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An Irish Miser.-Augustine Pentheny, Esq. who died on the 23d of November last, in the 83d year of his age, in an obscure lodging in Leeson Street, Dublin, was a miser of the most perfect drawing that nature has ever given to the world. From the low and laborious condition of a journeyman cooper, he accumulated the enormous sum of 300,0001. in the islands of Antigua and Santa Cruz. He was born in the village of Longwood, county of Meath, and was very early in life encouraged to make a voyage to the West Indies, to follow his trade, under the patronage of his maternal uncle, another adventurer of the name of Gaynor, better known among his neighbours by the name of Peter Big Brogues, from the enormous shoes he was mounted in on the day he set out on his travels. Peter acquired an immense fortune, and lived to see his only child married to Sir G. Colebrooke, chairman to the East India Company, and a banker in London, to whom Peter gave with his daughter 200,0001.

Mr. A. Pentheny saw mankind only through one medium; his vital powers were so diverted from generous or social objects, by the prevailing passion of gold, that he could discover no trait in any character, however venerable or respectable, that was not seconded by riches; in fact, any one that was not rich he considered as an inferior animal, neither worthy of notice, nor safe to be admitted into society. This extraordinary feeling he extended to female society, and if possible with a greater degree of disgust. A woman he con

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sidered only as an incumbrance on a man of property, and therefore he never could be prevailed upon to admit one into his confidence. As to wedlock, he utterly and uniformly rejected any idea of it. His wife was the public funds, and his children guineas; and no parent or husband paid more deference or care to the comforts of his family. He was never known to separate his immense hoard, by rewarding a generous action; or alleviating a premature or accidental misfortune, by the application of one shilling to such purposes. It could scarcely be expected he would bestow a gift, or extend a gratitude to others, he was so niggard of comforts to himself.

The evening before he died, some busy friend sent a respectable physician to him, at which the old miser did not show any apparent dislike, until he recollected the doctor might expect a fee. This alarmed him; and immediately raising himself in the bed, he addressed the Irish Esculapius in the following words :-" Doctor, I am a strong man, and know my disorder, and could cure myself; but as Mr. Nangle has sent you to my assistance, I shall not exchange you for any other person, you and I can come to an understanding. In fact, I wish to know what you will charge for your attendance until I am recovered?” The Doctor answered, "Eight guineas."-" Ah! sir," said the old man, "if you knew my disorder you would not be exorbitant: but to put an end to this discussion, I will give you six guineas and a half." The Doctor assented, and the pa

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tient held out his arm with the fee, and to have his pulse considered, and laid himself down again.

His relations were numerous, but not being, in his opinion, qualified for want of experience in the management of money, to nurse his wealth, he bequeathed the entire of it to a rich family in the West Indies, with the generous exception of four pounds annually to a faithful servant, who lived with him twenty-four years. In the will he expresses great kindness for poor John, and says he bequeathed the four pounds for his kind services, that his latter days may be spent in comfortable independence! Like Thellusson, he would not allow his fortune to pass to his heirs immediately, as he directed that the entire should be funded for fourteen years, and then, in its improved state, to be at the disposal of the heirs he has chosen.

For the regulation of his last will and testament he appointed Walter Nangle, Esq. and Major O'Farrell, late of the Austrian army, his executors, and the Right Hon. David La Touche and Lord Fingal trustees.

Grave of a Martyr.-At Amersham, in Buckinghamshire, there is a spot of ground counted sacred, from being the place where a martyr was burnt. It is about twenty-four yards in circumference, and when the field is fallow, or when in corn, that particular spot cannot be discovered;

but when the rest of the field begins to flourish and become green, the blades of grass or corn on this mysterious spot begin to look unhealthy, and to dwindle. As the harvest approaches, it looks more and more unfruitful, and though particular pains have been taken by extra manuring, removing the earth, &c. it has, in spite of man's efforts to fertilize it, remained barren. This year the field is sown in wheat, and discovers the place of martyrdom.

Two extraordinary characters have died within these few days, at Spilsby and in the neighbourhood. One was Mrs. Anne Downes, of that place, who lived to the age of seventy-one in her cottage, on a system of the most miserable abstinence, depriving herself of even the common necessaries of life; yet when she died she was found to have hoarded property to the amount of more than six hundred pounds.-The other person was Mr. Matthew Jennings, of Ingoldmells, who has left a considerable estate to his heirs, although, for the sake of frugality, whilst living he kept no servant, whatever, but used to perform all his household offices himself.

Buonaparte. -By Mr.Scott.

(FROM THE VISION OF DON RODERICK.)

From a rude isle, his ruder lineage came.
The spark, that, from a suburb hovel's hearth
Ascending, wraps some capital in flame,

Hath not a meaner or more sordid birth.
And for the soul that bade him waste the earth-
The sable land-flood from some swamp obscure,
That poisons the glad husband-field with death,
And by destruction bids its fame endure,
Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, and impure.

Before that Leader strode a shadowy form,

Her limbs like mist, her torch like meteor shew'd, With which she beckoned him through fight and storm.. And all he crushed that crossed his desperate road, Nor thought, nor feared, nor looked on what he trode ; Realms could not glut his pride, blood not slake,

So oft as e'er she shook her torch abroad

It was Ambition bade his terrors wake,

Nor deign'd she, as of yore, a milder form to take.

No longer now she spurn'd at mean revenge,

Or staid her hand for conquer'd freeman's moan,
As when the fates of aged Rome to change
By Cæsar's side she crossed the Rubicon;

Nor joyed she to bestow the spoils she won,

As when the banded powers of Greece were task'd

To war beneath the youth of Macedon:

No seemly veil her modern minions ask'd,

He saw her hideous face, and lov'd the fiend unmask'd.

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