as a candidate to represent the county in parliament; and your son Peter, who is now clerk to —, might become lord chancellor; and your son Jack, the sailor, might be high admiral of the British navy; and- 'Balderdash and babbles,' said Barney, who would make my gossoons mimbers of parliament, and admirals, and the likes of that? no, that's not mancipation at all.'Well, Barney, now let me have your meaning of the term.' 'Do you know,' said he, 'S. K. of Dublin? Very well,' said I; "he is your landlord and mine.' 'And do you know who lives in that big house at the top of yon hill?' Yes, 'tis the Rev. L. the rector of the parish. In troth it is. Now that same S. K. do you see, that never entered a plough on my land, and never set a rig of praties in it in all his life, makes me give him thirty shillings an acre for it; and that same L. charges me thirteen-pence an acre for it besides; and if I won't give it to him, his proctor comes and takes away the tinth stook from my field of oats and whate, as if he sowed and raped it himself. Now if I was mancipated, d'ye mind, I wouldn't give S. K. a rap farding for my own land, which I labour myself; and as to the rector, as you call him, instead of giving him oats, whate or money, I'd give him (if he'd ax any) a kick in the And that's what I'd call bein' mancipated. JOHANNA. THE night-wind shook the tapestry round an ancient palace room, Pale gleam'd the features of the dead, yet glorious still to see, Like a hunter or a chief struck down, while his heart and step were free. No shroud he wore-no robe of death-but there majestic lay, Proudly and sadly, glittering in royalty's array. But she that with the dark hair watch'd by the cold slumberer's side, On her wan cheek no beauty dwelt, and in her garb no pride; Only her full impassion'd eyes, as o'er that clay she bent, A mildness and a tenderness in strong resplendence blent. And as the swift thoughts cross'd her soul, like shadows of a cloud, She spoke to him who could not hear, and cried, thou yet wilt awake, They told me this was death-but well I know it could not be; With all thy bright locks gleaming still, their coronal beneath, I know thou hast not lov'd me yet-I am not fair, like thee- A frail and drooping form is mine,-a cold unsmiling cheek Oh! I have but a woman's heart wherewith thy heart to seek. But when thou wakest, my Prince, my Lord! and hear'st how I have kept A lonely vigil by thy side, and o'er thee pray'd and wept; How in one long deep dream of thee, my days and nights have past,— And thou wilt smile-my own, my own, shall be the sunny smile, No more in vain affection's thirst my weary soul shall pine, Oh! years of hope deferr'd were paid by one fond glance of thine. Thou'lt meet me with that radiant look, when thou comest from the chase, But, wake, my heart within me burns, yet once more to rejoice In the still chambers of the dust, thus pour'd forth day by day, And slowly broke the fearful truth upon the watcher's breast, HYPOCHONDRIASIS. HY-PO-CHON-DRI-A-SIS is one of those unaccountable words, that learned men put into the mouths of the people, without thinking whether they can ever get them out again; a word not one in a hundred can pronounce, nor one in fifty understand,—in one word, it menaces a lock-jaw. There are two sorts of Hy-po-chon-dri-a-sis. One a sort of melancholy madness, principally the lot of gentlemen in love-I say gentlemen, because the ladies are deficient in the natural gravity and solemnity of disposition necessary to constitute a Hy-po-chon-dri-ac; for when the modern Venus is in love, she thinks more of the Gretna Vulcan, than sitting, like patience on |