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“ Appals my
But soon the rival sisters flew
From kissing, to disputing.
cheerful nature :
“ In Sorrow's nomenclature. “ Where'er I give one sunshine hour,
“ Your cloud comes in to shade it; Where'er I plant one bosom's flower,
“ Your mildew drops to fade it. “ Ere How-d'ye-Do has tuned each tongue
“ To Hope's delighted measure,' “Good-Bye in Friendship's ear has rung
“ The knell of parting pleasure. “ From sorrows past, my chymic skill
66 Draws smiles of consolation ; " While
present joys distil “ The tears of separation.' Good-Bye replied, “ Your statement's true,
“ And well your cause you've pleaded ; “ But pray who'd think of How-d'ye-Do,
“ Unless Good-Bye preceded ? “ Without my prior influence,
“ Could yours have ever flourished ? “ And can your hand one flower dispense,
“ But those my tears have nourished ? “ How oft,-if at the courts of Love
“ Concealment is the fashion“When How-d'ye-Do has failed to move,
“Good-Bye reveals the passion ? “ How oft, when Cupid's fires decline,
“ As every heart remembers, – “ One sigh of mine, and only mine,
“ Revives the dying embers ? “Go, bid the timid lover chuse,
“ And I'll resign my charter, “ If he, for ten kind How-d’ye-Do's,
“ One kind Good-Bye would barter!
“ From Love and Friendship’s kindred source
6 We both derive existence;
“Without our joint assistance.
“ Since time, there's no denying,
“ And t'other in Good-Byeing.”
THE CAPTAIN'S WHISKER'S.
HOLCROFT.* A CERTAIN Swiss Captain of Grenadiers, whose company had been cashiered, was determined, since Mars had no more employment for him, to try if he could not procure a commission in the corps of Venus; or in other words, if he could not get a wife ; and, as he had no fortune of his own, he reasoned, and reasoned very rightly, that it was quite necessary his intended should have enough for them both. The Captain was one of that kind of heroes, to whom the term of “hectoring blade” might be readily applied. He was near six feet high; and wore a long sword, and a fine cocked hat: add to which, that he was allowed to have had the most martial pair of whiskers of any Grenadier in the company to which he belonged. To curl these whiskers, to comb and twist them round his forefinger, and to admire them in the glass, formed the chief occupation and delight of his life. A man of these accomplishments, with the addition of bronze and rhodomontade, of which he had a superfluity, stands at all times, and in all countries, a good chance with the ladies, as the experience of I know not how many years has confirmed.
Accordingly, after a little diligent attention and artful inquiry, a young lady was found, exactly such a one as we may well
supo pose a person with his views would be glad to find. tolerably handsome; not more than three and twenty; with a good fortune; and, what was the best part of the story, this fortune was entirely at her own disposal.
Our Captain, who thought now or never was the time, * Thomas Holcroft, author of the admirable comedy, The Road to Ruin, was born in London, in December 1745: and, after writing many other less valuable dramatic pieces, and three or four eccentric novels, be closed his remarkable career in March, 1809.
having first found means to introduce himself as a suitor, was incessant in his endeavours to carry his cause. was eternally running in praise of her superlative, never-tobe-described charms; and in hyperbolical accounts of the flames, darts, and daggers, by which his lungs, liver, and midriff were burnt up, transfixed, and gnawn away. He who, in writing a song to his girl, described his heart to be without one drop of gravy, like an over-done mutton-chop, was a fool to a simile when compared to our hero!
One day as he was ranting, kneeling, and beseeching his goddess to send him on an errand to pluck the diamond from the nose of the Great Mogul, and present it to her divinityship, or suffer him to step and steal the Empress of China's enchanted slipper, or the Queen of Sheba's cockatoo; as a small testimony of what he would undertake, to prove his love, she, after a little hesitation, addressed him thus:
“ The protestations which you daily make, Captain, convince me that there is nothing you would not do to oblige me; I, therefore, do not find much difficulty in telling you, that I anı willing to be yours, if you will perform one thing which I shall request of you." 66 Tell
immaculate angel !” cried our son of gunpowder, 66 tell me what it is ! Though, before you speak, be certain it is already done. Is it to find the seal of Solomon ? to catch the Phoenix ? or draw your chariot to church with Unicorns ? What is the impossible act that I will not undertake ?”
“ No, Captain,” replied the fair one, “I shall enjoin nothing impossible. The thing I desire, you can do with the utmost ease ; it will not cost you five minutes' trouble ; and yet, were it not for your so positive assurances, from what I have observed, I should almost doubt of your compliance.”
Ah, madam!” returned he, wrong not your slave thus; deem it not possible, that he who eats happiness, and drinks immortal life, from the light of your eyes, can ever demur the thousandth part of a semi-second to execute your omnipotent behest! Speak! say! what, empress of my soul, what must I perform ?”
Nay, for the matter of that, it is a mere trifle !-Only to cut off your whiskers, Captain ; that's all.”
“Madam!"-[Be so kind, reader, as to imagine the Captain's utter astonishment.]—“My whiskers! Cut off my whiskers! Excuse me! Cut off my whiskers ! Pardon me, Madam! Any thing else—any thing that mind can or cannot imagine,
or tongue describe. Bid me' fetch you Pastor John's beard, a hair at a time, and it is done. But, for my whiskers ! you must grant me a salvo there !"
“And why so, good Captain ? Surely, any gentleman who has but the tithe of the passion you express, would not stand on such a trifle.”
“ A trifle, Madam! My whiskers a trifle! No, Madam, no! My whiskers are no trifle. Had I but a single regiment of fellows whiskered like me, I myself would be the Grand Turk of Constantinople. My whiskers, Madam, are the last thing I should have supposed you would have wished me to sacrifice. There is not a woman, married or single—maid, wife, or widow —that does not admire my whiskers.'
May be so, Sir; but if you marry me, you must cut them off.”
“ And is there no other way ? Must I never hope to be happy with
you, unless I part with my whiskers ?”. « Never !”
Why then, Madam, farewell. I would not part with a single hair of my whiskers, if Catherine, the Czarina, Empress of all the Russias, would make me King of the Calmucks; and so good morning to you !"
Had all young ladies, in like circumstances, equal penetration, they might generally rid themselves, with equal ease, of the interested and unprincipled coxcombs by whom they are pestered ; they all have their whiskers : and seek for fortunes, to be able to cultivate, NOT TO CUT THEM OFF!
VERSES, Addressed by Mr. Canning to his Sister, Mrs. Leigh, on her wedding-day; (Mrs. Leigh had sent the poet a piece of stuff for shooting-breeches.)
While all to this auspicious day,
Å hundred civil speeches,
A pair of shooting-breeches.
Soon shall the tailor's subtle art
With twenty thousand stitches :
As these my shooting-breeches.
I ask not rank or riches;
Not wear herself, the breeches.
A CONSULTATION OF PHYSICIANS.
ANSTEY." New Bath Guide." DEAR Mother, my time has been wretchedly spent, With a gripe or a hick-up wherever I went: My stomach all swelled, till I thought it would burst, Sure never poor mortal with wind was so curst ! If ever I ate a good supper at night, I dreamed of the devil, and waked in a fright: And so as I grew every day worse and worse, The doctor advised me to send for a nurse, And the nurse was so willing my health to restore, She begged me to send for a few doctors more; For—when any
difficult work's to be done, Many heads can despatch it much sooner than one: And I find there are doctors enough at this place, If want to consult in a dangerous case. So they all met together, and thus began talking : “ Good doctor, I'm your's—'Tis a fine day for walking.
* The author of The New Bath Guide, Christopher Anstey, was son of the Rev. Dr. Anstey, Rector of Brinkeley, in Cambridgeshire; a gentleman who possessed considerable landed property, which the poet afterwards enjoyed. The satirical author died in August, 1805, aged 80.