At his decease he possessed a good fortune, notwithstanding a most inordinate craving for physic, by which he was distinguished for the last thirty years of his life, as appeared on a trial for the amount of an apothecary's bill, at the assizes at Lincoln, a short time before Mr. Jessop's death, wherein he was defendant. The evidence on the trial affords the following materials for the epitaph of the deceased, which will not be transcended by the memorabilia of the life of any man:-In twenty-one years (from 1791 to 1816), the deceased took 226,934 pills, supplied by a respectable apothecary at Bottesford; which is at the rate of 10,806 pills a year, or twenty-nine pills each day; but as the patient began with a more moderate appetite, and increased it as he proceeded, in the last five years preceding 1816, he took the pills at the rate of seventy-eight a day; and in the year 1814 he swallowed not less than 51,590.-Notwithstanding this, and the addition of 40,000 bottles of mixture, and juleps and electuaries, extending altogether to fifty-five closely written columns of an apothecary's bill, the deceased lived to attain the advanced age of sixty-five years!

20th-1736.

The following curious entry is inserted in the register of Lymington church, under the year above

mentioned. "Samuel Baldwin, Esq. sojourner in this parish, was immersed, without the Needles, sans cérémonie, May 20:"-that is to say, his remains were deposited in the English Channel, a small distance from the Isle of Wight. This was performed in consequence of an earnest wish he had expressed to that effect, a little before his dissolution, from a determination to disappoint the intention of an affectionate wife, who had repeatedly assured him, in their domestic squabbles, (which were very numerous,) that if Providence permitted her to survive him, she would revenge her conjugal vexations by occasionally dancing on the turf that covered his grave.

21st-1825.

The renowned DANIEL O'CONNEL treated the good City of London with one of his choice oratorical displays.

All who, like him, are ceaselessly thrusting themselves before the public eye, and exhibit a perpetual ravenousness for the plaudits of the fish-market, must expect now and then to receive a few shots from those riflemen whose motto is, "To shoot Folly as it flies." A brace of these (in the shape of parodies) we present the reader with :—the first is extracted from a sprightly volume, entitled "Anacreon in Dublin," and is significantly called

THE PUPPET.

T'other day I chanced to pop
My head into a toyman's shop;
And a puppet there I saw,
Image of a Man of law,

Dress'd in gown, and band, and wig,
Looking very wise and big.

Tell me, said I to the 'prentice,
Who by this fine figure meant is ?—
"Sir,”—replied the little rogue,
Speaking in a Munster brogue,—
"Arrah fait, 'tis Lawyer DAN,
"Nate and new, and spick and span ;—

"But if you the maker ax

"Of this pretty lad of wax,

""Twas my master, and not I,

"Had a finger in the pie.

"I'd not on my conscience take it,

"With my own two hands to make it;

"Or 'mong dasent folks to bring
"Such a very dangerous thing,

"As a head so hot and crazy,
"Which no mortal can make aizy.
"Take him-we'll not disagree-
"Take him for a Tenpenny!"—
With a silver bit I bought him,
And, rejoicing, home I brought him.

The succeeding is adapted to a popular "Irish melody," and first appeared in that Patriotic Print, "The Cork Constitution *.”

Believe me,

if all those absurdities rare

That you've nurtured so long in your brain, Were rudely expell'd, or were weeded with care, A fresh harvest would spring up again.

You'd be just as absurd as this moment thou art; As perverse, and as full of self-will;

And towards every folly, each throb of your heart, Would beat fervent, and foolishly still.

Oh! it is not in youth when gross folly is shown,
That it blossoms, and withers away,
It clings to old age, and O'C--ll alone,
Thy death will declare its decay.

The man that's a booby, will laugh at, as vain,
The exposure and sneers of his foes;

As Hume, when defeated, still starts up again,
And bullies it on to the close

While we are on the subject of Irish diffidence and talent, we cannot resist the temptation of presenting our Readers with a highly-finished "PORTRAIT," drawn by an artist of almost unrivaled discernment, and powers of colouring. This

A Newspaper that is full a century before all its contemporaries in Ireland in typographical neatness.

chef-d'œuvre, it is pretty well known, proceeds from the pencil of Lady Morgan; and, certainly, there never was any "object," moving on two legs, beneath the Moon, so faithfully and strongly delineated.

MR. TERENCE O'FLUMMERY; AN IRISH PORTRAIT.

This young gentleman, who has lately completed his twenty-fifth year, is justly vain of his family and pretensions. His family, even in Ireland, is allowed to be ancient. The O'Flummeries are generally considered to have come in with the Creation, and are respected (by themselves) accordingly. It is equally certain, that they acted a conspicuous part, in former times, upon the theatre of Irish History; but, for want of historians, their exploits have not heretofore been celebrated beyond the firesides of their descendants. The omission, however, is now pretty well supplied by Master Terry, (as he is still called by the friends of the family,) who never fails, when a third tumbler has stirred up his pride of ancestry, to fill up that important chasm in the annals of his country. His accounts are not perfectly distinct, but they are full of novelty; and, in the main, extremely creditable to the heroism of his forefathers. The branch of the O'Flummeries, of which our hero is a sprig, are determined Protestants. Their conversion from the errors of Popery was effected about the middle of the last