ection of a pistole a head from the members, for some general
expense. Not observing that the President Rose, who was very penurious,
had put his money in the hat, he presented it to him a second time. M.
Rose assured him that he had put in his pistole. "I believe it," said
the Abbe, "though I did not see it." "And I," said Fontenelle, "saw it,
and could not believe it."

STERLING COMPOSITION.

AT a party of noblemen of wit and genius, it was proposed to try their
skill in composition, each writing a sentence on whatsoever subject he
thought proper, and the decision was left to Dryden, who formed one of
the company. The poet having read them all, said, "There are here
abundance of fine things, and such as do honor to the noble writers, but
I am under the indispensable necessity of giving the palm to my lord
Dorset; and when I have read it, I am convinced your lordships will all
be satisfied with my judgment--these are the inimitable words:

"'I promise to pay to John Dryden, on order, the sum of five hundred
pounds.

DORSET.'"

A CARD PUN.

A BUTCHER'S boy, running against a gentleman with his tray, made him
exclaim, "The _deuce_ take the _tray_!" "Sir," said the lad, "the _deuce
can't take the tray_."

A WHIMSICAL IDEA.

THE late Sir Thomas Robinson was a tall, uncouth figure, and his
appearance was still more grotesque, from his hunting-dress: a
postilion's cap, a tight green jacket, and buckskin breeches. Being at
Paris, and going in this habit to visit his sister, who was married, and
settled there, he arrived when there was a large company at dinner. The
servant announced M. Robinson, and he entered, to the great amazement of
the guests. Among others, an Abbe thrice lifted his fork to his mouth,
and thrice laid it down, with an eager stare of surprise. Unable longer
to restrain his curiosity, he burst out with, "Excuse me, Sir, are you
the _Robinson Crusoe_ so famous in history?"

AN IRISH SOLDIER'S QUARTERS.

TWO Irish soldiers being stationed in a borough in the west of England,
got into a conversation respecting their quarters. "How," said the one,
"are you quartered?" "Pretty well." "What part of the house do you sleep
in?" "Upstairs." "In the garret, perhaps?" "The garret! no, Dennis
O'Brien would never sleep in the garret." "Where then?" "Why, I know not
what you call it; but if the house were turned topsy turvy, I should be
in the cellar."

THAT'S SO.