DR. JOHNSON'S PUDDING.

(From the Reminiscences of Henry Angelo,) Some years ago I made another excursion to Scotland, with the intention of completing my series of views, and went over the same ground described by the learned tourists, Dr. Johnson and Boswell. Being in the habit of taking very long walks on these occasions, and perceiving a storm threaten, I made the best of my way to a small building. I arrived in time at a neat little inn, and was received by a respectable-looking man and his wife, who did all in their power to make me comfortable. After eating some excellent fried mutton chops, and drinking a quart of ale, I asked the landlord to sit down, and partake of a bowl of whiskey punch. I found him, as the Scotch generally are, very intelligent, and full of anecdote, of which the following may serve as a specimen :

"Sir," said the landlord, "this inn was formerly kept by Andrew Macgregor, a relation of mine, and these hard-bottomed chairs (in which we are now sitting) were, years ago filled by the great tourists, Dr. Johnson and Boswell, travelling like the lion and jackal. Boswell generally preceded the doctor in search of food, and being much pleased with the look of the house, he followed his nose into the larder, where he saw a fine leg of mutton. He ordered it to be roasted with the utmost expedition, and gave particular orders for a nice pudding. "Now," says he, "make the best of all puddings." Elated with his good luck, he immediately went out in search of his friend, and saw the giant of learning slowly advancing on a pony. "My dear sir," said Boswell, out of breath with joy, "good news! I have just bespoke, at a comfortable clean inn here, a delicious leg of mutton; it is now getting ready, and I flatter myself we shall make an excellent meal." Johnson looked pleased-" And, I hope," said he, "you have bespoke a pudding." "Sir, you will have your favourite pudding," replied the other.

Johnson got off his pony, and the poor animal, relieved from the giant, smelt its way into the stable. Boswell ushered the doctor into the house, and left him to prepare for his delicious treat. Johnson,

feeling his coat rather damp, from the mist of the mountains, went into the kitchen and threw his upper garment on a chair before the fire: he sat on the hob, near a little boy who was very busy attending the meat. Johnson occasionally peeped from behind his seat, while the boy kept basting the mutton. Johnson did not like the appearance of his head; when he shifted the basting ladle from one hand, the other hand was never idle, and the doctor thought at the same time he saw something fall on the meat; upon which he determined to eat no mutton on that day. The dinner announced, Boswell exclaimed, "My dear doctor, here comes the mutton; what a picture! done to a turn, and looks so beautifully brown!" The doctor tittered. After a short pause, Boswell said

"I suppose, sir, I am to carve as usual; what part shall I help you to?"

"My dear Bozzy, I did not like to tell you before, but I am determined to abstain from meat to-day."

"Oh, dear! this is a great disappointment," said Bozzy.

"Say no more, I shall inake myself ample amends with the pudding.”

Boswell commenced the attack, and made a first cut at the mutton. "How the gravy runs; what fine flavoured fatso nice and brown too. Oh, sir, you would have relished this prime piece of mutton."

The meat being removed, in came the long-wished-for pudding. The doctor looked joyous, fell eagerly to, and in a few minutes nearly finished all the pudding. The table was cleared, and Boswell said-" Doctor, while I was eating the mutton, you seemed frequently inclined to laugh; pray tell me what tickled your fancy?"

The doctor then literally told him all that had passed at the kitchen fire, about the boy and the basting. Boswell turned as pale as a parsnip, and, sick of himself and the company, darted out of the room. Somewhat relieved, on returning, he insisted on seeing the dirty little rascally boy, whom he severely reprimanded before Johnson. The poor boy cried: the doctor laughed.

"You little, filthy, snivelling rascal," said Boswell, "when you basted the meat, why did you not put on the cap I saw you in this morning?"

"I couldn't sir," said the boy.

66

No, why couldn't you?" said Boswell. "Because my mammy took it from me to boil the pudding in!

The doctor gathered up his herculean frame, stood erect, touched the ceiling with his wig, stared, or squinted,-indeed, looked any way but the right way. At last, with mouth wide open (none of the smallest) and stomach heaving, he, with some difficulty, recovered his breath, and, looking at Boswell with dignified contempt, he roared out, with the lungs of a stentor, "Mr. Boswell, sir, leave off laughing; and, under the pain of my eternal displeasure, never utter a single syllable of this abominable adventure to any soul living, while you breathe."

would cry,

I go a cheaper way to work than that."

แ

A cheaper?"

"Why, ah-I always steals mine ready made."

brought 'em ;

All siz'd and sorted town-made brooms, For sweeping stables, gardens, hearths,

or rooms,

So cheap! as quite astonish'd all who bought 'em!

Thus, for a while, he drove a roaring trade, And wisely thought a pretty purse to have made,

When on a dismal day, at every door, Where oft he'd sold his dog-cheap goods before,

With freezing looks, his customers all told him,

Another broom-monger they'd found, That travell'd far and wide the country round,

And in all sorts and sizes, under-sold him. Scratching his wig he left 'em, musing deep, With knitted brows-up to his ears in thought,

To guess, where in the deuce could brooms

be bought,

That any mortal man could sell so cheap. When lo as through the streets he slowly

passes,

A voice as clear as raven's, owl's, or ass's, And just as musical, rung in his ears, like thunder,

(Half-splitting his thick head, and wig cramm'd full of wonder,)

AND DECAYED PUNSTERS.

[OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES, M. D., an American physician and author, was born at Cambridge, Mass., Aug.

29, 1809. In 1829 he graduated at Harvard College

and entered upon the study of law, but soon adopted He studied in

his father's profession-medicine. Europe, graduated as doctor of medicine in 1836, and

two years after was appointed professor of anatomy and physiology in Dartmouth College; and in 1847 was transferred to the same chair at Harvard, the medical department of which is at Boston, where he has since

resided. Dr. Holmes is not only a man of science, but

a humorous and satirical poet of much ability. Several of his lyrics also are among the most exquisite produc

ed in America. Most of his poems have been delivered

before College literary societies, as Poetry, a metrical

Essay; Terpsichore; Urania; and Astraea. In 1875 he

contributed his Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, a connected series of prose essays, to the Atlantic Monthly, which was followed by The Professor at the Breakfast

Table, and the Poet of the Breakfast Table (1872). A remarkable work is the singular romance, Elsie Venner (1861). Published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Boston.

Having just returned from a visit to this admirable Institution in company with a friend who is one of the Directors, we propose giving a short account of what we saw and heard. The great success of the Asylum for Idiots and Feeble-minded Youth, several of the scholars from which

Associating baked beans with the benefactors of the Institution.

Saying that beef-eating is befitting, etc.,

etc.

The following are also prohibited, excepting to such Inmates as may have lost their faculties and cannot any longer make Puns of their own:

your own hair or a wig;" ". "it will be long enough," etc., etc.; little of its age," etc., etc.;-also, playing upon the following words: hospital; mayor; pun; pitied; bread; sauce, etc., etc., etc. See INDEX EXPURGATORIUS, printed for use of Inmates.

The subjoined Conundrum is not allowed: Why is Hasty Pudding like the Prince? Because it comes attended by its sweet;-nor this variation to it, to wit: Because the 'lasses runs after it.

The Superintendent, who went round with us, had been a noted punster in his time, and well known in the business world, but lost his customers by making too free with their names,-as in the famous story he set afloat in '29 of four Jerries attaching to the names of a noted Judge, an eminent Lawyer, the Secretary of the Board of Foreign Missions, and the well-known Landlord at Springfield. One of the four Jerries, he added, was of gigantic magnitude. The play on words was brought out by an accidental remark of Solomons, the well-known Banker. "Capital Punishment!" the Jew was overheard saying, with reference to the guilty parties. He was understood as saying, A capital pun is meant, which led to an investigation and the relief of the greatly excited public mind.

The Superintendent showed some of his old tendencies, as he went round with us. "Do you know"-he broke out all at once "why they don't take steppes in Tar་ tary for establishing Insane Hospitals?” We both confessed ignorance.

"Because there are nomad people to be found there," he said, with a dignified smile.

He proceeded to introduce us to different Inmates. The first was a middle-aged. scholarly man, who was seated at a table with a Webster's Dictionary and a sheet

of paper before him.

Well, what luck to-day, Mr. Mowzer?" "Three or four only," said Mr. Mowzer. "Will you hear 'em now,-now I'm here?" We all nodded.

"Don't you see Webster ers in the words center and theater?

"If he spells leather lether, and feather fether, isn't there danger that he'll give us a bad spell of weather?

"Besides, Webster is a resurrectionist; he does not allow u to rest quietly in the mould.

"And again, because Mr. Worcester inserts an illustration in his text, is that any reason why Mr. Webster's publishers should hitch one on in their appendix? It's what I call a Connect-a-cut trick.

66

Why is his way of spelling like the floor of an oven? Because it is, under bread."

"Mowzer!" said the Superintendent, "that word is on the Index!"

"I forgot," said Mr. Mowzer; "please don't deprive me of Vanity Fair, this one time, Sir.

"These are all, this morning. Good day, Gentlemen." Then to the Superintendent,-"Add you, Sir!”

The next Inmate was a semi-idiotic looking old man. He had a heap of blockletters before him, and, as we came up, he pointed, without saying a word, to the arrangements he had made with them on the table. They were evidently anagrams, and had the merit of transposing the letters of the words employed without addition or subtraction. Here are a few of them :

TIMES
POST
TRIBUNE
WORLD

ADVERTISER

IS TRUE! READ! ALL O' TH' PAY. ALLOPATHY HOMEOPATHY. O, THE—! O! O, MY! PAH! The mention of several New York papers led to two or three questions. Thus: Whether the Editor of the Tribune was H. G. really? If the complexion of his politics were not accounted for by his be ing an eager person himself? Whether Wendell Fillips were not a reduced copy of John Knocks? Whether a New York Feuilletoniste is not the same thing as a Fellow down East?

At this time a plausible-looking, baldheaded man joined us, evidently waiting to take a part in the conversation.

"Good morning, Mr. Riggles," said the Superintendent. "Anything fresh this morning? Any Conundrum?"