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credit, who shall put you under a regimen perfectly opposite to that settled by your own adviser."

Blunt, and even rude, as he sometimes was, Abernethy would not have hazarded so unfeeling a speech as is recorded of Andrea Baccio, the celebrated Florentine physician. Being called on to attend a woman of quality, he felt her pulse, and asked her how old she was.—She told him, “ About four score.” “And how long would you live?" demanded the surly practitioner quitting her hand and making the best of his way out of the house.

Physicians may well smile at the many jokes and malicious pleasantries of which they are the butt, for they must share the consciousness of their patients, that there is no greater benefactor to his species than the successful practitioner. No wonder that such men received divine honors in the olden times, since they seem to approximate to the attributes of the gods. “ Neque enim ullâ aliâ re homines propius ad Deos accedunt, quam salutem hominibus dando."

PHYSIOGNOMY-Reading the handwriting of nature upon the human countenance. If a man's face, as it is pretended, be like that of a watch, which reveals without what it conceals within, silence itself is no security for our thoughts, for a dial tells the hour as well as a clock. If, in addition to this self-betrayal, the suggestion of Momus could be realized, and a window be placed in our bosoms, so that “he who runs may read," the best of us might well change color, for many a heart would look black when it was read.

PHONOGRAPHY—as at present practised, is highly useful and very near perfection. Nevertheless little mistakes will now and then occur. A member of the House of Representatives was making a speech, in which he intimated that truth was much dearer to him than party, quoting the Latin, Amicus Socrates, amicus Plato est, sed major veritas "_"Socrates is my friend, Plato is my friend, but truth is much more my friend." This appeared the next day in the report as follows: “I may cuss Socrates, I may cuss Plato,' said

Major Veritas !” The sounds were somewhat like, but then there was a little difference in the meaning.

PIC-NIC—The most unpleasant of all parties of pleasure.

If sick of home and luxuries,

You want a new sensation,
And sigh for the unwonted ease

Of unaccommodation,
If you would taste, as amateur,

And vagabond beginner,
The painful pleasures of the poor,
Get up a Pic-nic dinner.

Presto! 'tis done-away you start,

All frolic, fun, and laughter,
The servants and provision cart

As gayly trotting after.
The spot is reach'd, when all exclaim,

With many a joyous antic,
“How sweet a scene !-I'm glad we came!

How rural--how romantic!”

Pity the night was wet!—but what

Care gypsics and carousers ?
So down upon the swamp you squat

In porous Nankeen trousers.--
Btick to what sticks to you-your seat,

For thistles round you huddle,
While nettles threaten legs and fect,

If shifted from a puddle.

Half starved with hunger-parch'd with thirst,

All haste to spread the dishes,
When lo! 'tis found, the ale has burst

Amid the loaves and fishes;
Over the pie, a sodden sop,

The grasshoppers are skipping,
Each roll's a sponge, each loaf a mop,

And all the meat is dripping.

Bristling with broken glass, you find

Some cakes among the bottles,
Which those may cat who do not mind

Excoriated throttles.
The biscuits now are wiped and dried,

When squalling voices utter,
“Look! look! a toad has got astride

Our only pat of butter!"

Your solids in a liquid state,

Your cooling liquids heated,
And every promised joy by fate

Most fatally defeated;
All, save the serving men are sour'd,

They smirk, the cunning sinners !
Having, before they came, devour'd
Most comfortable dinners.

Still you assume, in very spite,

A grim and gloomy gladness,
Pretend to laugh-affect delight-

And scorn all show of sadness.-
While thus you smile, but storm within,

A storm without comes faster,
And down descends in deaf ning din

A deluge of disaster.

'Tis sauve qui peut ;-tho fruit dessert

Is fruitlessly deserted,
And homeward now you all revert,

Dull, desolate, and dirtied,
Each grufily grumbling, as he eyes

His soaked and sullen brother,
“If these are Pic-nic pleasantries,

Preserye me from another!"

PLAGIARISTS_Purloiners, who filch the fruit that others have gathered, and then throw away the basket. ,

PLEASING ALL PARTIES—This hopeless attempt usually ends by pleasing none, for time-servers neither serve themselves nor any one else. As the endeavor involves a contemptible compromise of principle, it is generally despised by the very parties whom we seek to conciliate. What opinion can we have of a man who has no opinion of his own ? A neutral, we can understand and respect; but a Janusfaced double-dealer, who affects to belong to both sides, will not be tolerated by either. His fear of giving offence is the greatest of all offences. Of this, a ludicrous instance was afforded at the time of the riots, in 1780, when every one was obliged to chalk “No Popery " upon the wall of his house, in order to protect it from violence. Delphini, the clown, particularly anxious to win “golden opinions from all sorts of men,” sinco his benefit was close at hand, scrawled upon his house, in large letters--"No Religion."

PLEASURES-See WILL-oʻ-THE-WISP. Some, like the horizon, recede perpetually, as we advance towards them; others, like butterflies, are crushed by being caught. Pleasure unattained, is the hare which we hold in chase, cheered on by the ardor of competition, the exhilarating cry of the dogs—the shouts of the hunters—the echo of the horn—the ambition of being in at the death. Pleasure attained, is the same hare hanging up in the sportsman's larder, worthless, disregarded, despised, dead.

The keenest pleasures of an unlawful nature are poisoned by a lurking self-reproach, ever rising up to hiss at us, like a snake amid the flowers

" medio de fonte leporum, Surgit aliquid amari;"

while there is a secret consolation, even in the heaviest calamity, if we feel that it has not been incurred by our own misconduct. Upon this subject, the great and golden rule is, so to enjoy present, as that they may not interfere with future, pleasures. Burns has happily compared sensual pleasure to snow that falls upon a river,

“A moment white, then gone forever.”

POETRY—The music of thought conveyed to us in the music of language—the art of embalming intellectual beauty, a process which threatens to be speedily enrolled, together with the Egyptian method of immortalizing the body, among the sciences which are lost.

The harmony of the works of nature is the visible poetry of the Almighty, emblazoned on the three-leaved book of earth, sea, and sky.

If Hayley could talk even in his days, of “the cold blank booksellers' rhyme-freezing face,” what would he say in ours, when we have seen Crabbe, Wordsworth, and Coleridge, condemned to an involuntary silence; Moore, the first lyrical writer of the age, “vir nulla non donandus lauru,one whose very soul is poetry, driven to the ungenial toil of Biography ; and Southey, not only necessitated to waste his fine poetical talents and kindly feelings in the fierce arena of criticism and politics, but absolutely obliged to consult the public taste, or rather the total want of it, by discontinuing the Laureate odes.

Absurd as it was to expect a rational answer from T. H., I ventured to ask him how it came that all our best poets were obliged to write prose ?—“Because poetry is proscribed,” was his reply.

POETS—Merchants are counted shrewd men. A trader in the modern Athens being asked the character of one given to poetry, described him as “one of those men who have soarings after the indefinite, and divings after the unfathomable, but who never pay cash.”

POINT-One good one. So various are the estimates formed of us by our fellow-creatures, that there never, perhaps, existed an individual, however unpraiseworthy, who was not acknowledged to have one good point in his character, though it by no means follows that this admission is always to be taken as a compliment. A gentleman, travelling on a Sunday, was obliged to stop, in order to replace one of his horse's shoes. The farrier was at church; but a villager suggested, that if he went on to Jem Harrison's forge he would probably be found at home. This proved to be true, when the rustic who had led the horse to the spot exclaimed“ Well, I must say that for Jem—for it is the only good point about him—he do never go to church!”

POLITENESS—of the person exhibits itself in elegance of manners, and a strict adherence to the conventional forms and courtesies of polished life. Politeness of the heart consists in an habitual benevolence, and an absence of selfishness in

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