This a curtain lecture, in which the provocation of the husband is carried to its highest pitch, in which the wife is supposed to be irritated beyond all bearing. That her eloquence should not have had the power to keep him awake, is a circumstance that nearly justifies the coarseness of her language. How he should happen to recollect the contents of her lecture, when it was delivered after he was asleep, can only be accounted for, by presuming that the good lecturer sang a second part of the same tune for his amusement in the morning; or, what is more likely, that the good man lay in a state of mere somnosency, until the tempest had spent its rage, and, like a fractious child, cried itself to rest. Whether her complaints are well or ill founded, is a question to be settled betwixt her and her husband. This is a serious domestic affair; and "the stranger who passes by and meddleth with strife that does not belong to him, is like one who taketh a dog by the ears"-very foolish ;-so we will be wise and let it alone. We have introduced this lecture, merely as a specimen of what too often takes place in scenes, which should be devoted to harmony, to happiness, and to love. We will venture to assert, that discontent and misery, are most frequently to be found in the houses of those, who, while candidates for marriage, were noticed by their acquaintance as impatient lovers. How different is the elysium of chaste and refined affection, from the regions of sensuality and passion! I cannot conclude this paper in a manner more acceptable to every reader of taste and true sensibility, than by adding the following lines, by Sir Thomas Fitzosborne. They are part of a beautiful epithalamium; and his wife was the subject of his elegant eulogy.

Sinks my soul with gloomy pain,
See, she smiles, 'tis joy again ;-
Swells a passion in my breast,
Hark! she speaks and all is rest.
Oft as clouds my path o'erspread,
Doubtful where my steps should tread,
She with judgement's steady ray,
Marks and smooths the better way."

SPIRIT OF FOREIGN JOURNALS.

Literal copy of an Epitaph in Frimley Church Yard.

FIRM to her word she ever stood,

And always kept her promise good,

Nor dar'd to change the thing she swar'd
Whatever pain or loss she bar'd.

Ready Wit.

Some company in Ireland disputing relative to the quickness of reply ascribed to the lower orders of that country, it was resolved to put the matter to the test, in the person of a clown, who was approaching them.

"Pat," said one of the gentlemen, "if the devil were to come, and be determined to have one of us, which do you think he would take ?"

"Me to be sure."

"And why so?"

"Because, he knows he can have your honor at any time."

National Character.

A wit, illustrating the difference of national character between the Scotch and Irish, said, " An Irishman is always calling you out-a Scotchman is always taking you in."

Magdalens.

A French bishop preaching, exclaimed, "A Magdalen present! she is looking at me. I will not mention her name,

but I will throw my book at her." He raised his arm as if to throw, and all the women in the church ducked their heads. "What," said he, " all Magdalens ?"

On the Marriage of Mr. Merry and Miss Wise.
To be merry and wise is an axiom true,

That will carry you cheerfully all the world through :
But 'tis no easy matter the means to devise,

To be at once properly merry and wise :

Thus Miss, who was Wise for a long twenty years,
Is no longer Wise, now she Merry appears,

And Merry's but Merry in name, he's so sad,
That since he's got Wise, he declares he's got mad.

The following epitaph on Robin Hood was lately taken: from the tombstone in Kirklees plantation, adjoining the park and hall in Yorkshire :

Epitaph on the late George Frederick Cooke.

The devil sends us Cooks, they say;

Mere Cooks to roast, perhaps he may,
To boil or fricasee;

Such common kitchen stuff may swarm,
But when will fire as fervid warm
Another Cooke like thee!

Was there no sage in herbs to save

No balm to snatch thee from the grave-
The cooks of cooks restore?

None. The rich feasts that Shakespeare's pen,

That Macklin gave the sons of men,
Shall be recook'd no more.

Rum fellow! may some jug, we pray,
Full shortly animate thy clay-

Still may it bumpers share;
Oh! may thy jovial spirit glide
Securely o'er some nectar's tide,
And help to toast the fair.

FOR THE POLYANTHOS.

THE FREEBooter.

-

"The good humor is to steal at a minute's rest-Convey, the wise it call; steal! a fico for the phrase." Shakspeare.

True Nobility.

RANK, titles, grandeur, are mere earthly baubles. The treasures of an upright heart are the only treasures that moths may not corrupt, or thieves break into and steal. The refinements of the mind are, indeed, what constitute nobility of demeanor, and cannot be dispensed with: they polish with higher lustre than any court etiquette; they give that native elegance which has superior charms to any that can be acquired.

Books.

There is perhaps no manner of making an acquaintance half so delightful, as through the medium of an agreeable book. The passages of the work which accord with the feelings of those of the persons engaged in its perusal, fill the mind with an agreeable idea of the harmony, which may subsist between two human beings that have never met, and that perhaps never may meet in this world. And there is something so ineffably gratifying to the heart, in feeling assured that some other is in unison with our own, that the idea diffuses at once, a serenity and fullness of enjoyment over our minds, which must for a time shut out all regrets for the past,

and all anxieties for the future; this, however, cannot last long; some reality breaks the enchantment, and recals us to the cares of life.

Images of time and eternity.

There is something attractive in the contemplation of a river; it is not indeed so vast, so sublime, as that which we experience, when gazing on the boundless expanse of the world of waters-the mighty ocean; but it is more analogous to the mind of man in its mortal state-the one is the image of life, the other of eternity.

Gratitude.

A heart accustomed to grateful emotions, avoids that arid desolation, which is the most insupportable torture the human mind can feel; and the being who refers all events to the great First Cause, possesses a staff of comfort which the world can neither give nor take away.

Taste.

If an attachment to the Muses diminishes our chance of wealth, it also lessens our desire for it. Taste is perhaps the best corrective of avarice; and that, probably, is one reason why, in commercial states, it is so little esteemed.

The Muse and Mammon cannot be worshipped at the same altar. A love for the arts excludes all grosser passions from the soul. Taste is the angel, that drives the money changers out of the temple of Mind, and leaves it to the possession of every human virtue.

The reason why the quarrels of poets and painters acquire more notoriety than those of any other profession, explained.

Lawyers, divines, and physicians, may indulge themselves for years, in all the virulent variety of legal, clerical, and medical animosity, and the public suffer them to fight it out, without any disposition to attend, or attempt to interfere; but the sparrings of the Muses are interesting to all the am