THE GREY ASS.--Shortly after the Battle of Waterloo, and while the Duke of Wellington was at the height of his popularity, the Boniface of a village inn somewhere in England, whose establishment flourished under the name of ‘The Grey Ass,’ resolved to add to the popularity of his house by substituting a painting of the Great Captain, for the one which had so long dangled above his door. So resolved, so done. A travelling artist was employed; the ‘Grey Ass’ was obliterated; and the Duke ‘reigned in his stead.’ Alas, however, for the uncertainty of human calculations; this event, to which he had looked forward with the certainty of its increasing his business, and consequently his coffers, proved to our landlord a source of bitter vexation and disappointment;--a rival in the village had adopted his discarded sign, and as the country bumpkins were better acquainted with their old friend the Ass, than with his new successor, the consequence was that they followed their old acquaintance and left the Duke ‘alone with his glory.’ This was not to be borne; our landlord, having nothing else to do, put his brains to steep to devise some plan to counteract his fatal error; and the result of his cogitations appeared shortly after in an addition to his signboard, immediately under the figure of the Duke, on which was painted, in large letters, the significant intimation--‘This is the Old Grey Ass.’ Whether the exhibition of the Duke of Wellington, with such an addition to his titles, produced the desired effect, we have not learned. A person desiring to be witty at the expense of a Jew whom he met, accosted him thus--‘’Tis a wonder, Isaac, that we never hear of the death of a Jew, or a Jack-ass; how does it happen, eh?’ ‘Well, mishter,’ replied Isaac, ‘I does’nt rightly know; but perhaps you and I will be the first in this neighbourhood.’ The following exquisite lines, the result of a true appreciation of the sublime and beautiful in nature, are copied from the Album kept at a small inn on the Banks of the Windermere, in Cumberland-- I never eats no meat, Nor drinks no beer, But sighs and ruminates On Windermere. Mr. Ogilvie, minister of the parish of Lunan, in the county of Forfar, had a great deal of eccentricity in his composition. One Sunday an old woman, who kept a public-house in the parish, with whom Mr. Ogilvie was well acquainted, fell asleep in the church during sermon--not an uncommon occurrence. Her neighbour kept jogging in order to awake her. Mr. Ogilvie observing this, cried out, ‘Let her alane, I’ll waken her mysel’, I’ll warrant ye.’--‘Phew! phew! (_whistling_) a bottle o’ ale an’ a dram, Janet.’--‘Comin’ Sir.’ was instantly replied.--‘There now,’ says the minister, ‘I tald ye it wadna be lang afore that I waken’d her!’