my lips. He tasted what used to be called my genuine old port,

And in the scowl of heaven his face
Grew black as he was sipping.

"It is spoiled elder wine-rendered astringent by oak-wood saw-dust, and the husks of filberts-lead and arsenic, Madam, are- -" but my ears tingled and I heard no more. I confessed to the amount of six glasses a-day of this hellish liquorpardon my warmth—and that such had been my allowance for many years. My thirst was now intolerable, and I beseeched a glass of beer. It came, and Death in the Pot detected at once the murderous designs of the brewer. Coculus indicus, Spanish juice, hartshorn shavings, orange powder, copperas, opium, tobacco, nux vomica-such were the shocking words he kept repeating to himself-and then again, "MRS. TROLLOPE IS POISONED.' "May I not have a single cup of tea, Mr. Accum," I asked imploringly, and the chemist shook his head. He then opened the tea-caddy, and emptying its contents, rubbed my best green tea between his hard horny palms. "Sloeleaves, and white-thorn leaves, Madam, coloured with Dutch pink, and with the fine green bloom of verdigris! Much, in the course of your regular life, you must have swallowed!" "Might I try the coffee?" Oh! Mr. North, Mr. North, you know my age, and never once, during my whole existence, have I tasted coffee. I have been deluded by pease and beans, sand, gravel, and vegetable powder! Mr. Accum called it sham coffee, most infamous stuff, and unfit for human food! Alas! the day that I was born!

In despair I asked for a glass of water, and just as the sparkling beverage was about to touch my pale quivering lips, my friend, for I must call him so in spite of every thing, interfered, and tasting it, squirted it out of his mouth, with a most alarming countenance. "It comes out of a lead cistern-it is a deadly poison." Here I threw myself on my knees before this inexorable man, and cried, “Mr. Death in the Pot, is there in heaven, on earth, or the waters under the earth, any one particle of matter that is not impregnated with death? What means this desperate mockery? For mercy's sake give me the

very smallest piece of bread and cheese, or I can support myself no longer. Are we, or are we not, to have a morsel of breakfast this day ?" He cut off about an inch long piece of cheese from that identical double Gloucester that you yourself, Mr. North, chose for me, on your last visit to London, and declared that it had been rendered most poisonous by the anotta used to colour it. "There is here, Mrs. Trollope, a quantity of red lead. Have, you, madam, never experienced, after devouring half a pound of this cheese, an indescribable pain in the region of the abdomen and of the stomach, accompanied with a feeling of tension, which occasioned much restlessness, anxiety, and repugnance to food? Have you never felt, after a Welch rabbit of it, a very violent cholic?" "Yes! yes-often, often, I exclaimed." "And did you use pepper and mustard?" "I did even so." "Let me see the castors." I rose from my knees -and brought them out. He puffed out a little pepper into the palm of his hand, and went on as usual, “This, madam, is spurious pepper altogether-it is made up of oil cakes, (the residue of linseed, from which the oil has been pressed,) common clay, and, perhaps, a small portion of Cayenne pepper (itself probably artificial or adulterated) to make it pungent. But now for the mustard,”—at this juncture the servant maid came in, and I told her that I was poisoned-she set up a prodigious scream, and Mr. Accum let fall the mustard pot on the carpet.

But it is needless for me to prolong the shocking narrative. They assisted me to get into bed, from which I never more expect to rise. My eyes have been opened, and I see the horrors of my situation. I now remember the most excruciating cholic, and divers other pangs which I thought nothing of at the time, but which must have been the effect of the deleterious solids and liquids which I was daily introducing into my stomach. It appears that I have never, so much as once, either eat or drank a real thing—that is, a thing being what it pretended to be. Oh! the weight of lead and of copper that has passed through my body! Oh! too, the gravel and the sand! But it is impossible to deceive me now. This very evening some bread was brought Bread! I cried out indignantly-Take the vile deception out of my sight. Yes, my dear Kit, it was a villanous loaf

to me.

of clay and alumn! But my resolution is fixed, and I hope to die in peace. Henceforth, I shall not allow one particle of matter to descend into my stomach! Already I feel myself" of the earth, earthy." Mr. Accum seldom leaves my bedside-and yesterday brought with him several eatables and drinkables, which he assured me he had analyzed, subjected to the test-act, and found them to be conformists. But I have no trust in chemistry. His quarter-loaf looked like a chip cut off the corner of a stone block. It was a manifest sham loaf. After being deluded in my Hollands, bit in my brandy, and having found my muffins a mockery, never more shall I be thrown off my guard. I am waxing weaker and weaker-so farewell! Bewildering indeed has been the destiny of

SUSANNA TROllope.

P. S.-I have opened my mistress's letter to add, that she died this evening about a quarter past eight, in excruciating tor

ments.

SALLY ROGERS.

"Luctus" on the Death of Sir Daniel Donnelly.

LATE CHAMPION OF IRELAND.*

[WE felt too deep sympathy with the afflicted population of a sister kingdom, to venture the publication of the following Luctus, till time had in some measure alleviated the national suffering—and, to borrow a figure from an oration attributed to Coun

*For the proper understanding of the "Luctus" on Donnelly, it is necessary to state a few particulars relative to the career and character of that pugilistic worthy. Daniel Donnelly was an Irishman by birth and a carpenter by trade. He possessed lofty stature, great agility, and powerful strength. His skill in throwing was great. His straight-forward blow would almost fell an ox. But he was deficient in science. He fought only two great battles. The first, with Cooper, on the Curragh of Kildare, was a great victory over the English pugi list. Donnelly, on this occasion, had been trained by the celebrated Captain Kelly, and was in fine condition,-Pierce Egan said "strong as a lion, and active as a prize-fighter." The reputation this encounter procured for him caused him to visit London, where he was pitted against Oliver, who had some pretensions to the Championship. Donnelly was in very bad training for this battle, and, though he beat Oliver, displayed inferior science-not even sufficiently availing himself of his known power with the right hand. This fight came off in July, 1819. He declined further contests, at that time; extravagantly wasted the battle-money which he had won; injured his health by drinking and other excesses; and actually returned to Ireland with only forty shillings in his pocket. A great reception awaited him on the green sod. A ridiculous report that the Prince Regent (afterward George IV.) had knighted him, obtained currency and credence among the mob of Dublin, and about 20,000 persons assembled at Dunleary, to receive "Sir Daniel Donnelly," and, mounting him on a white horse, escorted him to his house in Townshend street, where he made them a speech and drank to their health in a noggin of the native.- Donnybrook Fair, (then a fact and now little more than a tradition,) commenced, (on August 27, 1819,) shortly after his arrival, and Sir Daniel exhibited himself in one of the tents or booths-sparring with Gregson and Cooper, and realizing a good deal of money thereby. After this Sir Daniel retired into private life, in "the public" line, as landlord of The Shining Daisy in Pill Lane, where he flourished for several months, making friends and money. But in February, 1820, having drank an almost incredible number of tumblers of punch at one sitting, (out of mere bravado,) and swallowed half a bucket of cold water, while in a state of profuse perspiration, after the aforesaid tumblers, he burst a blood vessel and departed this life in the 44th year of his age. His funeral, on a Sunday, was quite a monster demonstration," as regards the num

sellor Phillips, "wiped off with his passing pinions the daily dews which a sympathetic people had poured on the shining daisy that sprung through the unshaven shamrock, round the gloomy grave of the demolishing Donnelly!" But as the moon has thrice renewed her horns since the demise of Sir Daniel, we trust that we shall not now be thought to be interfering "with the sacred silence of a nation's sorrow," by publishing a selection from the "numbers without number, numberless," of Luctus that have been for the last quarter pouring in upon us from every part of the united empire. We confess, that we are not of that school of philosophy, which considers the loss sustained by Ireland in the death of Donnelly altogether and for ever irreparable. Surely a successor will step into his shoes. But what although centuries should pass by, without an Irishman willing

bers who followed him to his last resting-place, in Bully's Acre. It was calculated that 100 carriages, 400 horsemen, and over 50,000 of the "rag, tag, and bobtail" were in the procession. The horses were unyoked from the hearse, which was drawn to the burial ground by the crowd, and most prominent among the trappings of woe were the Gloves (demonstrative of his Championship,) borne on a cushion in front of the hearse. There was a report that the Resurrectionists had exhumed Donnelly's body, but this was strongly denied, eight of his friends having visited his grave on February 24, 1820, and having opened it found that the body was untouched. They reported accordingly, and kept nightly watch until March 2, when a regular grave was built. A subscription was made to raise a monument to Sir Daniel, and a large sum was obtained, but I believe that the monument never was erected. In the sporting article entitled "Boxiana, No. VI." which opened Blackwood for March, 1820, the death of Donnelly was thus alluded to:-“We feel that it is utterly impossible for us to conclude this article, without adverting, in such terms as are becoming the melancholy occasion, to the great, indeed irreparable, loss which the boxing world has lately sustained in the death of Sir Daniel Donnelly. Ireland, we understand, is inconsolable. Since the heroic age of Corcoran and Ryan no such leveller had appeared. Happy and contented with the fame he had enjoyed under his native skies, it never had been the desire of Sir Daniel to fight on this side of the Channel. Accordingly, he past his prime in and about Dublin, satisfied with being held the most formidable Buffer (so our good Irish friends denominate Pugilists) among a potato-fed population of upwards of five millions. No one who has been in Ireland will suppose that Sir Daniel Don nelly walked up to the "good eminence" of the championship, with his hands in his breeches-pockets. We are not in possession of the facts of his early career - we know not when he dropped the sprig of shillelah, and restricted himself to the unweaponed fist. It must have been deeply interesting to have