The grand Desterham himself assisted at the operation, and the poor patient was exhibited on a high scaffold with a rope about his neck. "Citizens of Babylon," said he, addressing the people, "rejoice! You shall soon see into what elevated situations wit brings a man in this sublime empire." As he spoke the hangman hoisted him up, but the grand Desterham vociferated, "Cut him down, cut him down; he is incorrigible." The other members of the court objected greatly; but the grand Desterham quoted the universal principle of the law, and added, "that as the patient before them was evidently incurable, the remedy could have no effect." The poor wit was therefore allowed to go at liberty, but the grand Desterham brought an old house over his head, for he was shortly after banished, being strongly suspected of good sense and judgment, though it was never clearly proved against him. SCRAPS.--No. VI. WRITTEN IN A BOOK OF DREAMS. This life 's a dream--so all have thought, Philosophers and poets too, And rhyme and reason both have wrought, To prove what most have felt is true. The warrior's dream 's a fiery chaos, For glory ever flying on; The statesman's an unceasing race, Full often lost and seldom won. The merchant dreams of loss and gain, And gold that never brings content; The student's a dull dream of pain, 'Midst mouldered books and hours misspent. The lover in his airy hall Has joy-dreams ever in his view, And, though the falsest of them all, His dream perhaps is sweetest too. The poet's dream 's a dream of dreams, Of phantoms seen and passed away, Like dancing moats in sunny beams Which shine but while they cross the ray. Yes, all's a dream, but who would part With one fond vision fancy knows, One bright delusion of the heart For all that waking reason shows? Who'd quell the notes Hope gaily sings, Because they're tuned so witchingly? Who'd pluck Imagination's wings, Because they bear her up too high? Let those who would so close this page, Where many dreams recorded lie; It ne'er was meant to please the sage, But feeling's heart and fancy's eye. SCRAPS.--No. VII. RABAS. There is a garden near Bordeaux called Rabas, which may be considered the perfection of bad taste in gardening; I never saw anything so studiously ugly. There are straight walks as mathematically unnatural as if they had been laid out by an inhabitant of Laputa. There are hermitages, cottages, and wilderness, fit for Bagnigge Well's tea-gardens, together with sundry lions and tigers glaring in painted pasteboard. All the trees are pared as closely as possible, and there is eke a labyrinth for people to lose themselves, or not, as they like best.