GLEANINGS.
In Ainsworth's Magazine there is an account of "A Night with Burns," by Dr. Shelton Mackenzie; which, although too much concocted after a fashion that is the vice of magazines, is characteristic and entertaining. One Andrew Horner, a resident in Carlisle, went to Glasgow, to publish a volume of' poems, much admired by himself. Oddly enough, on his way home, he strayed out of the direct road into Ayr; where he met with Burns at a public-house, and some boon companions set the poet errant and the poet resident (whose fame was then unmade) to try their strength in a match of verse-making. "An epigram was the subject chosen, because, as Andrew internally argued, 'it is the shortest of all poems.' In compliment to him, the company resolved that his own merits should supply the theme. He commenced- • Iu seventeen Minder thretty-nine'— and he paused. He then said, Ye see, I was born in 1739, [the real date WAS some year earlier, so I mak' that the commencemen He then took pen in band, folded his paper with a conscious air of authorship, squared himself to the table, like one who considered it no trifle even to write a letter, and slowly put down, in good round hand, as if he had been making out a bill of parcele, the line— In seventeen bunder thretty-nine '; but beyond this, after repeated attempts, he was unable to advance. The second line was the Rubicon he could not pass. At last, when Andrew Horner reluctantly admitted that he was not quite in the vein, the pen' ink, and paper, were handed to his antagonist. By him they were rejected, for he instantly gave the following, viva voce— In seventeen hunder thretty-nine,
The Dell gat stuff to male a swine.
Aud pit it in a corner; But, shortly after, changed his plan, Made it to something like a man. And called it Andrew Horner 1 ' The subject of this stinging stanza had the good sense not to be offended with its satire, cheerfully paid the wager, set to for a night's revelry with his new- friends, and thrust his poems between the bars of the grate, when the sma' i hours' came on to four n the morning. As his poetic rival then kindly rolled up the hearth-rug in a quiet corner of the room, to serve as a pillow for the vanquished rhymester—then, literally, a carpet knight—the old man, better prophet than poet, exclaimed, 'Hoot, mon, but ye'll be a great poet yet ! '" "One who has a Good Memory" continues in Fraser's Magazine his reminiscences of Louis Philippe, now considered as King of the French : but here the writer has entered upon ground more within everybody's memory, and more also within the debateable sphere of contemporary polities. It is, however, still readable and amusing. A trait of Charles the Tenth, after the troubles of 1830 had broken out, imparts, in its calm courage, an air of respectability to that Monarch's remarkable obtuseness. Louis the Sixteenth might naturally he taken by surprise when the first revo- lution broke the despotic dream of ages; but Charles had witnessed a revolu- tion—and in vain I "The Monarch was imperturbable, and assured the Dot- chess [de Berri] there was unreason for any apprehension respecting the result. Even the arrival of a young artist at the palace charged, to take the portrait of the King, and who gave a graphic and fearful account of the scenes he had witnessed, did not move that Prince ; who, after having listened with attention to the recital, said, Ce n'est rien, tout cela finira cc soir ; ce n'est presque rims. Tenez, mon cher, ce que vous avez de mieux k faire c'est de commencer mon portrait.' And then Charles the Tenth sat down before the artist, and his features did not evince the slightest change. Not so the painter : he could not proceed. The King perceived it. 'Eh bien!' said the Monarch, with unruffled composure, 'cc sera pour la semaine prochaine.'" The writer says, it was at the office of the National newspaper that the name of the Duke of Orleans was first put forward as King.
Time was when the innermost garment of a lady was called a smock ; and for centuries after Shakspeare the word suggested no indelicate ideas to those who looked unmoved at the naked figures of Titian. The world became more and more refined; smock was inserted in the Index Expurgatorius, and the word shift took its place. What could possibly be more pure and unsuggestive —a shift! a change—that is all. A change of linen ! In time it was found that even this simple and diffused generality became offensive. Purity itself, however, could suggest nothing more inoffensive than a change of linen, a shift. Bashfulness (which is not always modaty) was inexorable, and in despair we resorted to France : the word chemise was adopted, and I now see written op in the shops a still further refinement, "chemises d'homme,"—can we go further ? A charitable lady visiting a child's school asked a young sempstress if the work she was employed on was a chemise ? The girl replied, "No, my lady, this is a he-miss; that there girl makes the she-mises."—Jerrold's Illu- minated Magazine. One ought to say " vandevire " instead of "vaudeville "; because vaude- villes took their origin in the rallies of Vire, a river which gives its name to a town of the same name, in Lower Normandy; and its rallies, [vans,] ,where the first vaudevilles were performed, under the name of " vaudevire,' were very near to that town. These vaux-de-vire, having been carried to Parisi, where their origin was ill known, were called " vaudevilles " by corruption.— &gratis.
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