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head, were stuck over the chimney; and round the walls several paltry, unframed pictures, which he observed were all of his own drawing: What do you think, Sir, of that head in the corner, done in the manner of Grisoni? There's the true keeping in it; it's my own face; and, though there happens to be no likeness, a countess offered me a hundred for its fellow; I refused her, for, hang it, that would be mechanical you know.'

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The wife, at last, made her appearance; at once a slattern and a coquet; much emaciated, but still carrying the remains of beauty. She made twenty apologies for being seen in such an odious dishabille, but hoped to be excused, as she had staid out all night at Vauxhall Gardens with the countess, who was excessively fond of the horns. And indeed, my dear,' added she, turning to her husband, his lordship drank your health in a bumper.' Poor Jack,' cries he, a dear good natured creature, I know he loves me ; but I hope, my dear, you have given orders for dinner; you need make no great preparations neither, there are but three of us; something elegant, and a little will do; a turbot, an ortolan, or 'Or what do you think, my dear,' interrupts the wife, 'of a nice pretty bit of ox-cheek, piping hot, and dressed with a little of my own sauce?' The very thing,' replies he; it will eat best with some smart bottled beer; but be sure to let's have the sauce his grace was so fond of. I hate your immense loads of meat; that is country all over; extreme disgusting to those who are in the least acquainted with high-life.'

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By this time my curiosity began to abate, and my appetite to increase; the company of fools may at first make us smile, but at last never fails of rendering us melancholy. I therefore pretended to recollect a prior engagement, and, after having shown my respect to the house, by giving the old servant a piece of money at the door, I took my leave—Mr Tibbs assuring me that dinner, if I staid, would be ready at least in less than two hours.

HOFFMANN.

THE following humorous sketch is from The Devil's Elixer,' a German novel, by E. T. A. Hoffmann, lately translated into English by Mr Gillies, we believe-all whose translations are distinguished for their spirit, taste, and fidelity.

THE IRISHMAN.

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ON my way home, about a year ago, I came to a large handsome village, about four German miles from Berlin and being much fatigued, resolved to rest there, instead of going to the capital. The landlord directly showed me to a good room, where, after supper, I threw myself into bed, and directly fell asleep. About one in the morning, however, I was suddenly awoke by a noise, which, assimilating with a fearful dream with which I had just then been haunted, I imagined to be either the shrieking of an owl at the window, or the cries of a person in distress, for I had dreamed of both.

It was, however, the sound of a German flute which proceeded from a room very near me; but in my whole life, before or since, I have never heard such an abominable attempt at music. The man must have had monstrous and gigantic powers of lungs; for, in one loud, shrill, cutting key, he went on without mercy, so that the character of the instrument was perfectly annihilated.. What added, if possible, to this enormity, was, that he blew everlastingly the same identical passage over and over, not granting me the slightest relief, by an endeavour at a tune, so that nothing could be conceived more abominable. I raved at, cursed, and abused this infernal musician, who so cruelly deprived me of needful rest, and by whom my ears were so barbarously outraged; but, like the wound-up piece of clock-work, the diabolical flute continued to utter the same notes over and

over, until I thought the devil himself must be the player, for no one else could have had physical strength to hold out so long. At last, I heard something thrown with great violence, and a loud crack against the wainscot; after which there was a dead silence, and I could for the rest of the night sleep in peace.

In the morning I heard a great noise of quarrelling and scolding in the lower floor of the house. In the row I could now and then distinguish the voice of my host, who was scarcely allowed, however, to throw in a word, by a man who roared without ceasing, in broken German-' May your house be damned! Would that I had never been so unlucky as to cross the threshold! The devil himself must have brought me hither, where one can neither drink, eat, nor enjoy himself-where every thing is infamously bad, and dog-dear. There, Sir, you have your money; and as for your rascally gin-shop, you shall never more see me again within its walls.' Having just then finished my toilet, I was in time to behold the author of all this disturbance. He was a little, withered man, in a coffee-brown coat, and a round fox-red wig, on which, with a martial air of defiance, he stuck a little grey hat; then ran out of the house towards the stable, from which I soon afterwards saw him re-appear, with a horse fully as odd-looking as himself, on which he mounted, and, at a heavy awkward gallop, rode off the field.

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Of course, I supposed he was like myself, an entire stranger, who had quarrelled with the landlord, and had now taken his final departure. I dismissed him, therefore, from my thoughts; but, at dinner-time, (having been induced to remain another day at the village,) how was I surprised, on taking my place at the table d'Hote, to perceive the same absurd coffee-brown figure, with the fox-red wig, who, without ceremony, drew in his chair opposite to mine! He had one of the ugliest, and most laughable visages that I had ever beheld. In his whole demeanour, there was a kind of grave and solemn absurdity that was irresistible. During dinner, I kept up a monosyllabic dialogue with mine host, while the stranger continued to eat voraciously, and took no notice whatever of any one.

At last, the innkeeper, with a sly wink at me, led the discourse to national peculiarities, and asked me whether I had ever been acquainted with an Irishman, or knew what was meant by Irish bulls, for which that country was cele

brated. " Unquestionably,' said I; I have heard many such; and a whole string of these blunders came at once into my head. I then told the story of the Irishman, who, when asked why he wore stockings with the wrong side out, answered, because there was a hole in the other side;' of the still better anecdote of another disciple of St Patrick, who was sleeping in the same bed with a choleric Scotch highlander. An English wag, who was lodged in the same room, by way of a practical joke, took one of the Irishman's spurs, and, perceiving that he was fast asleep, buckled it on his heel. Soon after, the Irishman happening to turn round, tore the Scotchman's leg with the spur; whereupon the latter, in great wrath, gave his companion a violent box on the ear, and the Englishman had the satisfaction of hearing betwixt them the following ingenious dis course: What devil,' said the Irishman, has got possesIsion of you? and why are you beating me? Because,' said the other, you have torn me with your spurs.'' How is that possible? I took off my clothes. And yet it is so see only here. Damnation!-you are in the right. The rascally waiter has pulled off my boots, but left on the spurs !'

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The story, however old, was new to the innkeeper, who broke out into immoderate laughter; but the stranger, who had now wound up his dinner with a great draught of beer from a glass as high as a church tower, looked at me gravely, and said You have spoken well, Sir. The Irishmen cer, tainly do make these bulls; but this by no means depends upon the character of the people, who are ingenious and witty, but on the cursed air of that damp country, which infects one with them, as with coughs and catarrhs. I myself, Sir, am an Englishman, though born and bred in Ireland, and therefore am, on that account, subjected to the vile propensity of making bulls.'

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Hereupon the innkeper laughed more and more, and I was obliged to join him heartily, for it was delightful that the Irishman, gravely lecturing on bulls, should unconsciously give us one of the very best as a specimen. The stranger seemed not in the least offended by our laughing. In England,' said he with his finger on his nose, and dilating his eyes in England, the Irishmen are like strong spices added to society to render it tasteful. I am myself, in one respect, like Falstaff; I am not only witty in myself, but the cause of wit in others, which, in these times, is no slight

accomplishment. Could you suppose it possible, that in the empty leathern brain of this innkeeper, wit, generated by me, is now and then roused? But mine host is, in this respect, a prudent man. He takes care not to draw on the small capital that he possesses of his own, but lends out a thought now and then at interest, when he finds himself in the society of the rich!' With these words, the little original rose and left us. I immediately begged the innkeeper to give me something of his history.

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This Irishman,' said mine host, whose name is Ewson, and who, on that account, will have himself to be an Eng lishman, has now been here for the short period of twentytwo years! As a young man, I had just set up in the world, purchased a lease of this inn, and it happened to be on my wedding day when Mr Ewson first arrived among us. He was then a youth, but wore his fox-red wig, his grey hat, and coffee-brown coat, exactly as you saw him to-day. He then seemed to be travelling in great haste, and said that he was on his return to his own country; however, hearing the band of music which played at my wedding feast, he was so much delighted with it that he came into the house and insisted on making one of the party. Hereupon, though he approved our music, he swore that it was only on board an English war-ship that people knew how to dance; and to prove his assertion, gave us a hornpipe, whistling to it all the while most horribly through his teeth, fell down, dislocated his ankle, and was, of course, obliged to remain with us till it was cured.

• Since that time he has never left my house, though I have had enough to do with his peculiarities. Every day through these twenty-two years, he has quarrelled with me. He despises my mode of life, complains that my bills are overcharged; that he cannot live any longer without roastbeef and porter; packs up his portmanteau, with his three red wigs one above the other, mounts an old broken-winded horse, and rides away. This, however, turns out nothing more than a ride for exercise; for at dinner-time he comes in at the other end of the town, and in due time makes his appearance at my table, eating as much of the despised dishes as might serve for any three men!

'Once every year he receives from his own country`a valuable bank-bill. Then, with an air of the deepest melancholy, he bids me farewell, calls me his best friend, and sheds tears, which I do also; but with me they are tears of laugh

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