TASTE. FROM AN UNPUBLISHED OPERA, BY MRS. CAREY. AND, pray what is Taste? shall I try to explain? Half his income on Taste: Some will lavish their wealth on a toy; While the Miser's a slave, That dear money to save, Which he has not the taste to enjoy. Some, whose taste is the Fancy, in boxing delight, And think there's no taste like the taste of good wine. Some love horses and hounds: E'en the dullard can prize; For Beauty has charms for us all. Some at hazard (so strange and so various is taste) Their time will consume, and theîr fortunes will waste; While others, forsooth, are so wonderful nice, That they shun all amusement, as wise men shun dice. Seek the good of mankind: And these, let us hope, are not few- To protract a dull song: So, to Taste, for the present, adieu! Gentleman's Mag. THE LADY WITH THE DEATH'S HEAD. Ir is not long since the French papers were amusing their readers with the story of a lady with a death's head: and if we recollect rightly, there was a journal on this side of the channel (the Literary Gazette) which staked its veracity on there being a blue stocking lady of the same description, who resided in the neighbourhood of Kensington. Both stories, however, were but a repetition of a very old date. The original heroine was a lady a Tête de Maure, and not a Tête de Mort, as our modern dealers in the marvellous have it. Two or three centuries ago, when negroes were not so commonly to be seen in Europe as at present, a lady with a blackamoor's head might perhaps be thought as terrific a phenomenon as a lady with a death's head would be in our days. The exact coincidence of the pronunciation of maure and mort, sufficiently explains the sources of the modern deviation. The first time that we remember to have met with the story in its modern dress, is in a Number of the Journal Historique de Colle, for the year 1750, where it is thus briefly told: There is at present a girl to be married in a convent in Paris, who will receive an annuity of 30,000 livres if she resides in Paris, and 29,000 if she resides in the country. This portion will be settled on her future husband by the marriage contract. It is not required that the husband should be either rich, handsome, well-made, or possessing rank or education: he must, however, be an honest U man, and endowed with plain common sense. The girl has a good figure, possesses a considerable share of wit and understanding, and has been well educated: but-since there absolutely must be a but―she is obliged to wear a silver mask continually before her face, as her head, or at least her face, is precisely that of a skeleton. She is besides occasionally seized with convulsions and struggles similar to those of a dying person. Who will consent to marry her? | The Man of Letters. I WILL HAVE NO HUSBAND-NO! "Dicen que me case yo." THEY say they'll to my wedding go; But I will have no husband--no! I'll rather live serene and still, Upon a solitary hill, Than lend me to another's will, No! Mother! I've no wish to prove The doubtful joys of wedded love; And Heaven, I'm sure, ne'er meant that he Cancronero de Linares Bohl, 347. Herald. AMBIGUOUS EXPLANATION. THE following laconic correspondence has recently got abroad among the upper circles, to the great annoyance of a female of high fashion, who is known to be the subject of it. The words we have put in italics are underscored in the originals: "Saturday, July 17. "Lord **** is given to understand, that Sir W**** has affirmed in a public company, that Lady **** was a person of doubtful character. Lord **** requests to be informed whether Sir W**** did make such assertion, and if he did, begs to ask for an explanation of it. The bearer will wait his answer.' ANSWER. "Saturday, July 17. "Sir W**** does not recollect to have used the expression referred to, respecting the character of Lady ****, nor does he think it likely he should, as he does not know any female in the circle of fashion, of whose character there can be less doubt." Chronicle. A HOT DAY. THE following lines have been often published, but in the dog-days they are always "to the purpose." We believe they were written by the late Lord Erskine, at the house of a friend, where he was on a visit: WHAT a plague's a summer breakfast, Eat whate'er you will! Cold butter'd bread's a nasty thing, Hot toast is nastier still! Then, how to pass the time away And after dinner what to do, Not knowing where to move : And now the kettle comes, full trot- Tea makes an empty stomach hot, Well, then an evening walk's the thing Not if you're hot before; For he who sweats when he stands still, So now the supper's come,—and come For supper, while it heats the cool, Will never cool the hot. And bed, which cheers the cold man's heart, Helps not the hot pin: For he who's hot when out of bed, Heats ten times more when in. Examiner. |