had never seen, and asked What it was designed for?" To which Dr. Kingsbury answered, "That, Mr. Dean, is the magazine for arms and powder, for the security of the city?" "Oh! oh!" says the dean, pulling out his pocket-book, "let me take an item of that. This is worth remarking; my tablets! as Hamlet says; my tablets! memory put down that." Which produced the following lines, being the last he ever wrote:

"Behold! à proof of Irish sense!

Here Irish wit is seen,

When nothing's left, that's worth defence,

6

We build a magazine :"

and then put up his pocket-book, laughing heartily at the conceit, and clinching it with," When the steed's stolen, shut the stable-door;" after which, he never said a sensible word, so that these lines may be said to have been the last speech, and dying words of his wit.

THE STATES OF HUNGARY.

3

WHEN Philip II. king of Spain, sent his ambassador to treat with the States of Holland about their independency, he was shewn into an anti-chamber, where he waited to see the mem bers of the States pass by. He stood for some time, and, seeing none but a parcel of plain-dressed men, with bundles in their hands (which, as many of them came from distant provinces, contained their linen and provisions), he turned to his interpreter, and asked him, "When the States would come?" The man replied, " that those were the members whom he saw goby." Upon which, he wrote to the commander in chief of the Spanish army, to advise the king his master to make peace as soon as possible. In his letter was this remarkable passage: "Lexpected to have seen in the States a splendid appearance; but, instead of that, I saw only a parcel of plain-dressed men, with sensible faces, who came into council with provisions in their hands. Their parsimony will ruin the king my master in the course of the war, if it is continued; for there is no contending with people whose nobles can live upon a shilling a day, and will do every thing for the service of their country." The king, struck with the account, agreed to treat with them as an independent state, and put an end to the war.

A RAINY DAY.

WHEN the duke of Nivernois was ambassador in England, he was going down to lord Townshend's seat in Norfolk, on a private visit, quite in dishabille, and with only one servant, when he was obliged, from a very heavy shower of rain, to stop at a farm-house in the way. The master of this house was a clergyman, who, to a poor curacy, added the care of a few scholars in the neighbourhood, which, in all, might make his living about eighty pounds a year, and which was all he had to maintain a wife and six children. When the duke alighted, the clergyman, not knowing his rank, begged him to come in, and dry himself, which the other accepted, by borrowing a pair of old worsted stockings and slippers of him, and otherwise warming himself by a good fire. After some conversation, the duke observed an old chess-board hanging up, and as he was passionately fond of that game, he asked the clergyman, whether he could play? The other told him he could, pretty tolerably, but found it very difficult, in that part of the country, to get an antagonist. "I am your man," says the duke. With all my heart," says the parson; "and, if you will stay and eat pot-luck, I will try if I cannot beat you." The day still continuing to rain, the duke accepted his offer, when the parson played so much better, that he won every game. This was so far from fretting the duke, that he was highly pleased to meet a man who could give him such entertainment at his favourite game. He accordingly inquired into the state of his family affairs, and, just making a memorandum of his address, without discovering his title, thanked him, and so took his leave. Some months passed over without ever the clergyman's thinking a word about the matter, when one evening, a footman, in a laced livery, rode up to the door, and presented him with the following billet: “The duke of Nivernois' compliments wait on the Rev. Mr. — and, as a remembrance for the good drubbing he gave him at chess, and the hospitality he shewed him on such a day, begs that he will accept of the living of ―, worth four hundred pounds per year, and that he will wait on his grace the duke of Newcastle, on Friday next, to thank him for the same." The poor parson was for some time before he could imagine it any thing more than a jest, and was for not going, but his wife insisting on his trying, he came up to town, and found the contents literally true,

CHARACTERS.

A SAILOR

Is a pitched piece of reason caulked and tackled, and only studied to dispute with tempests. He is part of his own provision, for he lives ever pickled; a fair wind is the substance of his creed, and fresh water the burden of his prayers. He is naturally ambitious, for he is ever climbing out of sight; as naturally he fears, for he is ever flying. Time and he are every where; ever contending who shall arrive first; he is well winded, for he tires the day, and outruns darkness; his life is like a hawk's, the best part mewed; and if he lives till three coats, is a master; he sees God's wonders in the deep, but so as they rather appear his playfellows, than stirrers of his zeal: nothing but hunger and hard rocks can convert him, and then but his upper deck neither, for his hold neither fears nor hopes; his sleeps are but reprievals of his dangers, and when he awakes, it is but next stage to dying; his wisdom is the coldest part about him, for it ever points to the north, and it lies lowest, which makes his valour every tide overflow it. In a storm it is disputable whether the noise be more his or the elements', and which will first leave scolding; on which side of the ship he may be saved best; whether his faith be starboard faith or larboard, or the helm at that time not all his hope of heaven! His keel is the emblem of his conscience; till it be split he never repents-then no farther than the land allows him. His language is a new confusion, and all his thoughts new nations; his body and his ship are both one burden; nor is it known who stows most wine or rolls most, only the ship is guided-he has no stern; a barnacle and he are bred together, both of one nature, and, it is feared, one reason: upon any but a wooden horse he cannot ride, and if the wind blows against him he dare not; he swarms up to his seat as to a sail-yard, and cannot sit unless he bear a flag staff; if ever he be broken to the saddle, it is but a voyage still; for he mistakes the bridle for a bowling, and is ever turning his horse-tail; he can pray, but it is by rote, not faith, and when he would he dares not, for his brackish belief hath made that ominous. A rock or a quicksand pluck him before he is ripe, else he is gathered to his friends at Wapping.

A SOLDIER

Is the husbandman of valour; his sword is his plough, which honour and aqua vitæ, two fiery nettled jades, are ever drawing. A younger brother best becomes arms, an elder, the thanks for them; every heat makes him a harvest, and discontents abroad are his sowers; he is actively his prince's, but passively his passion's servant; he is often a desirer of learning, which, once arrived at, proves his strongest armour; he is a lover at all points, and a true defender of the faith of women. More wealth than makes him seem a handsome foe, lightly he covets not-less is below him; he never truly wants but in much having, for then his ease and affluence afflict him. The word peace, though in prayer, makes him start, and God he best considers by his power: hunger and cold rank in the same file with him, and hold him to a man; his honour else, and the desire of doing things beyond him, would blow him greater than the sons of Anack; his religion is commonly as his cause is, doubtful, and that the best devotion keeps best quarter; he seldom sees grey hairs, some none at all; for where the sword fails, there the flesh gives fire: in charity he goes beyond the clergy, for he loves his greatest enemy best-much drinking. He seems a full student, for he is a great desirer of controversies; he argues sharply, and carries his conclusion in his scabbard In the first refining of mankind this was the gold, his actions are his ammel*, his alloy (for else you cannot work him perfectly) continual duties, heavy and weary marches, lodgings, as full of need as cold diseases; no time to argue but to exLine him with these, and link him to his squadrons, and he appears a rich chain for princes.

ecute.

THE DUTCH HAMLET.

THE Dutch Hamlet is almost a literal translation of the German, but differs importantly from the English in fable and character.

The story is simply this.-The king of Denmark has been poisoned by a favourite of the queen; and that princess, in the headlong violence of her passion, consented to the death of her husband, and promised to reward his murderer with * An old word for enamel.

VOL. I.]

her hand and crown. The piece opens immediately after the commission of this bloody deed; and the first scene is allotted to the assassin, and a friend, who is confidential, and indeed an accomplice in the villainy. In the second scene a discovery of the murder is made to the queen by the lover, who claims his recompense, which, from the "compunctuous visitings of nature," is refused. Many high-wrought sentiments are given by the royal self-made widow, to justify a breach of her wicked promise, and to determine on throwing the whole regal power into the hands of her son Hamlet. This resolution she maintains so steadily, that her lover, (Clodius) the murderer, is converted into her most inveterate enemy.

Various scenes of severe distress ensue. An interview takes place between young Hamlet and his mother, in which the conscience of the latter impels her to relate her share in the death of her husband, to the former, who has been apprised by his father's ghost, of the horrid deed. This ghost is said to haunt him every where, but does not make its public appearance.

The Dutch Ophelia is the daughter of the murderer, Clodius-of course the same principle that prevents the queen mother from an union with the assassin of her husband, destroys the intended nuptials betwixt Ophelia and Hamlet. Hereupon the virtuous sacrifices of passion to principle produce several very tender and affecting scenes. The filial piety of Hamlet, and the constitutional melancholy so exquisitely touched by Shakspeare, are by no means feebly supported by the German poet, or by the Dutch translator. The introduction of a sacred vase, in which are deposited the ashes of the poisoned monarch, is very happily brought on, and the addresses of the pious and heart-wounded son to it, press closely on the softest and best passions of our nature. In the midst of these addresses of Hamlet to the ashes of his father, the queen enters, and her son, wrought to agony, goes up to her, and with the outraged feelings of a son so situated, asks, Where is my father? On her refusing to answer his question, he leads her to the urn, and in the same style of eloquent brevity exclaims-See, mother-here is all you have left me of him!

This calls forth all the passions of a son, and all the penitence of a mother. The latter implores her death, the former attempts it; the dagger is pointed at her bosom; the parent