She first reminds him of their past loves and courtships—how she rubbed his back when he had the rheumatism, and his stomach when he had the cholic, and how particularly charmed she was with him when he wore his dear little flannel night cap—but all in vain. "Will nothing move thee?" cries this amiable fair one, in a fit of the last despair—"Then O! thou barbarian, think of the bacon and cabbage I fried for thy supper yesterday evening." "Oh, the sorceress!" cried Turlupin—"I can't resist her—she knows how to take me by my foible; the bacon, the bacon, quite unmans me, and the very fat is now rising in my stomach. Live on then thou charmer—fry cabbage, and be dutiful."
A circumstance has occurred in the neighbourhood of a large town in Hampshire, which has occasioned much amusing conversation. A young lady, 23 years of age, who will inherit a great property at her father's death, was recently discovered by him to be in the family way; and on the enraged parent's demanding who had been her seducer, she, to his utter astonishment, replied it was her maid Harriet. On Harriet's being called before him, an explanation took place, when it appeared the young lady, during a visit last June at a friend's house near town, became acquainted with a handsome youth, who was shop-lad at a circulating library, of whom she became enamoured, and a secret marriage was the consequence; but fearing her father's anger at such an unequal match (the youth being poor) and the idea of being obliged to part with him, gave birth to the following stratagem. The youth assumed the female habit, and accompanied the fair bride to her father's house, where he has until this fortnight figured away as her maid. The old gentleman, however, is now reconciled to the loving couple, and Harry (alias Harriet) is as happy as beauty and money can make him.
An Irish officer of the name of Foster, (now lieut. col. of the 6th West India regiment) of the uncommon stature of six foot eight, made his appearance at the rooms at Bath, when the late haughty princess Amelia was present, she was led from his extraordinary appearance, to inquire his name, family, and pursuits: she received information amongst the answers to her inquiries, that he had been originally intended for the church. "Rather for the steeple," replied the royal humourist.
THE LUCK OF EDENHALL.
The ancient seat of Sir William Musgrave, in Cumberland.
In an excursion to the North of England, I was easily prevailed upon, to see the Luck of Edenhall, celebrated in an ancient ballad, now exceedingly scarce—the only description I can give you of it is, a very thin bell-mouthed beaker glass, very deep and narrow, ornamented on the outside with fancy work of coloured glass, and may hold something more than a pint. Tradition says that a party of fairies were drinking and making merry round a well near the hall, called St. Cuthbert's Well, but being interrupted by the intrusion of some curious people, they were frightened, and made a hasty retreat, and left the cup in question, one of the last of the fairies screaming out,
"If this cup should break or fall,
Farewell the Luck of Edenhall."