suit of his favourite object,-suffice it to say, for some years he went on, and prospered. At length, a severe illness overtook him, but even during this, his ruling passion was in the ascendancy. A kind-hearted friend had told him to make his house his home during his indisposition, and daily did our diner-out avail himself of this hospitality. Unfortunately, one morning Teviot received a note, saying his friend's father was expected to town, on business, and begging he would not be inconvenienced by being "put off" at dinner, until the following day. Whether this sudden disappointment had any effect upon our hero's constitution, now very much debilitated by that most insidious disease, consumption, we know not, but certain it is, he felt far from well that day. Whilst turning over in his mind how he could make up for the lost dinner, a dashing team drove up to the door.

"Holloa, Jemmy! they told me you were seedy!" exclaimed a young cornet of the light-dragoons, quartered at Hounslow. "And so I am!" responded Teviot, still with an eye to business— "dying for change of air."

"Is that all, old fellow? Put on your togs, jump on the roof; we've a large party at the barracks to-day-some of the blues, out and out good ones; you can have a bed, or come back with me. I'm now quartered at Kensington."

Our hero gladly availed himself of this invitation. How little did he anticipate the result. It is soon told. The cold moist atmosphere of a December day was more than his feeble frame could bear. Upon his return from Hounslow, a physician was sent for; and in four-andtwenty hours Teviot was a corpse. After our hero's demise, the following papers were found in his escrutoire, containing "mems" for diners-out, with a few of the Honourable James's anecdotes; and as they may be useful to some of our readers, and as some time has elapsed since they were written, we have no hesitation in giving them, for the "first time," as the playbills say, to the British public.

MEMS. FOR DINERS OUT.

Never arrive late at a dinner-party, your host and hostess are apt to get "fussy" at the probability of the dinner being spoilt, and will vent their spleen upon their absent guests. As a matter of course, extol your Amphytrion's house and furniture, not forgetting a considerable portion of "soft solder" to the hostess in praise of her "lovely progeny." Ascertain, if possible, the names and occupations of all the guests, so that you may be prepared to throw in an appropriate word to any one you may chance to get next to. If an antiquated damsel, doomed to single-blessedness (query, wretchedness), talk of the folly of youthful marriages, dwell upon the absurdity of being taken from the school-room to the altar, and run the changes upon "childish attachments," "too young to know their own minds," and "marry in haste, and repent at leisure." If a poet, poetess, author or authoress, is placed next to you, quote a line, or sentence, if possible, of their last work, and talk of it as one of the most talented productions of the season. Censure the severity of critics, which will draw forth a reply from the author of "the kindness shewn to their unpretending volume." If the work is dull, tell the writer the right-minded public will, in time, appreciate, despite of what the snarling critics may say.

If the author has been guilty of "plagiarism," give him or her a catalogue raisonnée of noble and talented plagiarists, throwing in the reply of Charles the Second, who, when urged not to patronise one of Dryden's plays, as having been stolen from other works, replied, "Steal me such another, and I'll patronise it as much as I do honest John's." If y you find yourself next to a youthful poetess, you may say of her work what Sir James Mackintosh said of Corinne, "I swallow it slowly, that I may taste every drop." If chance places a military man next to you, lead him on to talk of drills and pipe-clay-the duke and the peninsula, of course pronouncing the corps to which your neighbour belongs to be one of the finest in her majesty's service. If a naval hero is your neighbour, talk of Nelson, Howe, and Collingwood, and listen to his yarns of the sea, and dangers of the deep. If a traveller is placed next to you, journey with him over his beaten track, and urge him to publish his journals. With a lawyer, be brief; they are more accustomed to talk than to listen. With a tuft-hunter, drop in accidentally that you thought you saw him the day before in the park, which will give him a cue, to commence his narrations of high-bred dames and nobles with whom he is on the most intimate terms. In short, suit your conversation to your company. Respecting anecdotes, have a certain number stored up in your memory, ready to do their duty when called upon; but be particularly careful never to lug in one of them out of place, but be equally prompt, whenever an opportunity occurs, to avail yourself of it. Thus, the conversation turns upon Wellington, you immediately begin-"I heard a most characteristic anecdote of the great man lately: Commander Hall of her majesty's yacht, who had done the state some service' in China, was anxious to be presented to the hero of a hundred fights, upon an occasion in which the duke went on board the Victoria and Albert. The name of the commander was mentioned to the duke, who said he should be delighted to be introduced to the gallant officer. The vainqueur des vainqueurs went through the yacht, and was about to leave it, when he turned round to the captain, and said, introduce me to your commander. The ceremony took place. Happy to know you, Commander Hall. You are a brave fellow; fought like a hero in the Nemesis, in China. Gallant, gallant. God bless you,' holding out his hand at the same time. The son of Neptune warmly grasped the veteran warrior's hand, exclaiming, I would rather have that blessing than that of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and all the bishops put together.""

After telling your story, wait (as the professed actors do) for the applause, and do not be carried away by it, or be led to tell another story, until an equally favourable opportunity occurs. If the subject turns upon politics, quote Sheridan and the pure elector of that immaculate borough of Stafford. "So, Mr. Sheridan, you are about to give us reform; that's right, only think, in some towns there are poor fellows, I hear say, that get nothing at all for their votes; that an't right, and wants reforming altogether. Talking of reform," you may continue, "I must tell you a most extraordinary circumstance that occurred during the last reign. Lord paid a visit to Bedlam; among the inmates was a poor woman, who happened to ask his lordship his name, 'Oh,' replied the latter, 'I'm Mr. Smith,' giving a travelling name. Nothing more occurred until a few months after

wards, when the same noble lord paid another visit to the same place. The woman already alluded to approached his lordship, and in a voice that savoured little of insanity, said, You gave me a false name when last you were here; but let that pass.' The kind-hearted nobleman assured the poor sufferer that he had meant no harm. She proceeded, 'No, you are too warm-hearted to mean to act unkindly; but will you do me a favour? I am mad—I feel it—I know it, although often I am perfectly collected, yet I should not be safe at large; but will you tell the king, mad, insane as I often am, I never was half so mad as he was when he put his name to the Reform bill."" An electioneering anecdote or two may follow this; but be sure they are short and pithy-always bear in mind the Prince of Denmark's instructions to the players, vide Hamlet.

In some societies jocose stories tell well. The best way of introducing them is to mention poor James Smith, and the never-to-beforgotten Theodore. Then you may rattle off a volley of their best sayings-"Walking one day with Hook, in winter, we passed a shop with the name of Hawes: 'Oh,' said Theodore, fine weather for the surgeons a nice practice, I've no doubt, during the frost

'Perpetual freezings and perpetual thaws,
Though bad for Hips, are good for Haws.'

Before I had finished laughing, the name of Thurtell, the murderer of Weare, was named, Ay,' asked Hook, of course you know why he used an air-gun? No,' I replied. 'Because he wished to kill Weare without Noyse; or,' he continued, like an old coat?—because he was the worse for wear' (Weare). Our conversation then turned upon the burning of the Exeter Theatre. Ay,' said Hook, that's quite theatrical-enter a fire; exit a theatre,'" (Exeter Theatre.)

Be careful of risking a pun as your own; you can introduce it in the following manner-“ A friend of mine said a tolerable good thing last week," then give your pun; if it flashes in the pan, you of course add, "Well, I myself did not see the wit of it, though all the party laughed." If it goes off brilliantly, when asked, who's your friend? you may say, "One's often worst friend, myself."

Reader, study the above axioms, and I have no doubt you will shortly become a truly popular diner-out.

WRITTEN ON RETURNING FROM WITNESSING THE FUNERAL OF THE LATE POET CAMPBELL, AT WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

BY THOMAS ROSCOE.

ONCE more the summons to the mighty dead!-
What triumph-pomps of the all-conquering king,
Again, in dark array, march captive-led?
What subject-choirs his hymns of victory sing
To grace his dread magnificence, who bring
Those mortal spoils in which no compeer shares?
While gaze awed throngs, as Death's slow dirges ring
With reverend looks-What mighty chief now wears
His ensigns pale, and to his final home repairs?

Bow'd heads, and whisper'd words, and tear-dimm'd eyes,
Speak to men's hearts that 'tis no common woe;
Nor prince nor peer thus draws a people's sighs;
A nobler prince of brilliant mind lies low-
The lord of glorious song, whose realms bestow
Far brighter boons-glad gifts, and ampler food;
With lavish heart he gave those fruits that grow
In truth and freedom's clime by fancy wooed,
Teaching the art divine to reach man's loftiest good.

Well has he won his radiant crown of light-
Fearless, high-hearted, and elate in strife,
With minion'd tyrants for the sacred right-
The glory of free song, more dear than life.
Hope's blissful visions with no clouds are rife,
Nor distant now-the wearied soldier sleeps-
The exile's found his home; the friend, the wife,
Are lost no more; nor wandering patriot weeps

O'er suffering nations' wrongs, but the soul's sabbath keeps.
Then ope, ye portals of the glorious dead-
Time-honour'd sanctuary of freedom's land!—
Receive the heart for freedom's cause that bled;
Cherish his memory 'midst th' immortal band,
Who, with soul-eloquent words at her command,
Blanch'd tyrants' cheeks with dread. Let genius come
Oft round this hallow'd spot, deep musing stand,
And grandeur lowlier bend, and from his tomb

Learn how high soul's pure fame escapes the general doom.

But what! no glowing hearts-lips touch'd with fire-
No mastering sympathy with souls of song-
With bold bright truths, high worth-to dare aspire
To paint the charms that to his muse belong?—
And not one wreath t' adorn his grave-one strong,
Soul-moving, generous burst to genius due,
'Mid all that titled and high-gifted throng,
As o'er the service of the dead once threw
A halo of bright praise to emulous rapture true!

Yes, one!-sad tribute from a land of tears-
Spoke out more thrillingly than thoughts that glow
On youth's first dream of fame, nor hopes nor fears
With love more strong than death she deigns to know,
But in her poet's grave will grateful strew
The clay that wraps her Kosciusko's rest,
Reckless what tyrants or their minions rue
The daring truth she speaks to the opprest-

His soul-ennobling muse still fires each patriot breast.

And, ah! ere yet his soul had taken wing,
The muse, and freedom's glorious-gifted child,
Felt with heart-piercing pain that bitter sting
To see his land's free soil and air defiled
By his polluting foot and breath who piled
A pyramid of freemen's bones, and made
Of holiest ties sport for his passions wild-

The impious violator who betray'd

Conquerors and conquer'd, and made death a trade.

But see the phoenix Freedom yet arise-
The guardian genii of the poet's songs-

Still wake the shout of Poland, till the skies,

Earth, air, and waves, avenge her mighty wrongs,

And teach proud hearts that still to Heaven belongs

The doom, though late, that tracks the felon's crime;

Th' apostate tyrant's steps, e'en till he longs

For justice on his guilt, and every clime

Proclim his shame in the great bard's unerring rhyme.

172

66

BY MRS. YORICK SMYTHIES, AUTHORESS OF COUSIN GEOFFREY,” "THE MATCHMAKER," ETC.

WHO in this age of steam and perpetual motion-who has not visited Paris? And who that visits Paris, does not set aside one day, when all the delights of the gay Boulevards, the glittering Palais Royal, the regal Tuilleries,-yes, even the Bois de Boulogne and Longchamps itself, all, in short, of pomp and show with which the metropolis of living pleasure abounds, is to be resigned for a quiet pilgrimage to the City of the Dead?

Père la Chaise! It is among the sights to be seen, the wonders to be wondered at, the objects to be noted down in each vain tourist's commonplace book (justly so named); but yet, the most wordly and frivolous can hardly prepare for this expedition, and spend their day among the tombs with the same light heart and giddy head with which they have gazed on all the other gaudy sights of this bewildering city of shows. No; when the oft-deferred day comes at last, for almost all do defer it, with a prophetic dread of the thoughts it must engender-the graves, the monuments, and the epitaphs we expect to gaze at with pleasure, remind us of those we have seen to our unspeakable anguish, our eternal sorrow! Pale shadows of the loved and lost seem to precede us along the deserted streets of the "Paris of olden time." How hastily is the veil dropped over eyes, till then bright with excitement and vanity, but which now the large and irrepressible tears will fill! The visit to the dead-albeit the unknown, the foreign, the alien dead-may recal a mother, a father, whose image blends with the fresh and fairy bliss of happy irresponsible childhood, or a fond sister, a brave trusting brother, who so loved this life! Perhaps remind the heart of that holy tie-a first love, disappointed, unwise, but yet, in its deep truth and involuntary devotion-how bright, how angelic a contrast to the frippery flirtation, the lukewarm preference, the vain and worldly homage of avarice to wealth, or passion to beauty!

It was, then, in a romantic and pathetic state of mind, that I approached the celebrated resting-place of those who, swayed during life by a foreign sceptre, are, at length, fellow-subjects with ourselves of the one dread monarch all must yield to at last, and entitled with us to a freehold in the Land of Shades. Now, the very entrance to this far-famed Père la Chaise put to flight the sweet and holy sadness which partook of the ideal, and forced upon the disappointed heart the harshest and most revolting realities of the actual world; beyond the entrance, it is true, the marble tombs gleamed, and the yew and cypress waved, the paths were beautifully kept, the budding limetrees waved over monuments of every variety, temples, vaults, pyramids, obelisks, cippi, columns, altars, and urns; and better still, a small chapel formed a centre, to which all the roads seemed to lead; and surely there, where God the Saviour dwells, there is the best resting-place for the living mourner-there the best hope for the lamented DEAD. But, alas! though, in the distance, all seems fair and appropriate, Mammon, in his most revolting form, sits at the threshold,