to assume the place of fear, as he grew more accustomed to his visiter's company; and often did he determine in himself to refuse preparing any more, still his courage was not yet at that pitch; probably his exertions, as I said before, might have injured his nerves-however, he could not rally himself enough to do it.

The stranger, with his usual smile or grin, stood looking on, employing his time by beating the devil's tattoo on his boot, while at intervals came forth the phrase, “Another box, but don't hurry yourself." At length, mere inability to proceed any farther, supplied the place of courage; his arms and sides ached to such a degree with his labour, as to cause the perspiration to stand on his brow in great drops, and he declared he could proceed no farther. The alteration in the stranger's countenance told him he had better left it unsaid, and his hands instinctively grasped the pestle with renewed vigour, but his repent

ance came too late; the stranger's hand was already across the counter, and in a second more had grasped Andrew's nose as firmly as if it had been in a vice. Andrew strove in vain to release himself the stranger held him with more than human force; and his voice, instead of the polite tone he had before used, now sounded to his terrified ears what his imagination had pictured of the Indian yell. The pain of the gripe deprived him of voice to assure his tormentor hewould compound for him as long as he would vish; still he contrived to make signs to that ffect, by stretching his hands towards his mortar, and imitating the action of grinding; but his tyrant was relentless-firmer did he close his fore-finger and thumb. Andrew could not shake him off; like a person afflicted with night-mare, he in vain essayed his strength, though agonised with the fear of losing his prominent feature in the struggle. The stranger,

at length, as if endowed with supernatural strength, lifted him from the ground, balanced him in the air for a moment, gave him a threefold twitch, drew him head foremost over the counter, and let him fall. When he came to his senses, he found himself lying outside his bed, his only injury being a broken nose, from a fall on the floor.

THE GRIDIRON;

OR, PADDY MULLOWNEY'S TRAVELS IN FRANCE

A CERTAIN old gentleman in the west of Ireland, whose love of the ridiculous quite equalled his taste for claret and fox-hunting, was wont upon certain festive occasions, when opportunity offered, to amuse his friends by drawing out one of his servants who was exceedingly fond of what he termed his "thravels," and in whom a good deal of whim, some queer stories, and perhaps, more than all, long and faithful services, had established a right of loquacity. He was one of those few trusty and privileged domestics, who, if his

master unheedingly uttered a rash thing in a fit of passion, would venture to set him right. If the squire said, “I'll turn that rascal off," my friend Pat would say, "Throth you won't, Sir;" and Pat was always right, for if any altercation arose upon the "subject matter in hand," he was sure to throw in some good reason, either from former service-general good conduct-or the delinquent's "wife and childher," that always turned the scale.

But I am digressing. On such merry meetings as I have alluded to, the master, (after making certain "approaches" as a military man would say, as the preparatory steps in laying siege to some extravaganza of his servant,) might, perchance, assail Pat thus: "By the bye, Sir John (addressing a distinguished guest), Pat has a very curious story, which something you told me to-day reminds me of. You remember, Pat (turning to the man, evidently pleased at the notice thus paid