Cold Caudle.-Boil a quart of spring-water; when cold, add the yolk of an egg, the juice of a small lemon, six spoonsful of sweet wine, sugar to your taste, and syrup of lemons one ounce.

To mull Wine:-Boil some spice in a little water till the flavour is gained, then add an equal quantity of port, Madeira, or sherry, some sugar and nutmeg; boil together, and serve with toast.

Another way.-Boil a bit of cinnamon and some grated nutmeg a few minutes, in a large tea-cupful of water; then pour to it a pint of port wine, and add sugar to your taste; heat it up and it will be ready.— Or it may be made of good home-made wine.

The Cornwall Correspondent.
Genuine Squib.

The following was put in the letter-box of my printer, and addressed as under:

To Francis Fiddlewood, Esq.

"A new Crest for Will Tattle"-[After which there is the drawing of a Squib flying, with this appropriate motto for upstart pride and meanness

"Peream dum luceam!"

Let me perish: if I do but shine.

Yours truly,

SCINTILLA.

Sir Thos. More.-This famous chancellor, who preserved his humour and wit to the last moment, when he came to be executed on Tower Hill, the headsman demanded his upper Garment as his fee; Ah! friend, said he taking off his cap, that I think is my upper garment.

NOTICE.

When the 40th Number of THE GOSSIP is complete, it is the Editor's intention to discontinue the work for one of more importance, fully persuaded that works of a similar kind have failed from want of variety to amuse and arrest the attention of the desultory reader. The success of the Gossip has far surpassed the Editor's expectations, and has yielded him a handsome surplus after paying the expenses of Printing. The 40 numbers will form a handsome volume, with a General Index, which will particularize all the Receipts, and thus add considerably to its utility. There are only about one dozen complete sets now on hand: but after the whole is complete, a re-print of the back numbers will be commenced.

PRINTED FOR THE EDITOR, BY ALEX, HOLMES.

Perhaps there is nothing in our mysterious nature which has created so much speculation, and metaphysical discussion, as dreams. The common acceptation of the term dreaming is that of thinking, acting, or having a representation, in which you are or are not a party, during sleep. This is the common acceptation of the sensation of dreaming; but it will not be difficult to shew, that dreaming is in general the result of irregularity of the system, and does not take place in sound, but in imperfect sleep. In disease of body or mind, or under the influence of medicine, we are more frequently visited by dreams than when in perfect health.

In restless nights, either before or after bodily distempers, our slumbers are disturbed by frightful visions. On the contrary, in health and ease, when

the mind and body are guided by temperance, the shadowy influences of the night molest us not, and if they come at all, it is to sport in faery gambols "On hill, in dale, forest, or mead,

By paved fountain or by rushy brook,

Or on the beached margent of the sea.'

We then see "bevies of fair nymphs" and other lovely beings of creation chasing the golden moments in the haunts and recesses of enchantment-but, awaking, the charm is dissolved, and the scene of faeryland is vanished into "thin air." These are properly called pleasing dreams. Of sound sleep, however, we recollect nothing, the action of every bodily or thinking faculty being suspended in dreaming, therefore, the thinking principle is more or less inactive, according to the vividity of the vision, the activity employed, the reasoning uninterrupted, the distinctness of the pageant, or the perfection of the dream. But that the judgement is unengaged, does, upon no hypothesis, appear probable. Besides, how often do we recapitulate, or at least blend the characters, action, and incidents in our waking hours with those of our dreams; our wild and uncontrollable fancy combining with them, the wildest and most monstrous absurdities? Is this aught else but a partial eclipse of the judgment, and the moonshine of the imagination caused by the etherial god of sleep.

The dream of a polished mind, if reasoning be employed in it, must be very different from that of a clown, though in other respects, where the vagaries of the imagination are at work, unattended by judgment, or her helpmate reason, both may be equally absurd and ridiculous. The dream of the poet and the painter, will be fraught with classic beauties, or sublime horrors, the dream of the philosopher and historian, will be more chastened, because their minds are seldom led beyond the pale of reason; but without presuming further in that which, at best, may be considered only hypothetical, because not demonstrable, it may be conceded, that the mind, however rude or cultivated, though trammelled by sleep, within its unconscious tenement, must have a considerable influence over the colouring or character of our dreams. That the

great bard, from whose rich poetic stores we have sélected our motto, coincided with our notion of imperfect sleep being the very mint of dreams, we select one passage from the play of Julius Cæsar, where Brutus thus philosophises over his slumbering page: Boy! Lucias! fast asleep? It is no matter; Enjoy the boney heavy dew of slumber : Thou bast no figures, nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men ; Therefore thou sleep'st sound."

Act II. sc. 1.

Here the terms "figures" and "fantasies" are meant as characters and visions or dreams, "which busy CARE draws in the brains of men" and by the negation of which, in the mind of the page, he enjoys sound and perfect sleep-a total unconsciousness for the time--a refreshing rest to the soul-a brief, yet complete suspension of our perceptions and sufferings -an oblivion, or delay of the evils with which we are environed-a temporary death.

What strange, intricate, and indescribable situations do we not find ourselves enveloped in during the dreams of the night? What fearful objects do we not behold? What wonderful exploits do we not perform? Now gallopping along the ridge of a frightful preci pice--then falling in a continuous whirl from its top, rebounding from its rugged sides, and dashed into

atoms

And now we cleave the blue! the stars fade from us
'Tis a fearful light,

No sun, no moon, no stars innumerable.'

Here we behold the phantasms of a past world-ascending once more, we are again metamorphosed into mortal clay, where the ideal terrors of our "state terrene" surround us, where we encounter wild beasts. and serpents are led into captivity-immured in noisome dungeons-loaded with chains-doomed to slavery, or to death. These are a few of the various sensations, excited by the ungovernable imaginings in our slumbers.

With regard to the ominous power of dreams upon the superstitious mind, we cannot express much surprise: they are so identified with ourselves, and so

Lord Byron's" Cain; a Mystery."

awful is their influence, at times, upon the mind, that long after the return of light and of reason, the impression of the reality-the turmoil, the horror, the splendour-the onset, the press, the struggle, the confusion of the battle-field, and all the pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war," or whatever spectacle we behold, remains uneffaced, and this, too, upon minds which consider dreams but as an "insubstantial pageant faded." The coincidents of dreams are to be accounted for on the principle of chance; but on the ground of presage, we agree with a writer in Blackwood's Magazine, that "our own mind becomes our own oracle, and either from the dreams of the night, or the recollections of the day, we feel impressed with the belief that good or evil is about to befal! us. We are far from absolutely scorning this species of divination, since we are convinced that in sleep, or even in profound abstraction, the mind may arrive at conclusions which are just in themselves, without our being sable to perceive the process of thought which produced them." We shall resume the pleasing subject of dreaming in a subsequent number.

Biography.

Memoir of Adam Mond, a Miserly Beggar.
[CONCLUDED.]

In this miserable state the winter of 1817 overtook him, the inclemency of which was severely felt in Ireland. In his despicable hovel he had neither clothing. food, nor fire. Still he would not accept the friendly invitation of a neighbour, who offered him a good fire and lodging, free of any expense, daring the cold. This offer he declined on pretence of not being troublesome, but the real cause arose from a fear of losing his money, or having it discovered.Finding the cold extreme, he resided by day in his own hut, receiving whatever food was sent to him, and retired at night to a corn kiln, in the neighbourhood, where he slept snugly at the fire left by the last occupier. Had he accepted the benevolent proposal now mentioned, perhaps he might have concealed what was dearer to him than life itself, and