But poor Annie suffers, though justice overtakes her faithless lover; It's deep in the greaf dear Annie was laid; O'er Ulrich croak'd the ravens young, In another story, "The Jew in the bush," the connexion is with the old English ballad of "The Frere and the Boy," which was first "imprynted by Wynkyn de Worde," and re-published by Ritson. It turns upon the ancient legend of the dance-inspiring pipe, horn, or fiddle. A youth having bestowed all he had upon a dwarfish imp in charity, receives from him in return a wonderful bow, and a fiddle that inspires a dancing mania in all who hear it. He tries the bow by shooting a bird, and selects an old Jew on whom to try the fiddle, by sending him to pick the bird out of the bush into which it had fallen, and then commencing his tune. The poor Jew's dancing faculties are thus put in requisition in a most inconvenient position for their exercise, and the unfortunate wretch is almost torn to pieces by the penance, from which he is only released on payment of a heavy price. The judge is complained to, the urchin brought for trial, and sentence pronounced. As a last request he begs for leave to play a jig on his way to execution; which, being thought reasonable, is granted, under protest from the Jew, who takes care to have himself tied to a post. The consequences are easily foreseen: Judge, Court, audience, and finally the whole crowd, join in the dance. The Jew breaks his precautionary bonds, and all are finally glad to release a troublesome prisoner. The English ballad sends forth the hero, "a sturdy ladde," to tend his father's cattle, where he relieves an old man's hunger, and receives in return, first, A Bowe Secondly, a pipe of such power that All that may the pype here, Shall not themselfe stere, But laugh and lepe aboute. The third gift (which it is not meet we should here detail) was for the special annoyance of the lad's stepmother. The Frere undertakes the urchin's discipline, but is, like the Jew, inveigled into the bush; He hopped wondrous hye, At the last he held up his honde, For his pranks Jack is taken before the "Offycyall," who is incredulous, and requires evidence of his powers. He soon, however, hears enough, and Cryed unto the chylde To pype no more within this place. The introductory essays of M. M. Grimm shew many coincidences in the traditions, songs, and diversions of German children, with those which still keep their ground among us. We were pleased to see Robin Redbreast preserve his friendly relations towards man. His kind offices towards "the Babes in the Wood," is explained by the German tradition that this little bird cannot endure the sight of a corpse, but immediately hastens to provide it with the simple covering within its reach. Many coincidences in the songs of the two countries might be pointed out: we will merely give as a specimen the pretty little address to the Lady-bird (Marien-wurmchen), of which we have in England preserved only the second verse. The whole ditty may be thus translated. Lady-bird! Lady-bird! pretty one, stay, With me shall no mischief betide thee; Hark! hark! to thy children's bewailing! They'll love thee, and ever befriend thee. As we must deny ourselves the gratification of giving one of the beautiful beast stories, which, with their good-natured frolic honesty, are in the highest degree entertaining and edifying, we can only assure our young readers that they lose a great treat, many choice " passages" in the careers of their friends the wolf and the fox; and that the loss of such recreation is no way compensated by the substitute offered, we observe, at the corner of St. Paul's Church-yard, in "The Adventures of Cato, a Dog of sentiment." TO A LADY WHO SAID SHE WAS UNHAPPY. "Inter spem, curamque, timores inter et iras, A SPIRIT, Lady, pure as thine, Must ne'er like sinful souls be sad : That leads us onward to the tomb; What joys, what grieves us now-to-morrow ON TALKERS. THERE are as many varieties of talkers as there are of tulips; to classify them would require the nice discernment and patient perseverance of an ethical Linnæus; and when done, it would be an useless classification, unless, indeed, Taste could be brought to have a love for the cultivation of them, with an ulterior view to the improvement of the several classes, by marrying a common female scold of the last class, with a refined male babbler of the first; and thus effect, by artificial methods, what wisdom, with all her old endeavours, could never work by any means-an improvement of talkers generally. There is, however, a pleasure in holding up a few of the first classes of talkers to attentive notice, somewhat similar to that which a Dutch tulip-fancier feels, when he displays to the curious, wondering eyes of one not in the fancy, (who had perceived, on being shewn a bed of them, that they were all tulips, but did not discern the nicer streaks of difference between them,) "Some faultless tulip which the Dutch ne'er saw." The first, and most common class of talkers, is composed of common babblers. There are several varieties of these; but the most disagreeable is the long-tongued babbler. One of them is sufficient to set a whole village at war, or disturb the peace and sacredness of virtuous privacy. Rather than be silent, he will wound his dearest friend, with a tongue, which, like Laertes' foil, poisons wherever it touches; and sometimes even him who first used it. From this sort of talker you learn the origin of Miss Jones's finery, and Miss Jenkins's faux pas; the state of Mr. Tomkins's embarrassment, &c. &c. Or if you fear what the world thinks of your own character for virtue or folly, you may have your misgivings confirmed to your entire dissatisfaction. He publishes a pernicious piece of truth or scandal in the morning, and follows the sound of his own rumour, as a wether-mutton follows his own bell. Another variety is the dull, or harmless babbler. He talks in his turn and out of his turn, in season and out of season, and yet has nothing to say. You may, perhaps, learn from him that it rained yesterday; and backed by the boldness of his fears, you may get some credit for weather wisdom, if you doubt whether it will not rain to-morrow. He is Francis Moore's counterpart. The second class are the small talkers. These are tea-table appendages, and sometimes hang by the dexter bend of ladies elbows; and are usually "prim, puss-gentlemen," all prettiness and pettiness. Ceaseless tonguers of" words of no tone," they lisp, or cultivate some delicate mispronunciation of one of the four-and-twenty letters, or of a few well-selected syllables. They have a chicken's perseverance in picking up the smallest grain or chaff of tea-table intelligence, yet are not greedy in the possession of it: you may have their second-hand nothings at less than the cost trouble. Their wit is as an island in a vast sea of three months' sail; you may steer round it, and by it, and never make it: or if you think you descry it in the offing, you may tack for it, and hope to drift to its shore; but when you really see it under your bow, you may coast round it, and cast out your grappleanchor to hold by it: but you might as soon tie your hose or your horse up with a sunbeam, or get a will o' the wisp to light you like a well-bred watchman to your lodgings, as make ground there. The light of their minds need not be hidden under a bushel: a one-pill box would be a dome of "ample space and verge enough" for it. Like one "good deed in a naughty world," it might shine far and wide therein, and yet not gild its confines. Their most delicate, prim mouths are like a perfumer's shop, for they breathe nothing but sweets. "Miss A. has the sweetest pug-puppy from Paris that is in the world:" and "Mrs. B. a sweet cat in her establishment." Their talk only breathes honey, essence of Tyre, bloom of Ninon, violet washes, and a thousand essences that are advertized in the newspapers. They" die of a rose in aromatic" anguish, and are recovered by lavender-water, and other "soft appliances," fifty times an hour, in their "over-exquisite" moods. I would sooner sit at an opera with five Jews in the same box, or be in a small room with three Frenchmen, than talk with one of these. The third are those of the objective class. Be your opinions what they may, however undeniable, correct, settled, or well-digested, they will chew them over, and object to them. They will find flaws in diamond-wit of the first water, motes in the brightest rays of the mind, and beams in the eyes of Truth. I know such an one. If you would take an advantage which he is gaining in argument, out of his mouth, throw down a bad pun, as burglars toss a bribe of meat to a house-dog who is getting the 'vantage ground of them, and he instantly drops the argument, (as that fabulous dog dropped his substantial meat in the river for the duplicate shadow of it,) to tear the poor pun to pieces, analyzing nothing, till he proves that it is no more than nothing; and when he has satisfied himself to conviction, that a bad pun is not a good one, he is obliged, after all, from politeness, to laugh reluctantly at the joke. The fourth is the contradictory class. Let your opinions to-day be to the letter what their's were yesterday, and they will instantly run an opposition-coach against your's, upset you on the mud-bank of their own opinions, and leave you, sprawling and bespattered, to get up as you can. When you have run them to a stand on one point, and they find you are fixed on agreeing with them, and they cannot object to the matter of your opinions, they have still a resource left, in objecting to your manner of uttering them. You speak unaffectedly, and they censure you for mediocrity, a bald plainness, and want of spirit and imagination. The fifth class consists of the talkers in admirations. I heard one of these, the other day. His conversation, if such it might be called, was all exclamation, like a German drama; and was made up of a due jargon of Good-Gods! God-bless-mes! Is-it-possibles! Who'd-havethought-its! You-astonish-mes! &c. The sixth are the interrogative class. Their talk is all question: I should think their tongues were shaped like a note of interrogation. I know one of this genus. You feel, in conversing with him, as a catechized charity-boy does, when he is asked what his godfather promised not to do for him. Talk an hour dead with one of this class, and you will only hear from him such interrogatory affirmations as these following: "And so Jones is well?-and Johnson's married?-and you really now prefer Pope to Pomfret ?-and you seriously deny that alderman Curtis is the author of Junius?-and affirm that Dr. Watts did not write "The Frisky Songster?" The seventh, and most insufferable class, are the exclusive talkers. One of these will undertake to talk for all the company present. If you impatiently throw in but one little word, it is like flinging a large stone into a quick current-it disturbs, but cannot impede it, and rather impels it still faster onward:-or like striking a spark into a barrel of gunpowder-a fresh explosion of words spreads a hubbub and confusion all around it. Though he tells you every thing you already know, you cannot tell him any thing that he does not know. He can tell you what a new book contains that is to come out next Tuesday, as well as if he was himself Wednesday; or anticipate the merits of a great picture on the easel. If you mean to see the new tragedy, he has seen it, and he destroys all the delight you would have in its newness, by repeating the best points of it, and by unravelling its plot. If you set out with an anecdote, he snatches it out of your mouth, as a covetous dog would a desired bone from his best boon companion and dearest puppy-friend, and tells it for you. You object that your's was a diffe rent version of the same story, and gently persist in telling it your own way: he knows the other version as well as you do, and re-relates it for you, but thinks his own the best. If you persist, after all, in telling it for yourself, he will insinuate to-morrow that you are in your anecdotage, and declare that you are the worst teller of a good thing since Goldsmith. You could not have done a worse thing than start an anecdote in his hearing, for that one is too sure of reminding him of a hundred others; and the last one of that first century of good things is so nearly related to the first of the second century, that he cannot choose but relate it, and you dare not choose but hear it. If you commence a favourite quotation, he takes up the second line, goes on with it, and ends by quoting twice as much as you intended. This invariably leads him to recollect another poem by the same author, which no doubt you have heard, but Mrs. Jones, who is present, would perhaps like to hear; and then he begins it without farther prelude, and you can, if you please, go to sleep ad interim, if you have no fear of his reproach for want of taste, &c. before your eyes, to keep them open. You have been to Paris, and he informs you of your expenses on the road:-or you are going to Scotland, and he narrates most pathetically the miseries of a German inn. Of all talkers these are the worst. The eighth class are the exaggerators, not the professional, but amateur fibbers. These are a pleasant set of talkers: you must not, to be sure, take them literally. It is a humour that even witty persons cannot always appreciate; to your thoroughly sensible and one-and-onemake-two sort of minds, "it is a stumbling-block and a reproach." It is, perhaps, as to its conversational value, mere nonsense: it is what an ingenious punster (fracturing a French word in pieces) considers bad-in-age, and not very good in youth. But, most sensible reader, shut not thine ears against it: if thou wouldst enjoy Sense at any time, listen sometimes to his less capable brother, Nonsense. After the mind has been wearied by abstruse studies, or worldly carkings, or imaginary ills, or positive griefs, is not nonsense like letting a longstrained bow relax; or giving slackness to a lute-string? Nonsense is |