942. Dr. Walcot, better known as Peter Pindar, called one day upon a bookseller in Paternoster Row, the publisher of his works, by way of inquiring into the literary and other news of the day. After some chat, the doctor was asked to take a glass of wine with the seller of his wit and poetry. Our author consented to accept of a little negus as an innocent morning beverage; when instantly was presented to him a cocoa-nut goblet, with the face of a man carved on it. Eh! eh! said the doctor, what have we here? A man’s skull, replied the bookseller; a poet’s for what I know. Nothing more likely, rejoined the facetious doctor, for it is universally known that all you booksellers drink your wine from our skulls. 943. A gentleman who was dining with another, praised very much the meat, and asked who was the butcher? His name is Addison. Addison! echoed the guest, pray is he any relation to the poet? In all probability he is, for he is seldom without his steel (Steele) by his side. 944. Swift having paid a visit at Sir Arthur Acheson’s country seat, and being, on the morning of his return to his deanery, detained a few minutes longer than he expected at his breakfast, found, when he came to the door, his own man on horseback, and a servant of Sir Arthur’s holding the horse he was to ride himself. He mounted, turned the head of his horse towards his own man, and asked him in a low voice if he did not think he should give something to the servant who held his horse, and if he thought five shillings would be too much: No, sir, it will not, if you mean to do the thing handsomely, was the reply. The dean made no remark upon this, but when he paid his man’s weekly account, wrote under it, Deducted from this, for money paid to Sir Arthur’s servant for doing your business, five shillings. 945. Two Irish porters meeting in Dublin, one addressed the other with, Och, Thady, my jewel, is it you? Are you just come from England! Pray did you see anything of our old friend, Pat Murphy? The devil a sight, replied he, and what’s worse, I’m afraid I never shall. How so? Why, he met with a very unfortunate accident lately. Amazing! What was it? O, indeed, nothing more than this; as he was standing on a plank, talking devoutly to a priest, at a place in London which I think they call the Old Bailey, the plank suddenly gave way, and poor Murphy got his neck broke. 946. A Quaker from Bristol, who lately alighted at an inn, called for some porter, and observing, as it is now the fashion, the pint deficient in quantity, thus addressed the landlord: Pray, friend, how many butts of beer dost thou draw in a month? Ten, sir, replied Boniface. And thou wouldst like to draw eleven if thou couldst, rejoined Ebenezer. Certainly, exclaimed the smiling landlord. Then I will tell thee how, friend, added the Quaker―fill thy measures.