Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. V, October, 1850, Volume I.

would have earned heaven, if the police permitted, by praying for it, during thirty years, upon the summit of a lamp-post. In India the Fakir was beatified by standing on his head,

cing self-denial on the stomach. Some tribes of Africans believe, that on the way to heaven every man's head is kno

s, a spacious fish-kettle, forever simmering, in which boiled seals forever swim, is the delight

tle suffering; nor, when I tell you what such pleasures are, must you exclaim against them as absurd. Havi

Evening Party; and as this is a scene in which young ladies prominently figure, I

might be tumbled in the night. Man at his grimmest is as vain as woman, even when he stalks about bearded and battle-axed. This is the mystery of preparation in your daughter's case: How does she breathe? You have prepared her from childhood for the part she is to play to-night, by training h

they are unable to do properly when cramped for space; it becomes about as difficult to them as it would be to you to play the trombone in a china closet. By this compression of the chest, ladies are made nervous, and become unfit for much exertion; they do not, however, allow us to suppose that they have lost flesh. There is a fiction of attire which would induce, in a speculative critic, the belief that some internal flame had caused their waists to gutter, and that the ribs had all run down into a lump which protrudes behind under the waistband. This appe

candlestick. Your guests arrive. Young ladies, thinly clad and packed in carriages, emerge, half-stifled; put a cold foot, protected by a filmy shoe, upo

sh. She is now in London, and desires to do as others do. She is invited to your party, but is not yet come; it may be well for me to call upon her. Why, in the name of Newgat

logne and patchouli. Pills are not nasty, sugared. A grain or two of arsenic in each might be not quite exactly neutralized by sugar, but there is nothing like faith in a good digestion. Why do the gentlemen cuddle the ladies, and spin

slily at my watch, and Auber's grim chorus rumbles within me, "Voici minuit! voici minuit!" Another dance. How fond she seems to be of macaroons! Supper. My dear sir, I will take good care of your daughter. One sandwich. Champagne. Blanc-mange. Tipsey-cake. Brandy cherries. Glass of wine. A macaroon. Trifle. Jelly. Champagne. Custard. Macaroon. The ladies are being taken care of-Yes, now in their absence we will

have had some wine, have dug the spur into our sides, and on we go again. At length, even the bottle stimulates our wor

knowing that your wife is bilious, and that your son has just gone out for soda-water, you will feel yourself to