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THE GERMAN AND THE WIDOW.

About the year 1794, a German, recently imported into Bristol, happened to hear of Mrs. B., a wealthy widow, and thought it would be a good speculation to offer himself to the lady's notice, as well qualified to succeed the late Mr. B. He accordingly waited on the lady with that intention; but having no great familiarity with English, he had provided himself with a copy of a German and English dictionary, and on being announced to the lady, determined to open his proposal with this introductory sentence-" Madam, having heard that Mr. B., your late husband, is dead:" but coming to the last word, "gestorben," dead, he was at a loss for the English equivalent; so hastily pulling out his dictionary, (a huge octavo), he turned to the word" sterben," to die, and there found-But what he found will be best collected from the dialogue which followed, as reported by the lady:

German. Madam, haafing heard that Mein Herr B., late your man, is [these words he kept chiming as if to himself, until he arrived at No. 1 of the interpretation of" sterben," when he roared out in high glee at his discovery] is-dat is, has kicked de bucket.

Widow. [Astonished.] Kicked the bucket, sir. What? German. Ah, mein Gott! alway Ich make mistake. I vou'd haaf said [beginning again with the same solemnity of tone] since that Mein Herr B., late your man, haaf-hopped de twig. This he screamed out with delight, certain he had now hit the right nail on the head. Widow. Upon my word, sir, I am at a loss to understand you; "kicked the bucket!"" hopped the twig!" German. (Perspiring with panic.) Ah, madam, von two, three, ten thousand pardon! Vat sad, wicket dictionary I haaf, dat always bring me in trooble; but now you shall hear,-[and then recomposing himself solemnly for the third effort, he began as before] Madam, since I did hear, or vas hearing, dat Mein Herr B., late your man, haaf [with a triumphant shout] haaf, I say, gone to Davey's locker.

Further he would have gone; but the widow could stand no more.

PATIENCE.

"Twas at some country place a parson preaching,
The virtue of long sufferance was teaching;
And as pathetically did exhort

His listening congregation, and, in short,
Discoursed so much of Job, and how he bore
With such exceeding pleasantry his woes;
'Faith, 'twas enough to make a man suppose
Job wish'd for more;

Meaning, perhaps, that since 'tis plain
How needlessly we grieve at pain,
How would it be if man
Pursued a different plan-

And were to laugh, and treat the matter lightly,
And not, when tortured with the gout,
To make wry faces, roar, and shout;
But look agreeable and sprightly.

"And pray, d'ye think, my dearest life!"
Exclaim'd the parson's wife,

As after church they sat,

In courteous chat,

"That 'tis in human nature to endure "The sad extremity of woe,

"That Job, you say, did undergo;

""Tis more than you or I could do, I'm sure." "My dear," quoth he," this difference "Shows, let me tell you, great good sense,

"A talent in your sex we seldom see;

"And doubtless the remark is true "As far as it extends to you,

"Though not, I think, to me.

"No woman, since the world began,
"Could bear misfortunes like a man ;
"And in good faith, 'twixt you and me,
"And that without much vanity,

"I do conceive that I myself have shown "That patience, and that strength of mind,

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Were not entirely confined

"To Job alone."

[more,

Thus said the modern priest, and would have said much But for the sudden opening of the door;

When, out of breath, in stumps
His clownish servant Numps,

His mouth wide open, on the parson gazing,
Just like the wight

Who drew old Priam's curtains in the night,

To tell him Troy was blazing:

"Well, Numps! the matter!-speak !-Why look'st

so pale ?

"Has anything gone wrong?" "The ale "

Quoth Numps,

"What! cries the priest," the ale gone sour?"— And then his patient phiz began to lour.

"Turn'd sour! No, measter, no !" replied the fellow; "But just now, as went, d'ye see,

"To tilt the cask-away roll'd he,

"And all the liquor's spilt about the cellar."
The fact was, that Numps a cask of ale had staved.
Now, prithee, tell me how this modest priest behaved:
Did he pull off his wig-or rend his hair?

Or, like that silly fellow, Job,

Throw ashes on his head-or tear his robeSay, how did he this dire misfortune bear?

Why thus, in voice of pious resignation, He to his man address'd this mild oration: "May God confound thee! thou d-d stupid bear!" (The best of priests, you know, will sometimes swear), "What! you must meddle, must you,

"With the barrel-and be curst t'ye!

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"I wish thy paws were in the fire-odd rott 'm!"Get thee down stairs, this instant, wretch!

by the living God! I'll kick thy breech "From top to bottom."

"Nay, now my dearest !" cried the dame, "Is this your patience?-Fie! for shame! "I'll beg you'll recollect your text ;

"Job was not half so vext,

"When he'd his sons and daughters to bewail!" "D-n all his sons and daughters! if you choose, "Answer me this, I say, Did Job e'er lose "A barrel of such ale?"

LIFE.

Reason thus with life:
If I do lose thee-I do lose a thing
That none but fools would reck.
Servile to all the skyey influences

A breath thou art,.

That do this habitation, where thou keep'st,
Hourly afflict. Verily thou art Death's fool;
For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun,

And yet runn'st tow'rd him still. Thou art not noble;
For all th' accommodations that thou bear'st
Are nursed by baseness. Thou'rt by no means valiant;
For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork
Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep,
And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st
Thy death, which is no more. Thou'rt not thyself;
For thou exist'st on many a thousand grains,
That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not;
For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get,
And what thou hast, forgett'st. Thou art not certain;
For thy complexion shifts to strange effects,
After the moon. If thou art rich, thou'rt poor;
For, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows,
Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey,

And death unloadeth thee. Friend thou hast none;
For thy own bowels, which do call thee sire,
The mere effusion of thy proper loins,

Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum,

For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor

age;

But as it were an after-dinner's sleep,

Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth
Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms

Of palsied eld; and when thou'rt old and rich,

Thou hast neither heart, affection, limb, nor bounty,
To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this
That bears the name of life? Yet in this life
Lie hid more thousand deaths; yet death we fear,
That makes these odds all even.

HE VAS A VERY JONTEEL MAN FOR ALL DAT.

Mais! I am Monsieur Jean François Marie Louis Grenoble. In Angleterre here, I vas vat you call de emigrant; because in the revolution, ma foi! ven my countree, dat I love so much, vant to cut off my head, I take to my feet, and ran avay very fast, so dat de guillotine, by gar, can no cut short my valk over de sea-not at all. Here I make de montres, vat you call de vatch. I am de horloger, de clock-maker, and get de living by de tick. Mais dans Paris-in my own countree-I vas very large man indeed, vas nobleman, vas son altesse de Prince Grenoble, and stood very high indeed (though I am but a little man now) in de grand Armée Royal.

De other day I vas valk in vat you call your High Par, vere dere are no bucks vid de horns, but de bucks dat come from de Londres, de city, and leave dere wives to valk here; and no deer, but the pretty little girls, and parbleu, dey are very dear indeed, pretty indeed, very. Vell, I vas valk dere, and see sit on de bench, for vat dey call to dine vid de Duke Humphrey, un pauvre homme; he seem very hungry, very cold; he looked very dirty, very ragged, and very poor indeed-but he appear a very jonteel man for all dat.

I go to him, and I say to him for I see in de twinkle of de eye he vas von Frenchman-vas my countreman-" Mon ami, my friend, my countreman, for vat you sit on dis bench here, to dine vid de Duke Humphrey vy you no go to de cook-shop, de restaurateur, vere dey cat de beef and de mouton, and de salad, and de pomme de terre ?

He say to me, "I am brave François - I am jontilhomme-I am one of de first men in all France-but I am sans sou, point d'argent; I have not one single farthing dans tout le monde-not a halfpenny in all de world, and no credit at all."

Den he shew me his pockets filled vid very large holes, but nothing else; but he appear a very jonteel man for all dat; and all at once, immediately, directly,

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