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Your main fibbers are innocent creatures. They are known by their prattle about their riches, their own merit, their great relations and friends, what they hare done and can do, which are all film. They fib to get into what they think good society, or to have a nod from some great man. They are fond of making great promises, but they are all fibs, to please their own vanity—vain fibbers are always vain men, "even when they speak the truth." They wish always to be " the cock of the walk"—" the admired of all admirers." They never hear a good thing, but they can say R better, which is a fib. They want the bump of veneration, for they never venerate any body, or any thing but themselves. Vain fibbers are easily mistified—R mercantile fibber can mistify the vain fibber—flattery will do it, when the mercantile fibber can make his own out of him. At the dulcet tones of flattery and blarney, the vain fibber "melts, thaws, and resolves itself into a dew."

Your malicious fibber is more dangerous—he differs from the vain fibber, as his fibs are about others, not himself. He delights in misfortune—he is a "Paul Pry" into the affairs of others, for the purpose of fibbing—he sees every thing in a certain light, but never favourably for his neighbour—he has never a good word to say of any one. Such a man is a drunkard, which is a fib—such another quarrels with his wife, another fib—such a one is a flirt, which is a fib—so and boy, does so and so—so and so, said so and so, which are all fibs.

What would the world do without fibbing? Thousands who live by fibbing, would be thrown out of employment. Our tittle-tattle, too, all our gossipping, all our " clipping of character," would want its greatest charms without fibbing. Banish fibbing, and the "Gregg" andthe " Sma' Weft," and all the host of similar confederacies, are at once extinguished. Without fibbing, we would have nothing to talk or think of—it would stop the progress of invention—we would become dull as the jack ass—fibbing is a lively fellow— always in full puff—always " witty in himself, and the cause of wit in others." Like all other great men, fibbing has his enemies. The most powerful of these is truth, a very able person, but somewhat sombre. A bad feeling bas existed betwixt them for a long time, and they have resolved to see which is the better man. A great match has been made, to come off soon. The betting is heavy on both sides. Fibbing is to be seconded by Bill Cobbett, and Truth by Jerry Bentham, two "good old mi's," in their way. Truth is in close training, and report says that his stamina has been much improved. "The march of intellect" has been of great service, and the removal " of the tax on knowledge will be of more." A great muster of the fancy is expected, and the " Council of Ten" will be there. Some of them wish to cut Uncle Duncan and friend Easel on the journey, for they kick up such disturbance. They are always setting too and fibbing one another at a great rate. But we will be present—our Spectacles will be on duty. We will give a true account of the "turn up." We will "nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice," for our feeling is, "that the best man may win—and no mistake."

f From the German of Krummacher.J

Say, O, say, ye daughters of the wide and rugged earth, who bath given you your fair and beauteous form? for, truly, by delicate fingers have ye been shaped: what little spirits are they, that arise from out your bosoms? and what delight must yours have been, when nymphs and goddesses danced gaily around you, or lightly poised themselves upon your fragrant leaves. Tell me, ye brightly-smiling flowers, how did they divide amongst them, the work of your formation; what nods and becks, and wreathed smiles, did they exchange, as the delicate nob grew beneath their

fairy fingers—so bright in its hues, to delicate in rt» texture?

What I silent one, and silent all? Nay, then, let Fable deliver her words of instruction, and what ye refuse to tell, let her disclose.

When first a naked rock, the earth arose into existence, lo! a crowd of joyous nymphs scattered the virgin soil around, and courteous genii stood, prepared to embellish the naked rocks, and the bare and barren plains. Various, and diversified, were the labours of the bard; but quickly, though under the snows of winter, and amidst the cold and chilling blasts of spring, humility commenced her labours, and span the modest and retiring violet. Hope quickly followed her exumple, and filled with cooling and refreshing perfumes, the little chalices of the fragrant hyacinth. After them, came a proud and prancing choir of splendid fair ones— the tulip reared her haughty head on high, the narcissus, with languid eye, shot her coy, and downcast glance around.

And many a goddess, and many a nymph lent their aid, and many and various were the flowers, and the shrubs, and the plants, with which they adorned the earth ; which, gaily smiling upon her beauteous covering, disclosed to view, a Paradise of sweets.

And, behold! when the greater part of their labours were come to maturity, and were gaily blooming in the summer sun, thus spake to her attendant graces, Venus, the goddess of beauty and of love, " why tarry ye, sisters of delight? up, and from your charms, do ye, too, weave a sweet, though fading flower." To earth, they hastened down, and Aglaia, the grace of innocence, framed the lily, whilst Thalia and Euphrosyne wove, with sister hands, the flower of love and joy, the sweet, the virgin rose.

In rivalry and in envy, grows many a flower of the forest and the field, but unenvying, and unenvied, flourish the lily and the rose, sister-like—upon Flora's bed, they bloom together, and each throws a charm upon the beauties of the other; sister hands have formed them.

Upon thy cheek, too, O, maiden, may lilies and roses ever continue to bloom, and may innocence, gladness and love, their inseparable attendants, accompany thee through life, and cheer thee in thy passage to the tomb.


Ik our anxiety to arrive at truth, we willingly give a place to the following epistle of a valued correspondent:— To the Editor of The Day. Sir,—Your correspondent's article on The Drama, with reference to our own city, contains a good many assertions, which even though supported by the authority of his " Theatrical Note Book," are of a somewhat questionable character. The sweeping charge by him brought against the theatrical taste of our citizens, and his ideas regarding their ignorance of the pages of Shakespeare, will, really, require to be supported with better evidence than the circumstance of the Lord Provost having patronized the play of "John Bull," to witness the performance of which the denizens of Glasgow did not turn out, and that of Mr. Kean's having performed the part of Brutus, with the additional attraction of "a speech," to only two in the boxes. It so happened that I was present, as well as your correspondent, on both the occasions which he particularizes. The Provost's patronage could not be expected to accomplish much, even though the play-bills gave the information, that it was called "a fashionable night," when the immense and uncomfortable size of the old theatre is considered, and no attraction presented save that of the usual mediocre company of performers, and the words " fashionable," and "Lord Provost," emblazoned in tremendous capitals at the head of the bills. W ith regard to the night on which Mr. Kean enacted Brutus, it happened at a period when his fame was under a cloud, and when ladies considered it proper to withdraw themselves from witnessing his performances—-had any, unfortunately, been present, they must have retired in disgust at hearing the "speech" with which Mr. Kean was, that evening, imprudent enough to favour his audience.

Your correspondent goes a tolerable way back in his reminiscences of Glasgow theatricals, but not far enough to arrive at correct conclusions. He may not have witnessed, but must, at all events, have heard, of the great success which attended the theatre of the late building in Queen Street, and CVen afterwards. It is to this unfortunate erection we principally attribute the unfortunate change: a moderate sized house was so well filled, that our sanguine citizens jumped to the unlucky conclusion, that one, approaching in size to those of the metropolis, could not fail to receive fitting encouragement, and the consequence was, that an audience such as shed an air of happy compactness over the old house, was entirely lost in the comfortless space of the new one. This view of the matter is sufficiently illustrated by the fact, that, since the drama returned to its ancient haunt, the manager has met with encouragement of the most substantial kind, and has been enabled to purchase and embellish, in very elegant style, a theatre, which, in most requisites, is well suited for our wants.

When it is, therefore, considered, that, with a company, which, from its utter inefficiency, has compelled the absence of many devoted admirers of the drama, he has been enabled to accomplish so very much, what might not have been expected had the solid attraction of superior performers been added? Speaking for myself, though only echoing the sentiments of many others, I am certain that, instead of only, at rare intervals, visiting the theatre, had I the certainty of witnessing good plays, well enacted, the intervals of re-visiting would be, indeed, very greatly shortened.

The general tenor of your correspondent's communication appears to be a sort of side-wind apology for the present degraded condition of the Glasgow stage; but, to those who can relish the theatre, and are aware how even the present defective establishment has been patronized, it will appear but a very lame species of apology. Of theatrical taste, in this city, there is no want— let the manager only follow the very correct advice which you have tendered to him—let him attend to his proper vocation behind the scenes, and cease to thrust himself before the public in characters which he has no earthly qualification to assume, and he may rest assured that, with his correct and business habits, he cannot possibly fail to reap the good effects of the change.

V. P.


Whin two young thoughtless fools, having no visible way to maintain themselves, nor any thing to begin the world with, resolve to marry and be miserable; let it be deemed petty larceny.

If a younger brother marries an old woman, purely for the sake of a maintenance, let it be called self-preservation.

When a rich old fellow marries a young wench, in her full bloom, it shall be death without benefit of clergy.

When two old creatures, that can hardly hear one another speak, and cannot propose the least comfort to themselves in the thing, yet marry together, to be miserable, they shall be deemed noncompos, and sent to a mad-house.

When a lady marries her servant, or a gentleman his conk-maid, (especially if there are children by a former marriage), they shall be transported for fourteen years.

When a man has had one bad wife, and buried her, and yet will marry a second, it shall be deemed felo de se, and he shall be buried in the highway, accordingly.

When a woman, in good circumstances, marries an Infamous man, not worth a groat; if she is betrayed into it, it shall be called accidental death; but, if she knows it, it shall be made single felony, and she shall be burnt in the hand.

When a man, having no children, marries a woman with five or six, and vice versa, let the delinquent stand thrice in the pillory, lose both his ears, and suffer one years Imprisonment.

And, when a man or woman marries, to the disinheriting of their children, let them suffer as in cases of high treason.

When a woman marries a man, deeply in debt, knowing him to be so, let her be sent to the house of correction, and kept to hard labour, for three months; and, if he deceived her, and did not let her know his circumstances, she shall be acquitted, and be doomed to beat hemp all the days of his life.


Fox Hunting.—One of the most striking features in the aspect of the chosen regions of English fox-hunting is the formidable ex- fence, rendered necessary by the difficulty of keeping fatting cattle within their pastures during the season of the gad-fly. It consists, first, of a wide ditch; then a sturdy black-thorn hedge; and at least two yards beyond that a strong rail, about four feet high. To clear all these obstacles, from whatever side they may be approached, is evidently a great exertion for a horse. What is termed the Bullfinch Hedge, still more common in these districts, is a quickset of, perhaps, fifty years' growth, with a ditch on one side, and so high and strong that horses cannot clear it. The sportsman, however, charging this at nearly full speed, succeeds in getting to the other side, when the bushes close after him and big horse, and there is no more appearance of their transit than if a bird had hopped through. Horses unaccustomed to these fences seldom face them well at first; perhaps nothing short of the emulation which animates their riders, and the courage created in the animals themselves by the presence of hounds, would induce them to face such things at all.—Quarterly Review,


Thou, Borean citadel—first-born

Of pyramids—how grander
Art thou than those that shade the mom

Where Nil us' streams meander!
Where is the Rhodian statue—he,

That wonder of the world,
Whose brazen limbs bestrode the sea—

Long from his footing hurl'd!

But thou arisest from the deep,

The same as when it found thee,
In ocean's youth—and came to sweep

Its many waves around thee. 1
Thou Channel Warder, at whose feet

The vanquish'd billow slumbers,
Or warring waters chafing meet

In all their countless numbers.

Chief of the sea—aloft—sublime—

Can aught, save earthquake, move thee?
Th' unbridl'd wave thy knees may climb—

The bolt may break above thee—
But thou dost grasp that bounding wave,

And dost him asunder—
And llftest up thine arm to brave

On high the brattling thunder.

Guide of the mariner—when dark

The night is gathering o'er him—
Thou lead'st his home-returning bark ,

To the glad lands before him—
And thou, last friend—he seaward hails

Thy form—and on thee lingers,
Afar behind, when morn unveils

The sky with rosy fingers—

Thou, hermit mountain—all alone—

No human foot profanes thee—
Save when the sea bird's wailing tone

Proclaims that fowler gains thee—
Thou hast no rival mountain near

With loftier brow to shade thee—
Nor forest, whispering in thine ear,

The name of Him who made thee!

Yet, Giant, there will come to thee

A Power thy pride to humble—
When thou—Colossus of the sea—

To nothingness wilt crumble—
Whilst he who writes—although his hand

Must moulder long before thee—
May soar to an eternal land,

And share Immortal Glory !—


He is dead! He is gone! bold Gruer M'Gruer,
The dread and the terror of each evil-doer.
He well knew each spot where the villain was biding,
And laugh'd at the rogue, in his blackguard hole hiding.

How nimbly be nabb'd them, each old thief or novice.
Then led them a dance, 11 tune—Our New Police Office;"
Of mischief to rascals, he thus was the brewer,
And if they were rich he would soon make them poor t

The dark-close frequenter, the sharp pocket-picker,
May freely now snatch at a bob or a ticker I
Each rogue to your Pall now be truer and truer,
Since your foe's cut his crummy, poor Gruer M'Gruer.

Poor Gruer was first at the thief's lowly dwelling,
Where often he stood in much risk of a melling
But his arm it was strong, and his cudgel was truer
Than slip from the fingers of Gruer M'Gruer.

In fairs and in mobs, rogues may now take their pleasure,
And heap up their motley and easy-got treasure;
And their slush they may drink, tho' it soon should get bluer;
For he's drank his last toast, poor Gruer M'Gruer.

Oft has he been seen in a street called the Briggate,
Where the Clyde has swept thro' fit to sail any frigate ,-
But he's off like the space, and there's now a man fewer
In this populous city, poor Gruer M'Gruer.

Then away, lads of hemp, to your dark midnight jobbing,
Raise your fires or your riots, to take the poor mob in ;
And when you've a watch, in your fire-pan just stew her,
You ne'er will be troubled by Gruer M'Gruer.


Oi K Church-going friends, we understand, are in deep regret at the intelligence, that the Rev. Mr. Bruce of Edinburgh, who was to have preached the Sermon before the Sons of the Clergy, is, unhappily, prevented from doing so, on account of ill health. The Charity, and it is one which must be allowed to come home to every Presbyterian heart, will, however, we confidently trust, lose nothing by the absence of the able Clergyman who was to have officiated, Mr. Geddes, of our own City, having come forward to perform this highly praiseworthy duty.


In the Glasgow Mercury, of June 1780, we find the following advertisement, which, perhaps, is a better criterion of the state of Glasgow at that period than anything that can be told :— "SUMMER QUARTERS TO BE LET.

"A neat, well-finished House, at the west end of Rottenrow, pleasantly situated above the common gardens, consisting of three rooms, a kitchen, and light closet, with a small garden, and some other conveniences belonging to it. Also, some smaller lodgings.

"Apply to Michael Bogle, Jun. Queen Street."


"Calabria During a Miliitary Residence of Three Years," by a General Officer of the French Army, is announced for publication.

Mr. T. K. Harvey and Mr. Barnet are about to publish, in conjunction, a Musical Volume, entitled, "Dreams of a Persian Maiden."

"Augustus Fitzgeorge, a Romance of Yesterday," is in the press.

"Country Houses," a Novel, is preparing for publication.


MoiIO Clementi was certainly no ordinary man. A brief memoir of him, for which we shall be partly indebted to the Harmonicon will not, therefore, be unacceptable to our readers. He was a native of Rome, and successively, a pupil of Cordicelli, Santarelli, and Carpini, in harmony, vocal composition and counterpoint. When only twelve years old, he composed a mass, which evinced great promise of future eminence. About this time, the late Mr. Beckford, then on his travels in Italy, induced the youthful genius to accompany Mm to England, and to reside with him; and, during such residence, Clementi acquired a general knowledge of literature and science, a considerable proficiency in both the dead and living languages, and devoted daily several hours to the study and practice of music. At eighteen, he not only surpassed all his contemporary pianoforte players, in execution, taste, and expression, but had composed his celebrated Opera 2—a work, which by the consent of all musicians, may be considered as the basis on which the whole fabric of modern pianoforte sonatas has been founded. He now quitted the roof of his English patron, and was engaged to preside at the piano, at the King's Theatre. In 17b0, he made a tour on the Continent, and was received everywhere, with the patronage of sovereigns, the admiration of his brother musicians, and the enthusiastic applause of the public. Accustomed to the measured, and somewhat cold plandtts of an English audience, the first burst of Parisian enthusiasm so astonished him, that he frequently afterwards jocosely remarked, he could hardly believe himself the same Clementi in Paris, as in London. In Vienna, he became acquainted with Haydn, Mozart, Salieri, and many other celebrated musicians, then resident in that city. He returned to London in 1784, and pursued his professional career with increasing reputation, as a teacher, composer, and performer. He, subsequently, however, and more than once, visited the Continent; and on the last occasion, when called to Rome by the death of a brother, so completely had the war interrupted all communication, that, being disappointed of remittances froui London, he pledged his snutT-boxes and rings, presented to him in his tour; and it was only after many hazardous attempts, that he reached his adopted country, in the year 1810.

His return was hailed with delight, by the profession, and the musical public, in the hope of enjoying his performance, and benefitting by his instruction: all, however, were alike doomed to disappointment, for he had determined, neither to take pupils, nor to play in public.

Clementi was one of the founders of the Philharmonic Society, and be generally conducted a concert each season. To this Society he presented two of his MS. symphonies, the first of which was performed in 1819, and a grand overture in 182L In the same year, he conducted also the performance of one of his symphonies, at the Concert Spiritual, and on the 17th of December,

the elite of the professors in the metropolis gave him an entertainment at the Albion Tavern. On this occasion, he indulged his assembled friends with a last proof that his fancy was unfettered by age, and his finger unpalsied by years. He extemporised on a subject from Handel's first Organ Concerto, in a style, in which those who had been his contemporaries or pupils, immediately recognised the undiminished powers of their old friend or instructor; and at which those, who for the first time heard the more than septuagenarian artist, could scarcely find terms to express their delight and surprise. It was, he declared, " the proudest day of his life;" and it was a proof of the respect and reward, which, to the last moment of protracted life, attend upon a youth spent in temperance and virtuous industry, and a manhood guided by honour.—Athenaeum.



Triks. Steam Carriages Superseoed !!!—A wise man, ignorant of one of the great laws of motion, Motal Inertia, thinking that the earth turned round once in 24> hours, proposed rising in a balloon, and waiting aloft until the country which he desired to reach should be passing under him. Thus, merely, by dropping down, on the desired spot, he would in a few hours after leaving Britain, arrive in Serlngapatam, or New South Wales. Shades of Watt and Bell thought ye ever to be so completely outdone?

Literary Imposture.—Gemelli Carreri, a Neapolitan gentleman, for many years never quitted his chamber, confined by a tedious indisposition. He amused himself with writing a voyage round the world; giving characters of men, and descriptions of countries, as if he had really visited them. Du Halde, who bat written so voluminous an account of China, compiled it from memoirs of the missionaries, and never travelled ten leagues from Paris in his life; though he appears, by his writings, to be very familiar with Chinese scenery.


"On the Causes which Influence Opinion" will probably appear on Saturday.

The Epistle of "J. L. Marryyou" will find a place so soon as we have room.

Julius' " Original Verses to her gentle Povelle, while labouring under a violent fit of sneezing," are so original, 11 that they surpass our understanding."

"Alphas" song has two or three pretty images, but the author if he mean to prosecute the unlucrative craft of verse-making, had better take it, and his other compositions, ad avizandum for a year and a day.

To a large regiment of the Alphabet, the particular letters we forget, we solemnly assure them, on our honour, as a soldier and a gentleman, that they wont pass muster at any Wapinshaw of Wit.


GLASGOW SOCIETY OF THE SONS OF THE CLERGY THE ANNIVERSARY SERMON before the SOCIETY is to be preached in ST. GEORGE'S C H U R C H, TO- M O R R O W, Thursday, the 29th curren t, by the Rev. Mr. GEDDES, Minister of St. Andrew's Church, Glasgow.—Public Worship to begin at 12 o'clock. The Colleciioa to be applied to the Charitable Purposes of the Society.

MEMBERS to meet for business at the Black Bull Inn, at 11 o'clock.

THOs. THOMSON, Secy. Glasgow, 28th March, 1832.

DWELLING HOUSES TO LET, at the foot of Maxwell Street aud corner of Clyde Street, several spacious, commodious and elegant DWELLING HOUSES, consisting of from Six to Ten Apartments each, with Servants' Rooms, Baths, Water Closets, &c. Two of the Houses front the River Clyde, the others, Maxwell Street, aud the whole are in an airy and healthy situation of the town.

Apply to G1LMOUR and HALL, 63, Miller Street.
Glasgow, 27th March, 1832.

MONEY TO LEND £700, £500, £230, and £150 on First Heritable Securities, at a Reduced Rate of Interest Apply to JAMES STEVEN, Writer, 29, HUTCHE


Glasgow, 27th March, 1832.

Published, every Morning, Sunday excepted, by John Finlay, at No. 9, Miller Street; and Sold by John Wylie, 97, Argyle Street; David Robertson, and W. R. M'phun, Glasauw; Thomas Stevenson, and the other Booksellers, Edinburgh: DaVid Dice, and A. Gardner, Booksellers, Paisley: A. Lains, Greenock; and J. Glass, Bookseller, Rothsay.


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In Cupid's Register for February, we find we have been rather communicative respecting the sources from whence we derive the information which enables us to make up this very useful article of monthly intelligence; for we have received a number of letters, containing queries regarding the identity of our very convenient and assiduous friend, Auntie Pyet, which have placed us in rather an unpleasant predicament. To give such "explicit" information as that requested, would not only remove the mask from the face of our intelligent incognita, but also subject us to the charge of having acted unworthy of our editorial trust. As we dislike, however, to play the mute, when interrogatories are put to us by our fair readers, we shall endeavour to give them all the information anent Auntie Pyet, that we can, consistently with our honour. The lady in question, therefore, may, in certain respects, be compared to the east wind; for she has all the keen snbtile-searching qualities of that element, and can penetrate, sift and unkennel a secret from the most hidden cranies of the hearts of her friends, with as much ease as the other can whistle B face-screwing air, to a rheumatic invalid, through the keyhole of his bedchamber, and, having collected all the secrets of an individual, worth knowing, she loses no time in dispersing them to every point of the compass, like chaff before the cold-breathed son of CEolus. This, however, is not done with any malicious intent; for Auntie Pyet is really a good-hearted woman. But, in order to undeceive those who might be so uncharitable, as to think that she had been at all this trouble, for the sordid purpose of hoarding up her friends' secrets in her own bosom, a thought so selfish, we can assure our readers, never found a place in the heart of our generous coadjutor.

Auntie Pyet, however, is now getting into the sear and yellow leaf, and, of course, is not, so able as formerly, for encountering the double duties of collecting and retailing the private affairs of her neighbours. She therefore embraced, with no small pleasure, the opportunity which the extensive circulation of "The Day" afforded her, of taking the latter part of the trouble off her hands, one item of our agreement being, that we should call for the intelligence, and another, that she was not to breathe a syllable respecting the secrets connected with young ladies to any one but ourselves.

With regard to Miss Pyet's manner of making discoveries, we may, without any breach of confidence, give our fair readers a few hints, which they may or may not avail themselves of, as they feel inclined. On entering a house, our friend is particularly inquisitive, to know, what members of the family are at home, and how they are engaged. Should one of the young ladies and her particular be together, Auntie Pyet's business instantly becomes of the greatest importance, and she proceeds, sans ceremoni, to the sitting room, with a foot as noiseless as if she trodo upon velvet, while her hand falls like a snow flake on the handle of the door, which she opens with a slyness peculiar to herself. Thus she has often an opportunity of seeing the parties witbin, before they are aware of her presence; and, by this means, it frequently happens that, in observing them off their guard, she obtains a clue, which enables

her to unravel the whole state of their affairs with the greatest ease. From the accuracy which our useful ally has frequently detailed circumstances which actually happened, when her back was to the parties concerned, it has been asserted by some, and believed by others, that she has really got, what is vulgarly called " an eye in her neck." That Auntie Pyet sees what goes on behind her, is certainly true, but she does so by the following very simple contrivance:— Our curious friend, in looking at any thing, always uses what appears to be a reading glass, and she takes care to be supplied with two, so exactly alike, that the one can scarcely be told from the other; only one of these appendages, may, properly speaking, be called a reading glass, the other, in the strictest sense of the term, a spy glass, because, unlike its fellow, it is very ingeniously fitted with small double mirrors, having the silverised backs to each other, so that, by pretending to read, or look at any object, she sees distinctly what is going on behind, or in a contrary direction. Thus, by the aid of her reflecting spy glass, Auntie Pyet can snatch a Parthian glance at her friends in the rear, without being at the trouble of turning her head. It would be vain for any young lady to attempt to discover and expose this harmless little artifice, by asking the loan of her glass, because, as we said before, she is always supplied with two, one of which she conceals about her hand while using the other, and should the reflector happen to be in operation, when a request for it is made, Auntie Pyet, (for she is the civilist creature in the world,) instantly presents it; but, when in the act of changing hands, with a dexterity that would make the far-famed adroitness of Signior Blitz appear mere gaucherie, she artfully substitutes the one for the other. In addition to the advantages afforded by her glass, she has also a very convenient deafness, which comes and goes as she finds it useful; and, as this calamity is believed by her friends to depend entirely upon the weather, Auntie Pyet has merely to announce the state of her auricular Barometer when she enters a room, and the company pitch their voices accordingly.

With these facilities at command, and an extremely inquisitive mind, Auntie Pyet, if she were not one of the veriest pinks of womankind, would, to a certainty, be a very dangerous character; but, so kind, soft and creamy is her disposition, that, although she has frequently, in her reflector, observed the projecting lip of derision, the saucy sneer, the waggish look and the finger redolent of mockery directed towards her, by a set of thoughtless dandyzetts, who were quite unconscious that their every motion was seen by the "antiquated spinster," her only revenge has been, to associate, as soon as possible, the names of the lovely ingrates with those of handsome young men of large fortunes and agreeable manners.

As an instance of the many little fracas that take place (unseen, as the parties suppose) in the presence of Auntie Pyet, we shall give the following:—About four months ago, in the course of an interesting little lete-d-tele, the hearts of Mr. and Miss , unconsciously changed owners, and the pair contracted the tender paction by reciprocal vows of constancy in the light of a full-faced moon, who happened to be the only witness at hand. Next evening, Auntie Pyet, who is a regular visitor in the family of the young lady, observed, in her spy-glass, the gentleman tender the fair one a little turkey-red leather case, about the size of a walnut. On opening which, she took out a very beautiful diamond brooch, and, after viewing it for a moment, with an eye that far outrivalled the lustre of the gem, she pressed it to her lips and then placed it very carefully in her bosom. Miss Pyet instantly put this down as the token of an existing engagement, and, it appears, she was right; for, a few

nights ago, happening to call at Street, she was

informed, that Mr. and Mrs. were from

home, but Miss and Mr. were in the parlour. Our light-footed familiar instantly made her way to their presence, in her usual stealthy manner, and, before her appearance was noticed by the abstracted pair, she observed, by their looks, that it quarrel was on the tapis. The two were seated at opposite sides of the fire, the lady affecting the greatest indifference, and the gentleman scowling and looking as gruff as a chaffed lion. Miss , who first observed the cautious

intruder, rose and affected to receive Miss Pyet with more than usual cordiality, kindly enquiring as to the state of her hearing. The cunning obliquity of her answers were extremely satisfactory, and Miss resumed her seat. The muttering of the small artillery then commenced. The gentleman accused the lady of a breach of appointment: the lady retorted by telling him she had given all the explanation she intended, and added, that she would rather he would withdraw his attentions altogether, than subject her to so much annoyance. Auntie Pyet drew The Day towards her (which happened, as is usual, in every genteel family, to be lying on the table) and began reading. The gentleman sat silent: his under lip firmly compressed between his teeth; his brows knit up into an expression of direful resolution, while his chest rose and fell with strong but suppressed emotion. After the short pause, he, with a lip quivering with high wrought feeling, intimated in an under, but agitated, tone of voice, that it was in her own power to remove him, for ever, from her presence. "By returning the brooch, I presume?" said the lady, "a nod of assent was the reply." The hand of the rash fair one instantly unclasped the talisman from her bosom, and presented it to the owner, who received it with a look, in which surprise, sorrow and mortified pride struggled hard

for the mastery. Rising from his seat, Mr.

approached the fire—" worthless bauble," he exclaimed, as he dropped the sparkling jewel in the flames, "thou art now stripped of all that ever gave thee value." He bad scarcely finished the sentence, when the astonished fair one seized the poker and commenced scattering the hot embers about in all directions, in order to save the gem she had given up with so much precipitation. The brooch was quickly raked out from the glowing recess in the grate.

Miss picked it up with her handkerchief,

while her lover, who had resumed his seat, eyed her with fixed and melancholy regard. His eyes began to glisten to conceal his emotion, he arose to say his last farewell. The lady's handkerchief was now in request. "Stay, William," said she, with an accent, in which pride and tenderness seemed blended together, "and I will play you one tune before you leave me—we had music at our meeting, let there be no discord at our parting." "Cunning little minx," thought Auntie Pyet. "I will hear one tune from you, Eliza," said William, in a woe-begone voice, " and then I am gone, and gone forever." "Very like a whale," thought Auntie Pyet, and she was right— when the heart-strings of young people get fankled together, it is no easy matter, on such short notice, to put them in marching order.

The lady placed herself at the piano, behind where our friend was seated—her tremulous hand ran over the notes. "William" continued to look gravely sad. Auntie Pyet peered over the top of The Day, to

watch his eyes. She was baulked for once. He averted his head, and hid them in his handkerchief. The tune proceeded—from the effects it produced on the pensive listener, it seemed redolent of tender reminiscences. A sigh, full of deep and mournful feeling struggled, as it were, from the bottom of his heart, while an aspiration, expressive of sorrow and regret, responded, like an echo, from the opposite side of the room. William turned his head, rose, and advanced, with timid hesitation, towards the fair musician. Auntie Pyet handled her reflector. "Will you forgive me, dearest Eliza," whispered William, presenting his hand. The lady called him "an unfeeling, passionate wretch," and, playfully, struck away his profered hand, with the back of her fingers. William placed himself by her side, and encircled her waist with his arm. The hand of Aunty Pyet became unsteady, she dropped her reflector, and by the time she recovered it from the folds of her drappery, a sweet reconciliation had taken place. The head of the fair one reclined on the bosom of her lover, whose lips were rivetted in ardent and honourable affection, on her lovely forehead—" forehead!!! oh, what it fib!" Nay, angelical reader, we assure you, by all the reputation we possess, that we have faithfully reported the words of our informer. "I fear, Miss Eliza," said Auntie Pyet, turning half round, "that mama will not be home for some time, so I need not wait."

"She will not be home for an age, at least, but you may wait for all that," said the young lady, half afraid that the last part of the sentence would be complied with.

William made a faint offer of his services, to see our friend home, which she was not so wicked as accept.

We have, therefore, the pleasure to acquaint our fair readers, that the engagement between Mr. William

and Miss Eliza remains as it did, and their

marriage is expected to take place as soon as a certain old gentleman returns from the South of .

We understand that the beautiful and accomplished

Miss A is lending a favourable ear to the addresses

of a wealthy, half civilized nevus homo, from the neighbourhood of A . Uncle Duncan, whom he treated

to a steak, in the " Cage," a few nights ago, assures us that "the confumagation of the match depends upon nothing else than the good-will and pleasure of the young lady herself." The gentleman was quite enthusiastic on the occasion, and Uncle Duncan and he actually got cttppy in drinking the lady's health.

We are perfectly aware that we are now about to I bring a blush over a certain lovely countenance, but if the fair one gets off by being merely a blush out of pocket, she may consider herself as very gently dealt

with. Miss , who occupies one of the back seats

in St. Church, was accompanied last Sunday

to the afternoon sermon, by her intended, and the lady sat nearly the whole time of the service, with her little hand pressed within that of the gentleman. Miss Pyet happened to sit in the seat before them, and by the help of her reflector observed the indecorum, which had such effect upon her religious feeling, (for Auntie Pyet is really a pious woman,) that she charged the young lady the following night with the indiscretion; but, will it be believed, though the circumstance was an undoubted truth, the thoughtless fair one blushed and denied it in the most positive manner. Miss Pyet was perfectly shocked at the jib, but did not choose to explain the evidence she had of the fact. Really, young ladies ought to be more guarded when such a character as Auntie Pyet is abroad.

Our Register for the month having already extended to an unreasonable length, we are compelled to postpone the report of a number of cases, of a very interesting description, some of which, we have no doubt, will create a little sensation among the fashionable part of our community.

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