A DEVIL OF A WAISTCOAT.

Are you a man of fashion? no matter whatsoever your quality, whether noble or simple, merchant or manufacturer, shopkeeper, mechanic, or of no profession, you must undoubtedly have heard of Mr. Jeremiah Stitchclose, the celebrated tailor, who resides near the court-end of the town. He fits the human body on anatomical principles, with those garments that give so much grace and elegance to the person, and are the universal admiration of the fashionable loungers of Bond Street and Rotten Row. Had Richard the Third come under the hands of this skilful artist, he would have made him look like a perfect Adonis, in spite of a crooked back, withered arm, and bow legs; for it is a well-known fact, that when the famed Hottentot Venus visited the gallery of the House of Commons, disguised in male attire, every article of her apparel was the production of this man of genius; and, notwithstanding the enormous bulk and rotundity of her nether part, the lady's breeches were so artfully fashioned, that she was universally received as a delicate young gentleman!

Mr. Stitchclose was one day seated in his parlour, taking his wine after dinner, when Tim Measurewell, his foreman-vulgo, the cutter-ushered in a French gentleman, who appeared to be in want of some of their commodities, but had vainly endeavoured to make himself understood. He says something about his waist, whisper'd the foreman.-Yes, vest; c'est ça, veste.-Oh, I comprehend; a waistcoat is the article the gentleman is in want of.-Oui; yes, sare, waistecottes. And the colour?-De coloure, blanc-dat is, vite. White; yes, sir; and of what material would you have it ?-Ah, de material! dites moi-tell me de name of de different fabriques donc vous faites vos waiste-cottes!-Marseilles ?-Non.- Cassimere?-Non. -Cloth ?-Non.-Toilinette?-Non.-Dimity ?-Non. Jean- Non. - Sarsnet?- Non. - Silk? - Non. Shag -Non-Plush? Non.- Corduroy - Non.Patent cord - Non. - Flannel ?-Non. Still it was

--dat is no dat; non, non, non. Mr. Stitchclose shrugged up his shoulders; Tom scratched his pole. Monsieur was all animation; the Strasburgh paid frequent visits to his nostrils. Diable, aidez moi-ah, oui, c'est bien-Vat you call de diable-de devil, in your tongue?-The devil, sir, is the general appellation we give him.-Ah, oui, vraiment; but you have many more names for de devil, comme nous ?—Oh, yes, sir, he's a character well-known in London; we call him Beelzebub ;-Non. Lucifera shake of the head. Old Nick ?-the same. Infernal Spirit ? -Enfer-dat is de devil's location-non, non. Serpent?-Dat did seduce Eve-non. Apollyon, Davy Jones, Dragon, Babel, Demon, Monster of the Bottomless Pit, Asmodeus, Satan - Oui, oui, oui, c'est Satan, fabriques de Satan, dat I require for my waistcottes.-A Satin waistcoat, sir; I shall be proud to serve you.

My friends, when you see a courtier adorned with a waistcoat of the devil's name, do not ungraciously presume to think, that, although the wearer may be hankering after the loaves and fishes, and the candleends and cheese-parings of office, that he is in the slightest degree a worshipper of his Satanic Majesty, although he wears his court livery.

THE MONKEYS.

Whoe'er with curious eye hath ranged
Through Ovid's Tales, hath seen
How Jove, incensed, to monkeys changed
A tribe of worthless men.

Repentant soon, th' offending race
Entreat the injured pow'r

To give them back the human face,
And reason's aid restore.

Jove, soothed at length, his ear inclined,
And granted half their pray'r,

But t'other half he bid the winds
Disperse in empty air.

Scarce had the Thund'rer given the nod,
That shook the vaulted skies,

With haughtier air the creatures strode,
And stretch'd their dwindled size.

The hair in curls luxuriant now
Around their temples spread;
The tail that once did hang below
Now dangled from the head.

The head remains unchanged within,
Nor altered much the face;
It still retains its native grin,
And all its old grimace.

Thus half transform'd, and half the same,
Jove made them take their place,
Restoring them their ancient claim
Among the human race.

Man with contempt the brute surveyed,
Nor would a name bestow;
But woman liked the motley breed,
And call'd the thing a beau.

THE THREE WARNINGS.

The tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
"Twas therefore said, by ancient sages,

That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.

This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,
Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay, On Neighbour Dobson's wedding-day, Death call'd aside the jocund groom With him into another room;

And looking grave, "You must," says he, "Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." "With you! and quit my Susan's side? "With you!" the helpless husband cried, "Young as I am? "Tis monstrous hard! "Besides, in truth, I'm not prepar'd; "My thoughts on other matters go: "This is my wedding-night, you know." What more he urged I have not heard, His reasons could not well be stronger; So Death the poor delinquent spared, And left to live a little longer.

Yet calling up a serious look

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke"Neighbour," he said, "farewell! no more "Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour; "And farther, to avoid all blame "Of cruelty upon my name,

To give you time for preparation,
"And fit you for your future station,
"Three several warnings you shall have,
"Before you're summon'd to the grave
"Willing for once I'll quit my prey,
"And grant a kind reprieve;

"In hopes you'll have no more to say,
"But when I call again this way,
"Well pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befel,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell;

He chaffer'd, then-he bought-he sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of death as near,
His friends not false, his wife no shrew
Many his gains, his children few,
He pass'd his hours in peace;

But while he view'd his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road.
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.

And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sat,

Th' unwelcome messenger of fate
Once more before him stood.

Half kill'd with anger and surprise,
"So soon return'd?" old Dobson cries.
"So soon d'ye call it?" Death replies;
"Surely, my friend, you're but in jest:
"Since I was here before

""Tis six-and-thirty years at least,
"And you are now four-score."

"So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd; "To spare the aged would be kind : "However, see your search be legal ;

"And your authority-is't legal?

"Else you are come on a fool's errand,

"With but a secretary's warrant.

"Besides, you promised me Three Warnings,, "Which I have look'd for nights and mornings; "And for that loss of time and ease,

"I can recover damages."

"I know," cried Death," that, at the best, "I seldom am a welcome guest;

"But don't be captious, friend, at least ;
"I little thought you'd still be able
"To stump about the farm and stable;
"Your years have run to a great length-
"I wish you joy, though, of your strength !"
"Hold," says the farmer, "not so fast,
"I have been lame these four years past."