A BOTTLE CONJURER.

An Irish gentleman, sojourning at a dashing hotel, felt much annoyed at the smallness of the bottles, considering the high price of wine. One evening, taking his glass with a friend in the coffee-room, the pompous owner came in, when the gentleman after apologizing, told him, he and his friend had laid a wager, which he must decide, by telling him what profession he was bred to. Mine host, after some hesitation at the question, answered, that he was bred to the law. "Then," said the gentleman, "I have lost, for I laid that you was bred a packer." "A packer, sir!" said the host swelling like a turkeycock," what could induce you, sir, to think I was bred a packer?" " Why, sir," said the other, "I judged so from your wine measures, for I thought no one but a skilful packer could put a quart of wine into a pint bottle."

A DAY TOO LATE.

La Fontaine was so absent as to call and visit a friend whose funeral he had attended. He was much surprised at first, but recollecting himself, said "It is true enough, for I was there."

REMEDY FOR DULNESS.

An author reading a tragedy to a friend who was a proctor, when he had gone through three acts, asked him his opinion. "Why really," replied the proctor, "the third act is so full of distress, that I do not see how you can possibly heighten it in the following ones; and then consequently it will grow flat." "O!" said the author, "let me alone for that, I intend in the very Dext act to put my hero into the spiritual court."

ALL SAINTS' DAY.

A man having borrowed money of an acquaintance, gave a bill for the sum, making it payable on a Saint's day which was not mentioned in the calendar, by which means he thought to render the bill invalid and defraud the lender, but the business being brought into court and the cause being heard, the judge decided that the money should be refunded on the day of All Saints.

MODERATE WISHES.

Let Alexander's discontented soul
Sigh for another world's increased control!
Ill-weaved Ambition has no charm for me,
Nor, sordid Avarice, am I slave to thee.

And Curwen's country house on Windermere-
I only ask twelve thousand pounds a year,
A beauteous wife, and sensible as fair,
And many a friend, and not a single care.
A sturgeon floating in a golden dish-
I am no glutton--no! I never wish
At the Piazza satisfied to pay
Three guineas for my dinner every day.

I

As famed as Crassus and as wealthy too;
What though shrewd Erskine at the bar we view,
only ask the eloquence of Fox,
To jump like Ireland, and like Belcher box,
To act as Garrick did-or any how
Unlike our heroes of the buskin now;
To range, like Garnerin, through fields of air,
To win, like Vs, England's richest fair-
I only ask these blessings to enjoy,
And every varied talent well employ,
Thy life, Methuselah! or, if not thine,
An immortality of love and wine.

THE GHOST OF HAMLET

HODGSON.

During the time of Mr. Garrick's performance in Goodman's-fields, the stage rose so much from the lamps to the back scenery, that it was very difficult for a performer to walk properly on it, and unfortunately it was then the custom to introduce their ghosts in a complete suit, not of gilt leather, but of real armour. The dress for this august personage was one night, in honour of Mr. Garrick's Hamlet, borrowed from the Tower, and was consequently rather too ponderous for the ghost of the royal Dane. The moment, therefore, he was put up at the trap door, unable to keep his balance, he rolled down the stage to the lamps, which catching the feathers of his helmet, the ghost seemed in danger of being consumed by mortal fires, till a gentleman roared from the pit,

THE DEFUNCT INSOLVENT.

MM. Triphook & Co. having directed a letter, "To George Hardinge, Esq. if living; if dead, to his executors;" beginning "Sir, or Gentlemen," and stating that not having heard from Mr. Hardinge after repeated application for settling an enclosed account, they concluded he must be dead; and if that melancholy circumstance was true, requesting it might be settled by his executor; Mr. Hardinge immediately wrote,

"Oh Messieurs Triphook, what is fear'd by you,
The melancholy circumstance is true;
For I am dead; and more afflicting still,
My legal assets will not pay your bill.
For oh! to name it, I am broken-hearted,
My mortal life, insolvent, I departed;

So, gentlemen, I'm yours, without a farthing,
For my executors and self, GEORGE HARDINGE."
P.S. Excuse the postage which these lines have cost,
The dead their franking privilege have lost.

We thinkna on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonnie lasses.)

O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market day thou wasna sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller.
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the L-d's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday.
She prophesy'd, that late or soon,

Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon;
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises !

But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely
And at his elbow, souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony.
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious;
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious:
The souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:

The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam didna mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy;
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow-falls in the river,
A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,

That fit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm-

Nae man can tether time or tide-
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The deil had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his grey mare Meg,
A better never lifted leg,

Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles hauding fast his guid blue bonnet;
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scot's sonnet;
Whiles glowring round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.-
By this time he was cross the ford,
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn;

And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel.
Before him Doon pours all her floods;
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole 'to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll;
When, ghimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze;
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing;
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.-
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn.
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil!-
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he car'd na dei's a boddle.
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventured forward on the light;
And, Wow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillion brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.-
Coffins stood round like open presses,
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses
And by some devilish cantrip slight,
Each in its cauld hand held a light,-
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,

A murderer's banes in gibbet airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;
A thief, new cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red rusted;
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,

Whom his ain son o' life bereft,
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',
Which even to name wad be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious:
The piper loud and louder blew ;
The dancers quick and quicker flew;

They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,

And coost her duddies to the wark,

And linket at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans
A' plump and strapping, in their teens!
Their sarks, instead o' cheeshie flannen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,

That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwiddie hags wad spean a foal,
Lowping an' flinging on a cummock,
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Tam keen'd what was what fu' brawlie,
There was ae winsome wench and walie,
That night inlisted in the core,
(Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore!
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat,

And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear,)
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,

It was her best, and she was vauntie.-
Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots, ('twas a' her riches,)
Wad ever graced a dance of witches!

But here my Muse her wing maun cour;
Sic flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was and strang,)

And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd;
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidged fu' fain,
And hoch'd and blew wi' might and main;
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a' thegither,

And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,

When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market crowd,
When, "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch skreech and hollow.

Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane* o' the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross,
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake.
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle-
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, tak heed:

It is a well-known fact, that witches or any evil spirits have no power to follow a poor wight any further than the middle of the next running stream.-It may be proper likewise to mention to the benighted traveller, that when he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may be in his going forward, there is much more hazard in turning back.