Chapter III

.) in which Swift, writing in 1727, says,—

“Although their largest telescopes do not exceed three feet, they show the stars with great clearness. This advantage has enabled them to extend their discoveries much farther than our astronomers in Europe; for they have made a catalogue of ten thousand fixed stars, whereas the largest of ours do not contain above one-third part of that number. They have likewise discovered two lesser stars, or satellites, which revolve about Mars, whereof the innermost is distant from the centre of the primary planet exactly three of his diameters, and the outermost five; the former revolves in the space of ten hours, and the latter in twenty-one and a half; so that the squares of their periodical times are very near in the same proportion with the cubes of their distance from the centre of Mars; which evidently shows them to be governed by the same law of gravitation that influences the other heavenly bodies.”

_The Suez Canal_

In the second part of Marlowe’s “Tamburlaine the Great,” written in 1587, there is a remarkable forecasting of one of the greatest enterprises of modern times, the Suez Canal. In the catastrophe of this powerful drama, Tamburlaine (the historical Timour, or Tamerlane, the “Scourge of God”) being about to die, is made to review his conquests. He calls upon his attendants for a map that he may see how much of the world is left for him to conquer, and may exhibit his plans to his sons for them to execute when he is dead. Placing his finger on the map, he exclaims:

“Here I began to march toward Persia, Along Armenia and the Caspian Sea, And thence into Bithynia, where I took The Turk and his great empress prisoners. Then marched I into Egypt and Arabia, And here, not far from Alexandria, Whereas the Terrene and the Red Sea meet, Being distant less than full a hundred leagues, I meant to cut a channel to them both, That men might quickly sail to India.”

_The Panama Canal_

Eckermann, in his “Conversations,” under date of February 21, 1827, says,—

“Dined with Goethe. He spoke with admiration of Alexander von Humboldt, whose views as to the project for making a passage through the Isthmus of Panama, appeared to have a particular interest for him. ‘Humboldt,’ said Goethe, ‘has, with a great knowledge of his subject, given other points where, by making use of some streams which flow into the Gulf of Mexico, the end may be, perhaps, better attained than at Panama. All this is reserved for the future and for an enterprising spirit. So much, however, is certain, that if they succeed in cutting such a canal that ships of any burden and size can be navigated through it from the Mexican Gulf to the Pacific Ocean, innumerable benefits would result to the whole human race, civilized and uncivilized. But I should wonder if the United States were to let an opportunity escape of getting such work into their own hands. It may be foreseen that this young State with its decided prediction to the West, will, in thirty or forty years, have occupied and peopled the large tract of land beyond the Rocky Mountains. It may, furthermore, be foreseen that along the whole coast of the Pacific Ocean, where nature has already formed the most capacious and secure harbors, important commercial towns will gradually arise for the furtherance of a great intercourse between China and the East Indies and the United States. In such a case it would not only be desirable, but almost necessary, that a more rapid communication should be maintained between the eastern and western shores of North America, both by merchant ships and men-of-war, than has hitherto been possible with the tedious, disagreeable, and expensive voyage round Cape Horn. I therefore repeat that it is absolutely indispensable for the United States to effect a passage from the Mexican Gulf to the Pacific Ocean; and I am certain that they will do it.’”

_Foreshadowing of the Germ Theory_

Dr. Samuel Johnson, in a letter to Mrs. Thrale, under date of November 12, 1781, in the course of a sympathetic reference to a friend of theirs who was suffering from dysentery, expressed the opinion that the specific cause of that disease, one of the oldest of which we have any record, was an amœba or animalcule. He says, “If Mr. B—— will drink a great deal of water, the acrimony that corrodes his bowels will be diluted, if the cause be only acrimony; but I suspect dysenteries to be produced by animalculæ which I know not how to kill.” Long before Johnson’s time, Morgagni’s investigations had shown the character of the inflammation of the lower intestines, but that a century before the revelation of pathogenic micro-organisms Johnson should have suspected causal relations between amœboid cells and an infectious disease is very curious. Even the term he employed is used in classification, as of the two forms of dysentery which are recognized, one is known as amœbic, and the other as bacillary.

_The Telephone_

More than two centuries ago, Robert Hooke, in the preface to his “Micrographia,” said,—

“And as glasses have highly promoted our seeing, so ’tis not improbable but that there may be found many mechanical inventions to improve our other senses, of hearing, smelling, tasting, touching. ’Tis not impossible to hear a whisper at a furlong’s distance, it having been already done; and perhaps the nature of the thing would not make it more impossible, though that furlong should be ten times multiplyed. And though some famous authors have affirmed it impossible to hear through the thinnest plate of Muscovy glass; yet I know a way by which ’tis easie enough to hear one speak through a wall a yard thick. It has not been yet thoroughly examin’d how far Otocousticons may be improv’d, nor what other ways there may be of quick’ning our hearing, or conveying sound through other bodies then [than] the air: for that is not the only medium. _I can assure the reader, that I have, by the help of a distended wire propagated the sound to a very considerable distance in an instant, or with as seemingly quick a motion as that of light_, at least incomparably swifter then [than] that which at the same time was propagated through the air; and this not only in a straight line, or direct, but in one bended in many angles.”

_Stenography_

A curious little book has been dug from out the dust of two centuries, and has been partially republished by the German newspapers for the purpose of proving that there is nothing new under the sun. The little book is entitled “Foolish Wisdom and Wise Foolishness,” and was written by an old-fashioned German political economist named Becher. At the time of its publication the book was regarded as something of a Munchausen narrative of the author’s travels through Europe. During his wanderings Becher became acquainted with most of the learned men on the Continent, and acquired much information concerning the scientific work of his day. He describes crude conceptions of the phonograph and the telephone by a Nuremburg optician named Fraur Gründler. He gives foreshadowings of an air-gun, aërial navigation, a universal language like Volapuk, and other things which would have gladdened Wendell Phillips when he was preparing his famous lecture on “The Lost Arts.”

During his tour of inquiry Becher discovered that in several regions outside of Germany many men had learned “to write down what others said, with wonderful rapidity, by means of strange characters.” “Englishmen have discovered a kind of tachygraphy,” he explains, “or an art which enables them to write as rapidly as the fastest speakers can talk. They have brought this wonderful art to such a degree of perfection that young persons often write out full sermons without a mistake. Orations in Parliament can be written out by this means as rapidly as they are delivered, which I regard as a very useful invention.” So much for stenography two centuries ago.

_The Great Fire of London_

The ever-memorable fire which destroyed fifteen of the twenty-six wards of the city of London, an area of four hundred and thirty-six acres, broke out at two o’clock on Sunday morning, September 2, 1666. On the preceding Friday London was forewarned of this calamity by a Quaker from Huntingdon, named Thomas Ibbott. Entering London on horseback, he dismounted and turned his horse loose; then, unbuttoning his garments, he ran about the streets, scattering his money and crying out, “So should they run up and down scattering their goods, half-undressed, like mad people, as he was a sign to them,”—a prediction to which no attention was paid at the time, but which was verified during the four days’ conflagration.

_The Plague of London_

Astrology, with its terrestrial theory of the heavens, its belief in planetary influences upon the earth and its inhabitants, and the arbitrary signification it gave to the astral bodies, singly or in conjunction, was largely concerned with the propagation of superstition. It accounted for and predicted the great plague of London, in 1665, by a conjunction of Saturn and Jupiter in Sagittarius on the 10th of October, and a conjunction of Saturn and Mars in the same sign on the 12th of November. It took no note of the real causes of that and all other pestilences,—accumulation of sewage and filth, contamination of air and water, effluvia from putrefactive matter, noxious gases, soil exhalations, and overcrowding of man and beast. If, however, in his dealings with simple unsupported superstition the astrologer failed in his reasoning and his conclusions, we must credit him with laborious attempts to find some rationale.

_The Reformation_

An instance of a dying man punning upon his own name is furnished in the case of John Huss, the Bohemian Reformer. Huss was burned at the stake, in Constance, July 6, 1415, the anniversary of his birth. Shortly before he was overcome by the heat of the flames, he said, “It is thus that you silence the _goose_ (huss = a goose), but a hundred years hence there will arise a _swan_ whose singing you shall not be able to silence.” On November 10, 1483, was born Martin Luther, who is generally regarded, and rightly so, as having fulfilled this remarkable prophecy to the letter.

_Emancipation_

The following lines, prophetic of our Civil War, were written in 1850 by James Russell Lowell, in his “Capture of Certain Fugitive Slaves near Washington:”

“Out from the land of bondage ’tis decreed our slaves shall go, And signs to us are offered as erst to Pharaoh; If we are blind, their exodus, like Israel’s of yore, Through a Red Sea, is doomed to be, whose surges are of gore.”

_The French Revolution_

In the “Memoirs of Madame Du Barry” is the following anecdote:

“The duchess (de Grammont) related that one evening, when M. de Carotte was at a large party, of which she made one, he was requested to consult the planets and make known what would be the destiny of the persons assembled there. This he evaded by every possible pretext, until, finding they would take no excuse, he declared that, of the whole of the company then before him, not one would escape a violent and public death, from which not even the king and queen would be exempt.”

_The White Lady_

The cholera was raging in Bavaria; several of the small mountain villages had been depopulated. King Ludwig, Queen Therese, and the Court remained at Aschaffenburg, as the pestilence was peculiarly fatal at Munich, a place Queen Therese disliked very much, when, unexpectedly, either on account of some state ceremonial or from one of his usual fits of restlessness, Ludwig announced that the Court would return to Munich in three days. On the evening before they started, the queen and several of her ladies were sitting in one of her apartments in the palace, the last but one of the suite. She was in low spirits, and all were unhappy at the prospect of the return to Munich. It was a warm summer evening, drawing towards dusk. Presently a lady, dressed in white, came into the room, and, making a slight reverence to the queen, passed on into the inner room, which opened from the one in which they were sitting. A few moments after she had passed it struck all present that they did not recognize her; also, that none of the other ladies on that day were wearing white dresses. The queen and some others arose from their seats and went into the room to see whom it might be, and found it empty! There was no mode of egress except the door by which they had entered, and the room was on the second story, so that no one could have got out of the window. Suddenly all felt that it must have been “the White Lady,” whose visit is believed to foretell the death of one of the Bavarian royal family, and some of the ladies fainted. The court went to Munich on the next day, according to appointment, and three days after Queen Therese died of cholera.

MISCELLANEA CURIOSA

_Loyalty to Prince, Disloyalty to Self_

A case of disinterested generosity and moral delinquency without a parallel is that recorded of a Scotch peasant, who sheltered the Pretender, Prince Charles Edward, after his defeat at Culloden Moor, in 1746, when the price of thirty thousand pounds was set upon his head, and who was afterwards hung for stealing a cow!

_Singular Expedient_

A strange story is that related in a paper on “English and Irish Juries,” in _All the Year Round_. The presiding judge in the case, Sir James Dyce, chief justice of the Court of Common Pleas, astonished at the verdict of acquittal in so plain a case, sought an interview with the foreman, who, having previously obtained a promise of secrecy during his lifetime, confessed that he had killed the man in a struggle in self-defence, and said that he had caused himself to be placed on the jury in order to insure his acquittal.

_Queer Parliamentary Enactment_

When the bill was in Parliament for building the famous bridge at Gloucester, there was a clause enacting that the commissioners should meet on the _first Monday_ in every month, “except the same should fall on Christmas day, Ash Wednesday, or Good Friday.” The blunder as to the last two is palpable, and a moment’s reflection would show that Christmas Day can never fall on the first Monday of the month. The mistake passed unobserved, and still stands in the Act.

_Bolingbroke’s Favorite Desk_

Among the satirical prints brought out in connection with the famous Treaty of Utrecht, in 1713, was a picture in which was represented what was said to be a very remarkable incident in the life of Lord Bolingbroke. In this picture he is seen sitting up in bed in a sort of dressing-gown. Leaning over the bed is a female as scantily attired as a Venus, and upon that part of her figure from which the Venus Callipyge took her name, Bolingbroke is signing a paper. This incident furnishes a strange picture of the manners of the times and of the recklessness of Bolingbroke.

_Fourth of March_

Several years ago an English journal, _The Owl_, published the following singular paragraph:

“It is not perhaps generally known to our readers that the reason which the founders of the American republic had for selecting the fourth of March for the inauguration of their President, was to avoid the occurrence of a _dies non_ by the incidence of that date on a Sunday. By calculation it was ascertained that for many hundreds of years the quadrennial recurrence of that day in the year of election invariably falls on a week day.”

In the face of this absurdly incorrect statement, and before it was written, the fourth of March fell twice on Sunday,—in 1821 and in 1849,—so that Monroe’s second inauguration and General Taylor’s inauguration each took place on Monday, March 5.

_The Powwow_

The mysterious performance known as the powwow among the North American aborigines dates back to time immemorial. David Brainerd says, in his Indian Narrative, “At a distance, with my Bible in my hand, I was resolved if possible to spoil their spirit of powwowing, and prevent their receiving an answer from the infernal world.” Elsewhere, speaking of the Delaware Indians and their medicine men, he says, “They are much awed by those among themselves who are called powwowers, who are supposed to have a power of enchanting or poisoning them to death.” The Esquimaux also have a sorcerer or diviner who conjures over the sick. Dr. Kane, in his “Arctic Explorations,” says of this Angekok, as he is called, that “he is the general counsellor who prescribes or powwows in sickness and over wounds, directs the policy of the little state, and is really the power behind the throne.”

_The Flowering Dogwood_

A correspondent wrote to the New York _Sun_ urging the claims of the dogwood flower (_Cornus florida_) to be chosen as the national flower, and in support of the claims told the following story:

“A British army was marching upon Washington’s camp, expecting to find him with a small force. In the distance, about where they expected to find the camp, the British scouts saw a hill covered with dogwood trees in blossom. They mistook the trees for tents, and returned with the report that Washington’s army was so large that its tents whitened the hills. The British were not prepared to meet a large army, and so retired, leaving Washington and his little army in peace.”

_Offensiveness Punished_

The following story of the Paris Commune was vouched for by an English spectator: “As several Versaillese were being led away to be shot, one man in the crowd that accompanied them to see the shooting made himself conspicuous by taunting and reviling the prisoners. ‘There, confound you,’ said one of the prisoners at last, ‘don’t you try to get out of it by edging off into the crowd and pretending you are one of them. Come back here; the game is up; let us all die together;’ and the crowd was so persuaded that the communard’s vehemence was only assumed to cloak his escape that he was marched into file with the prisoners and duly shot.”

_Ropes made of Women’s Hair_

Speaking before a meeting of the Methodist ministers, Bishop Fowler told of a new heathen temple in the northern part of Japan. It was of enormous size, and the timbers for the temple from their mountain homes were hauled up to the temple and put in place by ropes made from the hair of the women of the province. An edict went forth calling for the long hair of the women of the province, and two ropes were made from these tresses—one seventeen inches in circumference and fourteen hundred feet long, and the other ten to eleven inches around and two thousand six hundred feet long.

_Premonitory Caution_

We find it written of Simonides That travelling in strange countries once he found A corpse that lay expiring on the ground, For which, with pain, he caused due obsequies To be performed, and paid all holy fees. Soon after, this man’s Ghost unto him came And told him not to sail, as was his aim, On board a ship then ready for the seas. Simonides, admonished by the Ghost, Remained behind; the ship the following day Set sail, was wrecked, and all on board was lost. Thus was the tenderest Poet that could be, Who sang in ancient Greece his loving lay, Saved out of many by his piety.

_Realism_

“To paint cuirassiers,” said Meissonier, “I must needs see them.” He accordingly took a dozen of this corps to his country home, where they were required to charge down the park every morning, but the evolution did not last long, and, before the artist had sketched an outline of the group, the gallant fellows were out of sight. “You must follow them by train,” said a friend. No sooner said than done. An engineer was summoned, rails were laid down, rolling stock purchased, and for several weeks Meissonier accompanied the charge of his models by train. But it was summer, and historical accuracy required that the cuirassiers should dash over snowy ground. Thousands of bushels of flour were then laid down in the park, and the cuirassiers as they charged became enveloped in clouds of farina. The illusion was complete, the studies admirable, and the finished picture sold.

_He couldn’t have shot him_

Mr. William Hemphill Jones, formerly Deputy Comptroller of the Treasury, was the man to whom General Dix telegraphed, “If any one attempts to haul down the American flag, shoot him on the spot.” The order was grand, but it becomes almost ridiculous when you see the amiable gentleman to whom it was sent, and imagine him receiving it alone and unarmed, as a treasury clerk sent to New Orleans on public business, and surrounded by an infuriated mob. Never was a man more powerless to obey an order.

_Cromwell’s Grace_

Oliver Cromwell usually said the following grace before meals: “Some people have food, but no appetite; others have an appetite, but no food. I have both. The Lord be praised!” or words to this effect.

Burns’s version, which he calls the Selkirk grace, is as follows:

“Some hae meat and canna eat, And some wad eat that want it; But we hae meat and we can eat, And sae the Lord be thankit.”

_The Ocean Depths_

The greatest depths known of the sea is in the South Atlantic Ocean, midway between the island of Tristan d’Acunha and the mouth of the Rio de la Plata. The bottom was there reached at a depth of 40,236 feet, or eight and three-quarter miles, exceeding by more than 17,000 feet the height of Mount Everest, the loftiest mountain in the world. In the North Atlantic Ocean, south of Newfoundland, soundings have been made to a depth of 4580 fathoms, or 27,480 feet, while depths equalling 34,000 feet, or six and a half miles, are reported south of the Bermuda Islands. The average depth of the Pacific Ocean between Japan and California is a little over 2000 fathoms; between Chili and the Sandwich Islands, 2500 fathoms; and between Chili and New Zealand, 1500 fathoms. The average depth of all the oceans is from 2000 to 2500 fathoms.

_Pleasant Reading_

The late Abraham Hayward, distinguished in his time as a man of letters, was instrumental in making public the fact that Lord Beaconsfield, in his speech on the Duke of Wellington’s death, had cribbed from M. Thiers a considerable part of his eulogium. On the night when this discovery was first unfolded, in the London _Globe_, Mrs. Disraeli, unconscious of the coming storm, went out to a party, and, entering the room, announced in loud tones, proud of her lord’s new honor, “I left the Chancellor of the Exchequer reading the evening paper.” “Oh, what delightful reading he will find in it!” responded a malicious Whig peer.

_Bismarck in the Language of the Spirits_

On the eve of the Franco-German War, Napoleon III., as superstitious a man as his uncle, was present at a table-turning seance at the Tuileries, when a courtier, expecting doubtless some fulsome bit of flattery from the oracle, asked the question, “Who is to be the victor in this war?”

Two sharp raps were the immediate answer, but no one present could interpret them in accordance with the usual code of signs. A second time the inquiry was made and received the same distinct reply, to the emperor’s evident displeasure.

At last when a third trial had brought the same persistent result, he could stand the experiment no longer, and, with an irritated “What can a double rap signify but _bis-mark_?” he left the room.

_The Age of Niagara Falls_

The last word on this much-discussed subject, which is of great geologic importance, because the falls have been made to serve as a sort of standard by which all geologic time is measured, comes from J. W. Spencer, who concludes from the measured rate of recession during forty-eight years, together with other geologic data not usually taken into account, that the falls are thirty-one thousand years old, and the river thirty-two thousand; also that the Huron drainage was turned into Lake Erie less than eight thousand years ago. He thinks that the lake epoch began fifty thousand or sixty thousand years ago, and that the falls have about five thousand years more to live, at the end of which time the lake waters will discharge into the Mississippi.

_Tools of the Pyramid Builders_

Mr. Petrie’s researches at Gizeh show that the Egyptian stone-workers, four thousand years ago, had a surprising acquaintance with what have been considered modern tools. Among the many tools used by the pyramid-builders were both solid and tubular drills and straight and circular saws. The drills, like those of the present time, were set with jewels (probably corundum, as the diamond was very scarce), and even lathe-tools had such cutting edges. So remarkable was the quality of the tubular drills and the skill of the workmen that the cutting marks in hard granite give no indication of wear of the tool, while a cut of a tenth of an inch was made in the hardest rock at each revolution, and a hole through both the hardest and softest material was bored perfectly smooth and uniform throughout.

_A Distant World_

It is impossible for the finite mind to comprehend the vastness of the spaces that separate us from the stars, even from those that are nearest. Some idea of our marvellous distance from Sirius, the nearest fixed star, and which shines brightest in the heavens, is given by this illustration. A scientific writer says that if people on the star Sirius have telescopes powerful enough to distinguish objects on our planet, and are looking at it now, they are witnessing the destruction of Jerusalem, which took place more than eighteen hundred years ago. The reason of this is that the light which the world reflects, travelling as it does at the rate of one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles per second, would take over eighteen centuries to reach the nearest fixed star.

_A Matter of Form_

The following is a brief extract from a law paper, for the full understanding of which it has to be kept in view that the pleader, being an officer of the law, who has been prevented from executing his warrant by threats, is required, as a matter of form, to swear that he was really afraid that the threat would be carried into execution:

“Farther depones, that the said A. B. said that if deponent did not immediately take himself off he would pitch him (the deponent) down stairs,—which the deponent verily believes he would have done.

“Farther depones, that, time and place aforesaid, the said A. B. said to deponent, ‘If you come another step nearer, I’ll kick you to hell,’—which the deponent verily believes he would have done.”

_Sweet Auburn_

Thousands of American tourists, while in London, stand reverentially beside the grave of Oliver Goldsmith in the old burial ground of the Temple, or curiously examine the room in Wine Office Court in which he wrote the “Vicar of Wakefield.” But how many of all these thousands have ever visited the _locale_ of the “Deserted Village?” Lissoy, the Auburn of the poet, is on the road that runs from Athlone to Ballymahon, not more than fifty or sixty miles west of Dublin, yet there is nothing in Westmeath to attract strangers. The general impression is that when the “one only master,” General Napier, grasped the whole domain, and dispossessed and removed the _cottiers_ to make room for his projected improvements, the village was dismantled and effaced. It is said, however, that a descendant of General Napier afterwards did something in the way of restoration. Be this as it may, the ruined walls of the alehouse, the “busy mill,” and the “decent church” on the hill are still standing.

_Importance of Punctuation_

The dowager Czarina is a great favorite in Russia. Among other stories illustrating her character is this: She saw on her husband’s table a document regarding a political prisoner. On the margin Alexander III. had written, “Pardon impossible; to be sent to Siberia.” The Czarina took up the pen and, striking out the semicolon after “impossible,” put it before the word. Then the indorsement read, “Pardon; impossible to be sent to Siberia.” The Czar let it stand.

_Bottled Tears_

In Persia the past and the present are linked by the belief that human tears are a remedy for certain chronic diseases. At every funeral the bottling of mourners’ tears forms a prominent feature of the ceremonies. Every mourner is presented with a sponge with which to mop off the cheeks and eyes, and after the burial the moistened sponges are presented to the priest who squeezes the tears into bottles which he keeps for curative purposes. This is one of the most ancient of the Eastern customs; it is referred to in the eighth verse of the fifty-sixth Psalm, where David says, “put thou my tears into thy bottle;” and according to the testimony of a physician recently returned from a visit to Persia, the custom is still practised by the Persians as it was thousands of years ago.

_As you read it_

It is said that a professed atheist once had a motto on one of his walls bearing the words “God is Nowhere.” His little daughter, just beginning to read, came into the room and began to spell, “G-o-d God, I-s Is, N-o-w Now, H-e-r-e Here—God is now here.” The father was at once aroused and excited. We do not ask which was right, but notice that the meaning depends on how you read, and the possible meanings are as opposite as the poles.

_A Story of Witchcraft_

When Lord Chief Justice Holt presided in the Court of King’s Bench (1690), a poor decrepit old woman was brought before him charged with witchcraft. “What is the proof?” asked his lordship. “She has a powerful spell,” answered the prosecutor. “Let me see it.” The “spell” was handed up to the bench. It proved to be a small ball of variously colored rags of silk, bound with threads of as many different hues. These were unwound and unfolded, until there was revealed a scrap of parchment, on which were written certain characters now nearly illegible from constant use. “Is this the spell?” asked the judge. The prosecutor replied that it was. After attentive scrutiny of the charm, the judge, turning to the old creature, said, “Prisoner, how came you by this?” “A young gentleman, my lord, gave it to me to cure my child’s ague.” “How long since?” “Thirty years, my lord.” “And did it cure the child?” “Oh, yes, sir; and many others.” “I am glad of it.” The judge paused a few moments, and then addressed the jury as follows: “Gentlemen of the jury, thirty years ago, I and some companions, as thoughtless as myself, went to this woman’s place, then a public house, and, after enjoying ourselves, found we had no means to discharge the reckoning. I had recourse to a stratagem. Observing a child ill of an ague, I pretended I had a spell to cure her. I wrote the classic line you see on that scrap of parchment, and was discharged of the demand on me by the gratitude of the poor woman before us for the supposed benefit.”

_Circumstantial Evidence_

At a table-d’hôte at Ludwigsburg one of the company showed a very rare gold coin, which was passed around for inspection. After conjectures as to its origin and value, conversation drifted to other subjects, and the coin was temporarily forgotten. After awhile, the owner asked for it, and to the surprise of all, it was not to be found. A gentleman sitting at the foot of the table was observed to be in much agitation, and as his embarrassment seemed to increase with the continuance of the search the company was about to propose a very disagreeable measure, when suddenly a waiter entered the room, saying, “Here is the coin; it was found in one of the finger-glasses.” The relief to all was manifest, and now the suspected stranger broke his silence thus: “None of you can rejoice more than myself at the recovery of the coin, for I have been placed in a painful situation. By a singular coincidence I have a duplicate of the very same coin in my purse (here showing it to the company). The idea that on the personal search which would probably be proposed I would be taken for the purloiner of the coin, added to the fact that I am a stranger here, with no one to vouch for my integrity, was distracting. The honesty of the servants, with a lucky accident, has saved my honor.” The friendly congratulations of the company soon effaced the unpleasant effect of their unwarranted suspicions.

_A Little Beggar’s Charity_

A touching little begging story with a good moral is told by the Pittsburg _Telegraph_. A young man who had been on a three days’ debauch wandered into the office room of a hotel, where he was well known, sat down, and stared moodily into the street. Presently a little girl of about ten years came in and looked timidly about the room. She was dressed in rags, but she had a sweet, intelligent face that could scarcely fail to excite sympathy. There were five persons in the room, and she went to each begging. One gentleman gave her a five-cent piece, and she then went to the gentleman spoken of and asked him for a penny, adding: “I haven’t had anything to eat for a whole day.” The gentleman was out of humor, and he said, crossly: “Don’t bother me; go away! I haven’t had anything to eat for three days.” The child opened her eyes in shy wonder and stared at him a moment, and then walked slowly towards the door. She turned the knob, and then after hesitating a few seconds, walked up to him, and gently laying the five cents she had received on his knee, said with a tone of true girlish pity in her voice, “If you haven’t had anything to eat for three days, you take this and go and buy some bread. Perhaps I can get some more somewhere.” The young fellow blushed to the roots of his hair, and lifted the Sister of Charity in his arms, kissed her two or three times in delight. Then he took her to the persons in the room, and to those in the corridors and in the office, and told the story and asked contributions, giving himself all the money he had with him. He succeeded in raising over forty dollars and sent the little one on her way rejoicing.

_Jack Sprat_

Enthusiasts in folk-lore have undertaken to prove that subtle allegories or abstruse theological dogmas are the basis of popular tales. That in the celebrated story of Jack Sprat, for example, it is possible to discern an emblem of a rapacious clergy and an equally greedy aristocracy devouring the substance of the commons.

_Franklin’s Brown Coat_

When Benjamin Franklin, as minister to France, was formally presented to Louis XVI., he gained admiration for republican simplicity by appearing in a plain, ordinary suit. But when Nathaniel Hawthorne made the discovery that Franklin’s tailor had disappointed him of the gold-embroidered court costume he had ordered, simple-minded republicans were considerably disconcerted.

_Sources of History_

Early in the sixteenth century four Franciscan monks, living in a monastery in Donegal, compiled from a tangled web of tradition, song, story, and legend, the annals upon which all subsequent _histories_ of Ireland have been based.

_A Long Name_

Probably the longest name in the world is attached to the daughter of Arthur Pepper, laundryman. The name of his daughter, born 1883, is Anna Bertha Cecilia Diana Emily Fanny Gertrude Hypatia Inez Jane Kate Louisa Maud Nora Ophelia Quince Rebecca Sarah Teresa Ulysses Venus Winifred Xenophon Yetty Zeus Pepper, one title for every letter of the alphabet.

_Hero Worship_

Among the Acul Mountains, in Hayti, there has been found, in an old house, a bust of Lord Nelson. It is of white marble, somewhat stained by time and neglect. Nelson is represented in his costume of admiral, and bears on his breast five decorations. One, in commemoration of the battle of Aboukir, has the inscription, “Rear Admiral Lord Nelson of the Nile.” Another medal bears the words, “Almighty God has blessed his Majesty’s glory!”

This bust, interesting in its artistic and historical association, was found on an altar devoted to the _fetish_ worship, where for half a century it has been reverenced as the Deity of the Mountain Streams. The names of the sculptors were Coale and Lealy, of Lambeth.

Thus for fifty years a bust of an English admiral has been worshipped as a heathen idol.

_Quis Custodiet Ipsos Custodes?_

During the contest over the will of Samuel J. Tilden, himself an eminent lawyer, it was noted, among some of the failures of great lawyers to draw wills that will be indisputable, that Baron St. Leonards, Lord High Chancellor of England, who was the author of treatises on the law of property, to-day accepted as authorities, wrote a will which was overthrown by the courts. Intending testators may well wonder wherein safety and certainty for testamentary bequests may be found.

_None Such_

The stone in the Washington Monument contributed by the government of Switzerland bears this inscription: “This block is from the original chapel built to William Tell, in 1338, on Lake Lucerne, Switzerland, at the spot where he escaped from Gessler.” Since it was sent here the Historical Society of Switzerland has demonstrated that no such persons as Tell and Gessler ever existed.

_The Ants’ Habits_

Among the many mistakes prevalent in regard to the habits of animals and insects is the notion that ants in general gather food in harvest for a winter’s store. This is quite an error; in the first place, they do not live on grain, but chiefly on animal food; and in the next place, they are torpid in winter and do not require food. There is in Poonah a grain-feeding species which stores up millet seed, but certainly our ants have no claim to Jane Taylor’s stanza,—

“Who taught the little ant the way Its narrow hole to bore, And labor all the summer day To gather winter store?”

_Caroline Herschel’s many Years_

The life of Caroline Herschel, one would imagine, was anything but favorable to long-lasting. Insufficient sleep, irregular and hasty meals, long fasts, excessive toil, both bodily and mental, were the conditions of her life—at least, during the fifteen years she was her brother’s housekeeper and astronomical assistant. A lady who devoted herself to hard work, one of the necessities of which was that she had to spend the whole of every starry night, covered with dew or hoar frost, on a grass-plot in the garden, would not, one would think, be likely to make old bones. At the age of eighty-two, however, according to her nephew’s account, she skipped up two flights of stairs and ran about like a girl of twenty. She died at the age of ninety-eight.

_Constitution of the Early Church_

Dean Stanley once remarked that the most learned of all the living bishops of England (Dr. Lightfoot) has, with his characteristic moderation and erudition, proved beyond dispute, in a celebrated essay attached to his edition of “St. Paul’s Epistle to the Philippians,” that the early council of the Apostolic churches of the first century was not that of a single bishop, but of a body of pastors indifferently styled bishops or presbyters, and that it was not till the very end of the apostolic age that the office which we now call Episcopacy gradually and surely made its way into the churches of Asia Minor; that Presbytery was not a later growth out of Episcopacy, but that Episcopacy was a later growth out of Presbytery; that the office which the apostles instituted was a kind of rule, not of bishops, but of presbyters; and that even down to the third century presbyters as well as bishops possessed the power of nominating and consecrating bishops.

“_Home, Sweet Home_”

“Clari; or, The Maid of Milan,” produced in 1823, contains one piece that is known in every English-speaking country,—“Home, sweet home.” Clari is a beautiful peasant girl, who has exchanged her father’s lowly cottage for the splendor of the duke’s palace and become his bride. But she pines for the simple life she has led, and as she enters, fatigued and melancholy, she sings this song. The words are by John Howard Payne, an American, and though the music was called by Bishop a “Sicilian air,” it is now generally agreed that it was really composed by him. “It is the song,” says Clari, “of my native village,—the hymn of the lowly heart, which dwells upon every lip there, and like a spell-word brings back to its home the affection which e’er has been betrayed to wander from it. It is the first music heard by infancy in its cradle; and our cottagers, blending it with all their earliest and tenderest recollections, never cease to feel its magic till they cease to live.” The air is heard again during the play; a chorus of villagers sing it when Clari revisits her home.

About a year before Payne’s death at Tunis, where he was serving as American Consul, he wrote the following letter:

WASHINGTON, March 3, 1851.

MY DEAR SIR,—It affords me great pleasure to comply with your request for the words of “Home, Sweet Home.” Surely there is something strange in the fact that it should have been my lot to cause so many people in the world to boast of the delights of home, when I never had a home of my own, and never expect to have one, now—especially since those here at Washington who possess the power seem so reluctant to allow me the means of earning one! In the hope that I may again and often have the gratification of meeting you, believe me, my dear sir,

Yours, most faithfully, JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

HON. C. E. CLARKE.

_Marriage in Undress_

A century ago the law of Maine obliged a husband to pay all the debts of his bride in case she brought him any clothing. As outer clothing was legal property which could be taken for debt, an unfortunate couple who were deeply in love resorted to the experiment described in the following certificate of marriage to be found to-day in the ancient records of Lincoln County:

“_Certificate of Marriage._”

From record of return marriages to the Court of Sessions, Lincoln County, under date of July 7, 1775:

This is to certify that John Gatchell and Sarah Cloutman, both inhabitants of Kennebec River, a little below Fort Halifax, and out of the bounds of any town, but within the county of Lincoln, were first published, as the law directs, at said court and there married; said Cloutman being in debt was desirous of being married with no more clothes on her than her shift, which was granted, and they married each other on the 21st day of November, A.D. 1767.

Attest: WILLIAM LITHGOW, _Justice of Peace_.

_A City in Darkness_

The Romans, after they had attained a high culture, when they had filled their city with noble architecture, sculpture, engineering, monuments, and other accompaniments of maturity, had no system of street-lightning. Not a trace of anything of the kind has been discovered. It is referred to in no extant books. It is, in short, as certain as anything can be, short of absolute demonstration, that the masters of the world endured dark streets to the end. They had plenty of good oil-lamps in their houses. They even invented mechanical lamps, something like the Carcel burners, for use in their libraries. But after sunset it was always dangerous to walk the streets of Rome, and the Roman police (who were called “cops” in the slang of the period) had enough to do. In fact, they had more than enough to do, for they combined the functions of policemen and firemen. Rome had a regular body of men, some nine thousand strong. The police were well treated, if they were worked hard. Their quarters were palaces of marble and stone; spacious, airy, furnished with everything which could conduce to the comfort and even luxury of the inmates. Those old Roman roundsmen and policemen were, like all the ancient Italians, greatly addicted to scribbling on the walls. These scribblings, after being buried for twelve or fifteen hundred years or so, are now being uncovered and deciphered. They are called graffiti and from them many intimate details of the old life may be gathered. The police of ancient Rome were very human. They set down their complaints and their opinions of their captains and superintendents, their poor jokes (funny enough to them, no doubt) and all their little affairs.

_The Graffiti at Pompeii_

August Mau, of the German Archæological Institute in Rome, says, “The graffiti form the largest division of the Pompeiian inscriptions, comprising about three thousand examples, or one-half of the entire number; the name is Italian, being derived from a verb meaning to scratch. Writing upon walls was a prevalent habit in antiquity, as shown by the remains of graffiti at Rome and other places besides Pompeii, a habit which may be accounted for in part by the use of the sharp-pointed stylus with wax tablets; the temptation to use such an instrument upon the polished stucco was much greater than in the case of pens and lead-pencils upon the less carefully finished wall surfaces of our time. Pillars or sections of wall are covered with scratches of all kinds,—names, catchwords of favorite lines from the poets, amatory couplets, and rough sketches, such as a ship, or the profile of a face. The skit occasionally found on walls to-day,—

“‘Fools’ names, as well as faces, Are often seen in public places,’—

has its counterpart in a couplet which has been preserved:

“‘Admiror, paries, te non cecidisse ruinas, Qui tot scriptorum taedia sustineas.’

(Truly ’tis wonderful, wall, that you have not fallen in ruin; You that have to support so many nauseous scribblings.)

“Taken as a whole, the graffiti are less fertile for our knowledge of Pompeiian life than might have been expected. The people with whom we should most eagerly desire to come into direct contact, the cultivated men and women of the ancient city, were not accustomed to scratch their names upon stucco or to confide their reflections and experiences to the surface of a wall. Some of the graffiti, to judge from the height at which we find them above the floor, were undoubtedly made by the hands of boys and girls; for the rest, we may assume that the writers were as little representative of the best elements of society as are the tourists who scratch their names upon ancient monuments to-day. Nevertheless, we gain from these scribblings a lively idea of individual tastes, passions, and experiences.”

Here and there in the collection we find imitations of the jests of Hierocles, and sometimes we are amused by inconsistencies and contradictions which remind us of the modern Hibernicism. Of this character is a Greek line scratched upon a wall on the Palatine hill in Rome: “Many persons have here written many things; I alone refrain from writing.”

_Superstition_

As to the amusing superstitions we so often witness in people of intelligence and impressible nature, the question, even for those who indulge in such fancies, is not whether they are reasonable. Lord Byron would not commence an undertaking of any kind on Friday. But even Byron, with his remarkable sensitiveness to impressions, and his habit of brooding over the mysteries of life, would not venture to assert that such conduct is reasonable. The “Autocrat of the Breakfast Table” says, “Jeremy Bentham’s logic, by which he proved he couldn’t possibly see a ghost, is all very well—in the daytime. All the reason in the world will never get impressions of childhood out of a man’s head.” Elsewhere, Dr. Holmes says, “We are all tattooed in our cradles with the beliefs of our tribe; the record may seem superficial, but it is indelible. You cannot educate a man wholly out of the superstitious fears which were early implanted in his imagination; no matter how utterly his reason may reject them, he will still feel as a famous French woman did about ghosts, ‘Je n’y crois pas; mais je les crains,’—‘I don’t believe in them; but I am afraid of them, nevertheless.’”

_An Itemized Bill_

An old church in Belgium decided to repair its properties and employed an artist to touch up some of its old paintings. Upon presenting his bill, the committee in charge refused payment unless the details were specified, whereupon he presented the items as follows:

To correcting Ten Commandments 3.12

Embellishing Pontius Pilate and putting new ribbon on his hat 3.02

Putting new tail on rooster of St. Peter and mending his coat 3.20

Repluming and regilding wing of Guardian angel 5.18

Washing servant of high priest and putting carmine on his cheeks 5.02

Renewing heaven, adjusting the stars, and cleaning up the moon 7.14

Touching up Purgatory and restoring lost souls 3.06

Taking spots off son of Tobias 1.30

Putting ear-rings in Sarah’s ears 1.31

Brightening up flames of hell, putting new tail on the devil, cleaning left hoof, and doing several odd jobs for the damned 7.17

Rebordering the Robes of Herod and adjusting his wig 4.00

Cleaning Balaam’s ass and putting new shoes on him 1.70

Putting new stone in David’s sling, enlarging head of Goliath, and extending Saul’s Leg 6.18

Decorating Noah’s ark and putting new head on Shem 4.31

Mending shirt of prodigal son and cleaning his ear 3.39

—————

Total 59.10

_Latin Pronunciation_

A French savant, M. Garaud, has just published a book which professes to settle the vexed question of pronunciation of Latin by the ancient Romans. He says: “The patois of Pamiers, in the Department of Ariège, is nothing else than Latin exiled on the borders of the Ariège. It has been brought there with its original pronunciation and accentuation. Without the aid of any book the ear has sufficed to preserve its first form and intonation after eighteen centuries’ use. The most delicate inflections of the voice have been kept. Thanks to the instinct of harmony and the love of sonority, Latin pronunciation has been exactly transmitted to us.”

_Prevention better than Cure_

We learn from the parish records of Oberammergau that when the plague of 1633 was sweeping the by-ways of the Bavarian Tyrol, eighteen peasants met together and vowed that if the plague were stayed they would, once in ten years, present in living pictures the Passion of Christ. That vow has been faithfully kept. On Fish Street Hill, in London, where the great fire of 1666 started, the citizens erected a commemorative monument as an expression of their gratitude that the fire had destroyed the last vestige of the pestilence which, in the course of a few months, had carried off sixty-eight thousand five hundred and ninety-six of the inhabitants of the metropolis. We who live in an age of broader enlightenment have learned that the line of practical beneficence leads to prophylaxis rather than to religious vows or sacrificial offerings, and points to higher promise and larger performance. We, too, are building a monument, but it will be more enduring than stone or bronze, and will immortalize its trust in one word, SANITATION.

FACETIÆ

_The Old Cock_

Many years ago the only inn at Keswick was called the “Cock,” and was much frequented by the visitors to the Lake district. But the late excellent Bishop of Llandaff, Dr. Richard Watson, happening to reside in the neighborhood, and being universally esteemed and loved, the landlord, out of compliment to his lordship, changed his sign to the “Bishop’s Head.” Another inn was shortly after opened in the village, and the proprietor selected the “Cock” as his sign. The landlord of the old inn, finding that the rival establishment, owing to its name, threatened to deprive him of many of his customers, in consequence of the guide-books recommending the “Cock” as the best inn, wrote under the bishop’s head at his door, “This is the original Old Cock,” to the great amusement of the bishop, who used to relate the story with much glee.

_Already had One_

The following story is told by General Harry Heth: “One day General Gordon and I were ordered to attack General Grant’s lines near Petersburg, and we accordingly moved out toward the front. Gordon, you know, was a preacher, and a man of pious devotional habits. Just before the action began, he said, ‘General, before we go into action, would it not be well to engage in prayer?’ ‘Certainly,’ I replied, and he and his staff retired into a little building by the roadside, and I and my staff prepared to follow. Just then I caught sight of my brother, who was with some artillery a little way down the road, and, thinking to have him join us, I called out to him by name. ‘Come,’ said I, pointing to the building we were just entering. ‘No, thank you,’ he answered, ‘I have just had one.’”

_Ask Papa_

A stanza went the rounds among the public men of Washington, the authorship of which, from the fact that it was first heard among senators and cabinet officers, is credited to various statesmen. Secretary Shaw recited it at a cabinet meeting, and was said to be its author, but he disclaimed the honor. It is:

“‘Go ask papa,’ the maiden said, The young man knew papa was dead; He knew the life papa had led; He understood when the maiden said, ‘Go ask papa.’”

_Too Mild_

When his friends secured for him a commission in the army they confidently expected him to develop a military genius of the first order.

Great was their chagrin, then, when, in the thick of his first battle, a courier having dashed up and asked him how long he could hold his position, he did not reply:

“Till hell freezes over!”

But merely:

“As long as may be necessary!”

Now, of course, there was nothing for his friends to do, in simple justice to themselves, but advise him to resign and engage in trade.

_The Eye of the Fly_

Sydney Smith jokes have a delicate flavor of age, but an anecdote in “Memories of Half a Century” has not been told so often as some of the classic tales. Sydney was a guest at the dinner of an archdeacon, and a fellow-guest, whose hobby was natural history, was a bore, if once started on his subject. Smith promised to try to keep him in check. The naturalist got his opening.

“Mr. Archdeacon,” said he, “have you seen the pamphlet written by my friend, Professor Dickenson, on the remarkable size of the eye in a common housefly?”

The archdeacon courteously said he had not. The bore pursued his advantage.

“I can assure you it is a most interesting pamphlet, setting forth particulars, hitherto unobserved, as to the unusual size of that eye.”

“I deny the fact!” said a voice from the other end of the table. All smiled, save the bore.

“You deny the fact, sir?” said he. “May I ask on what authority you condemn the investigations of my most learned friend?”

“I deny the fact,” replied Smith, “and I base my denial on evidence wedded to immortal verse well known to every scholar, at least, at this table.”

The emphasis laid on scholar nettled the naturalist by its implication. “Well, sir,” he said, “will you have the kindness to quote your authority?”

“I will, sir. The evidence is those well known, I may say immortal, lines:

“‘Who saw him die?’ ‘I,’ said the fly, ‘With my little eye!’”

The guests roared, and during the rest of the dinner nothing further was heard on the subject of natural history.

_Yale’s Way_

Once when President Dwight was at the head of Yale he was asked to lead in prayer at some religious gathering in Boston. Among his hearers was President Eliot, of Harvard. President Dwight ended his supplication by repeating the Lord’s Prayer, and spoke a certain part of it as follows: “Thy will be done in heaven as it is on earth.” At the close of the meeting President Eliot, of Harvard, was greeted by a friend, who said, “Dwight seemed a little lame on the Lord’s Prayer. He put earth ahead of heaven. Did you notice it?” “Yes,” replied Eliot, “but I didn’t pay any attention to it. That’s the way they are taught to say it down at New Haven.”

_Canard_

A canard, meaning in French, a duck, has come to mean in English a hoax or fabricated newspaper story. Its origin is amusing. About fifty years ago a French journalist contributed to the French press an experiment, of which he declared himself to have been the author. Twenty ducks were placed together, and one of them, having been cut up into very small pieces, was gluttonously gobbled up by the other nineteen. Another bird was then sacrificed for the remainder, and so on, until one duck was left, which thus contained in its inside the other nineteen! This the journalist ate. The story caught on, and was copied into all the newspapers of Europe.

_Sothern’s Practical Joke_

A Dublin paper relates, as follows, one of the practical jokes of Edward A. Sothern, the comedian: He called upon an undertaker one day, and ordered, on a most elaborate scale, all that was necessary for a funeral. Before the preparations could have gone far, he reappeared with great solicitude to ask how they were progressing. Again, at a brief interval, he presented himself, with an anxious face, to inquire when he could count upon possession of the body—a question which naturally amazed the undertaker, who was at a loss to discover his meaning. “Of course, you provide the body,” said Sothern. “The body?” cried the undertaker. “Why, do you not say,” exclaimed the actor, exhibiting a card of the shop, “‘All things necessary for funerals promptly supplied?’ Is not a body the first necessity?”

_High Art Advertising_

That German tradesmen are rapidly rising to the higher flights of the advertising art is shown by the following ingenious paragraphs from the advertisements in the _Berliner Tageblatt_ and the _Wiener Vorstadt-Zeitung_: “A German Knightly landowner wishes to find a female life-companion who resembles, externally as well as in character, the heroine of Sacher-Masoch’s novel, ‘Frau von Soldan,’ published in the April number of _Auf der Höhe_, by E. L. Morgenstern, Leipzig. Address Karl Egger, Beiderwiese, near Passau.” An enterprising Viennese tailor has hit upon this: “How to become a houseowner: Quite lately a gentleman made his fortune on the Weiden in an astonishing and absolutely original manner. At my shop he purchased a morning suit for ten florins, a dress suit for nineteen florins, a pair of summer trousers for three florins, and a complete costume for his little son at the low figure of three florins and a half. Having reflected that, had he bought these articles in any other shop, he would have been obliged to pay at least twenty florins more for them, he resolved to invest his savings to that amount in a ticket for the Crown Prince Rudolph Lottery. At the next drawing his number came out the first prize of twenty thousand florins, which sum this lucky person forthwith invested in a comfortable mansion. Thus, through dealing at my establishment, he became a houseowner and a wealthy man.”

_An Admissible Explanation_

The late Dr. Yandell was fond of telling the following joke: A lady patient one morning greeted him with the remark, “Doctor, I had such a singular dream about you last night.” “Indeed. What was it?” “Why, I dreamed that I died and went to heaven. I knocked at the Golden Gate, and was answered by Peter, who asked my name and address and told the recording angel to bring his book. He had considerable difficulty in finding my name, and hesitated so long over the entry when he did find it, that I was terribly afraid something was wrong; but he suddenly looked up and asked, ‘What did you say your name was?’ I told him again. ‘Why,’ said he, ‘you have no business here. You’re not due these ten or fifteen years yet.’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘Dr. Yandell said——’ ‘Oh, you’re one of Yandell’s patients, are you? That accounts for it. Come right in! Come right in! That man’s always upsetting our calculations in some way.’”

_Second- or Third-Rate_

Bishop Lawrence, of Massachusetts, tells this joke on himself with keen relish. It was at the time when there was a vacancy in the bishopric, and Dr. Brooks was the most prominent candidate. Mr. Lawrence, then the Dean of the Theological School, in Cambridge, was walking with President Eliot of Harvard University, and the two were discussing the situation. “Don’t you hope Brooks will be elected?” asked the Dean. “No,” said Dr. Eliot; “a second- or third-rate man would do just as well; and we need Brooks in Boston and Cambridge.” Phillips Brooks was elected, and a little later Dr. Eliot and Mr. Lawrence again discussed the matter. “Aren’t you glad Brooks was elected?” queried the Dean. “Yes, I suppose so,” said Dr. Eliot, “if he wanted it; but, to tell the truth, Lawrence, you were my man.”

_The Wounded Amazon_

Gibson’s Wounded Amazon is a poem in marble, but how many of its admirers would ever suspect the grotesque suggestiveness of which it was the outgrowth? “Yes,” said Gibson to a friend who went to his studio to see the statue in clay, “I call it a Wounded Amazon, but that statue is a proof of how useful it is for an artist to keep his eyes open. Now, how do you think I found that pose? I was going along the street, and I found a girl catching a flea. Yes, I did; she was catching a flea! I stopped and said to myself, ‘That’s a pretty pose—a very pretty pose indeed,’ and I took it down. Then I thought it over; I sat up and worked it out, and there it stands now as my Wounded Amazon. But it is the very pose of the girl catching the flea, nevertheless. A very pretty pose it is, you see; and, as I said, it shows that an artist must not fail to keep his eyes always open.”

_Mr. Evarts’s Jocularity_

A friend read to Mr. William M. Evarts the statement of a newspaper that, in reply to the question “What part of the turkey will you have?” Mr. Evarts answered that it was “quite inconsequential to one of his recognized abstemiousness and supersensitive stomachic nervation whether he be tendered an infinitesimal portion of the opaque nutriment of the nether extremities, the superior fraction of a pinion, or a snowy cleavage from the cardiac region.” Mr. Evarts said that this was an attempt at condensing one of his despatches protesting against the dismemberment of Turkey. It was founded on an incident which occurred at one of his Thanksgiving dinners at home. “I had a roasted New England goose, well stuffed with sage, with plenty of apple-sauce and the usual accompaniments. At the close of the meal I said, ‘My children, you now see the difference between the condition of affairs before and after dinner. You then saw a goose stuffed with sage; now you see a sage stuffed with goose.’”

_Worse than Worst_

Two comedians having laid a wager as to which of them sang the best, they agreed to refer it to an arbitrator. A day was accordingly set, and both parties executed to the best of their abilities. When they had finished, he proceeded to give judgment in the following manner: “As for you, sir,” addressing himself to the first, “you are the worst singer I ever heard in all my life.” “Ah,” said the other, “I knew I should win the wager.” “Stop, sir,” said the arbitrator; “I have a word to say to you before you go, which is this, that as for you, you cannot sing at all.”

_A Poet-farmer in a Fix_

Long Island has a poet named Bloodgood H. Cutter, who, when an infant, “lisped in numbers.” He is a member of the agricultural profession, a practical farmer, and alternates between cultivation of his extensive family manor and his favorite muse monthly. One day the Long Island Byron, when on the way to the New York market, had the misfortune to break his tackling through the antics of his spirited team, that was drawing a big load.

Just at this moment, as the poet was in the road lugubriously viewing his ruptured tackling and broken traces, there appeared on the spot a wagon-load of his neighbors on their way home. “By Jove!” said S., “there is our rhyming neighbor Cutter, broke down; bet you the dinners all round at Tony’s that when we stop he will tell his trouble in good rhythm.” “Done,” said B. “I take that bet. Drive up and decide it.” Bloodgood looked around, saw a chance of relief, and his countenance radiating like an Edison lamp, opened his lips thusly:

“Glad to see your smiling faces; I’ve broke down and want relief; Come and help me mend these traces, Or my trip will come to grief. I’ve a load of pink-eyed beauties, Rare potatoes—sure to sell— Don’t forget your Christian duties, Pious work, you know, pays well.”

A roar went up that could have been heard a mile. “All right, Bloodgood, that Christian duty shall be ‘did.’” They fixed him up and he went on his way rejoicing. In due time Tony Miller’s elegant dinner for four was partaken of, and B. footed the bill.

_A Venerable Joke_

The framework of jokes is handed down from one generation to another, like andirons and spinning-wheels. For instance, a Hartford paper, learning that there is a coin in Southern Russia so small that it takes two hundred and fifty of them to be worth one dollar, remarks that they must be very convenient for charitable purposes. The joke appears in every age, without much alteration. It is first noticed in English literature after the ascension of James I. to the throne had brought in a horde of hungry Scotch place-hunters, to the great disgust of the English, who wanted all the places themselves. Jokes at the expense of the Scotch, of course, became very popular, and this was one of the most popular: “Why are they coining farthings again?” “To give Scotchmen an opportunity to subscribe to benevolent objects.”

_The Graduate_

He could quote from musty pages, delve in geologic ages, and relax himself in synthesis and such; Could construct an exegesis, startle with a subtle Thesis, and involve a tortured subject overmuch. He was great in mathematics, as applied to hydrostatics, or eternal revolution of the spheres; His chronology was reckoned from the minimum of second to the undiscovered maximum of years. He was constantly amazing with philology and phrasing, with vocabulistic plenitude and ease; He was by his fellows quoted, as a lexicon is noted, his attainments were superlative degrees. On Commencement his oration was received with an ovation, oh, his temporary glory was immense; While the complimenting flowers fell around in fragrant showers, and the fever of the moment was intense. But behold the fellow later from his sheltering Alma Mater reach his educated fingers for some necessary cash; All the wisdom he may utter doesn’t turn to bread and butter, and his Theses do not count for daily hash.

_Coldblooded Criticism_

Mr. Longfellow sent this little verse to the Columbus, Ohio, school children, who celebrated his birthday:

“If any thought of mine, e’er sung or told, Has ever given delight or consolation, Ye have repaid me back a thousand-fold By every friendly sign and salutation.

With the compliments and good wishes of H. W. LONGFELLOW.”

Whereupon a Cincinnati paper chaffed the poet in this fashion: “Certainly, Mr. Longfellow; but if you sung it you told it, didn’t you? It is rather your point to tell a thing in singing it! Why, then, ‘sung _or_ told?’ And why the _back_ in the third line? Break that back. Could one repay you forward? And is not a sign also a salutation?”

_Mock Heroics_

Out rode from his wild, dark castle The terrible Heinz von Stein; He came to the door of a tavern, And gazed on the swinging sign.

He sat himself down at a table, And growled for a bottle of wine; Up came with a flask and a corkscrew A maiden of beauty divine.

Then, seized with a deep love-longing, He uttered, “O damosel mine, Suppose you just give a few kisses To the valorous Ritter von Stein!”

But she answered: “The kissing business Is entirely out of my line; And I certainly will not begin it On a countenance ugly as thine!”

Oh, then the bold knight was angry, And cursed both coarse and fine; And asked, “How much is the swindle For your sour and nasty wine?”

And fiercely he rode to the castle, And set himself down to dine: And this is the dreadful legend Of the terrible Heinz von Stein. CHARLES G. LELAND.

_Unwilling Willingness_

Dr. Guernsey, in an article on faith cure, in the _Medical Times_, cites a case in which will power appears to have successfully supplied the place of faith. Among the parishioners of the Rev. Dr. Taylor, of New Haven, was an invalid lady, who finally took to her bed, where she continued to receive her pastor’s visits. One bitter cold night she sent for him to console her dying moments, and declared herself ready to depart in peace. “If it is His will,” she said, “that I shall go to hell, I can still say, ‘Thy will be done.’” The physician who was present became a little impatient. “Well,” said he, “if that is God’s will, and both you and your family are reconciled to it, I do not know that I ought to object.” In a moment the woman was on her feet shouting, “I won’t die and I won’t go to hell!” She afterward enjoyed comfortable health for years.

_Companion Pictures_

The Rev. Dr. John Hall once suggested that an artist might paint “Enchantment” as “a bright young girl, on the deck of an ocean steamer at the wharf, chattering to the friends around her, grandly directing her bouquets to be sent to her room, full of the joys of the voyage and her first trip to Europe.” He adds that a companion picture might be called “Disenchanted,” representing the same girl, “like Jonah, gone down to the sides of the ship, not like him, asleep, but with great inward trouble, like that in the venerable sea story, ‘The first hour I feared I would die; the second hour I feared I would not.’ The faded bouquets, disordered garments, and a very crowded foreground would complete the scene.”

_Juxtaposition_

Dr. Henry Gibbons describes a kiss as “the anatomical juxtaposition of two orbicularis oris muscles in a state of contraction.” Upon this, a newspaper editor remarked, “A kiss may be one of those things, but it doesn’t taste like it. We once heard a young man describe a kiss as ‘bully,’ and he had quite as much experience in the osculatory business as Dr. Gibbons, but he didn’t have so much education.”

_Niagara_

An American tourist was visiting Naples and saw Vesuvius during an eruption. “Have you anything like that in the New World?” was the question of an Italian spectator. “No,” replied Jonathan; “but I guess we have a mill-dam that would put it out in five minutes.”

_Compliant Courts_

Edwin Booth, as Richelieu, once said, in a Chicago theatre,—

“France, my mistress, France, my wedded wife, Who shall proclaim divorce ’twixt me and thee?”

And, after a solemn pause, somebody in the gallery said, “Most any Chicago Judge.”

_A Modern Judge on Portia’s Judgment_

The Home Secretary lately ventured to assert that Lord Bramwell entertained so vast a reverence for all kinds of property that if he had been called upon to decide the legal dispute in “The Merchant of Venice,” he would infallibly have declared that Antonio’s pound of flesh must be given to his creditor. Lord Bramwell, with the frankness which usually characterizes him, has met Sir William Harcourt’s little joke by an answer delivered from the judicial bench. In the course of an Appeal Court case the learned judge took occasion to respond to the witty illustration of the Home Secretary. Far from expressing the slightest shame or penitence for the views which he holds as to the sacredness of property of all descriptions, Lord Bramwell actually seems to glory in them. The session of the Court of Appeal was probably the earliest opportunity that was presented to him of answering Sir William Harcourt’s banter; but at all events, he seized on the opportunity and turned it to the best account. Portia’s statement of the case would, Lord Bramwell tells us, have induced him to give the pound of flesh to the usurer, except for one little flaw in her argument. The flesh had not been “appropriated,” and could not, therefore, be regarded as property to which Shylock had a good legal right until it had been cut from Antonio’s quivering body. Supposing Lord Bramwell to have been sitting in _banco_ with the Doge of Venice on the occasion of the famous trial, and the pound of flesh had been lying on a table ready cut; in that case the decision of the English judge would have been in favor of the plaintiff’s claim to the possession of the horrible piece of “property.” But then, as Lord Bramwell truly remarks, in order to get the flesh, assault, and even murder, would have had to be committed, and therefore the contract was null and void from the beginning. The moment Shylock had advanced toward his victim, knife in hand, he would have been technically guilty of an assault with intent, and would have been obliged to appear at the police court of the period next morning to hear what the sitting magistrate thought of the offence.

_A Legal Dilemma_

At an examination for admission to the bar of Ohio, the examiner propounded this question: “A great many years ago there lived a gentleman named Lazarus, who died possessed of chattels, real and personal. After this event to whom did they go?” The student replied, “To his administrators and his heirs.” “Well, then,” continued the examiner, “in four days he came to life again; inform us, sir, whose were they then?” Which interesting inquiry we submit to the lawyers. I am not a lawyer, but I see no difficulty in the inquiry. Lazarus died and was buried. As soon as he died, his property, if he left no will, vested in his heirs. The law gives no man the right to die for four days and then come to life again. Legally Lazarus couldn’t rise. I have no doubt the Supreme Court would decide that the Lazarus who rose was not the Lazarus who died; he was a new Lazarus. The new Lazarus would, of course, feel within himself that he was the old Lazarus, and go around boring his legal friends talking about his legal wrongs; but every lawyer would leave him as quickly as possible, saying, in parting, “It’s a hard case; but if your heirs can prove your death, and they came in legally under the statute, there is no way to make them disgorge. All you can do is this—you’re a young fellow about sixty; hire out as a clerk, try to save something from your salary so as to go into business again, build up a grand estate, and perhaps your heirs will recognize your identity.”

_Virgil’s Æneid Dissected_

In an English college journal our old and highly polished friend P. Virgilius Maro is quite thoroughly shaken up. After a little general discussion of the poet, the writer proceeds to quote a large number of passages in which Virgil is inconsistent and oftentimes contradictory. Take, for instance, the following:

“Down comes blind Cyclops to the shore—

‘Postquam altos tetigit fluctus, et ad æquora venit, Luminis effusi fluidum lavit inde cruorem.’

‘He washes with its water the gore that trickled from his scooped-out eye.’ Now would anybody but a madman go and bathe a bleeding wound in the sea—the sea, of all places? Why, he would have made his head smart for a year; but Virgil wanted him down on the shore, and must make him do something. Note, too, ‘fluidum cruorem.’ Now, in line 645 of the same book (III), the fugitive tells Æneas that they put out the Cyclops’s eye three months ago, and so, according to Virgil, the wound bleeds incessantly for three months (three days of bleeding would, according to modern doctors, have taken the life of even a stout Cyclops), and then the giant comes down to the shore and bathes in salt water.... Again, in the celebrated athletic sports in Book V., everybody is rewarded with a prize. One man gets a prize because he comes in first; the second man gets one because he would have been first if something hadn’t happened, and the last man gets one because he fell down. The only parallel to such a practice is one afforded by Artemus Ward, who, in command of a volunteer force, makes all his men captains, to prevent jealousy. In V, 456, Virgil, after carefully telling us that Dares is wonderfully nimble and Entillus wonderfully slow, lets the slow man chase the fast one, _æquore toto_, hitting him all the while.”

_Relative Size_

Before the ocean leviathans of the Cunard and White Star steamship lines were built, an inquirer asked whether the “Great Eastern” was the largest vessel ever built. The editor replied, “An impression has got abroad that she is, but such is not the case. The ‘Mayflower,’ in which the Pilgrim fathers came to this country, was the largest ship that ever ploughed the waters. The old furniture scattered over this country, brought over by the ‘Mayflower,’ would fill the ‘Great Eastern’ a dozen times or more.”

_The Cardinal’s Curse_

“The Jackdaw of Rheims” is better known than the majority of the “Ingoldsby Legends,” with the dreadful curse which the cardinal called down upon the thief who had stolen his ring:

The Cardinal rose with a dignified look. He called for his candle, his bell, and his book! In holy anger and pious grief, He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed; He cursed him in sleeping that very night, He should dream of the devil and wake in a fright; He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking; He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying; He cursed him in living, he cursed him dying! Never was heard such a terrible curse! But what gave rise to no little surprise, Nobody seemed one penny the worse!

In twitting again at Holy Church, Mr. Barham makes Pope Gregory, in setting a penance for Sir Ingoldsby Bray, break out in the following extraordinary though highly entertaining dog Latin:

_O turpissime! Vir nequissime! Sceleratissime!—quissime!—issime!_ Never, I trow, have the _Servi servorum_ Had before ’em such a breach of decorum, Such a gross violation of _morum bonorum_, And won’t have again _sæcula sæculoram_!

_The Berners Street Hoax_

In point of audacity and ingenuity in the line of practical joking, Theodore Hook is unrivalled. The most famous of his hoaxes was played on Mrs. Tottingham, an old lady living at No. 54 Berners Street, Oxford Road, London. The date of its occurrence was November, 26, 1810, so long since that the elders have forgotten it, and the later generations have never heard of it. For the sake of the latter, it is worth while to recall such a laughable incident.

In walking down Berners Street one day with a companion, their attention was attracted to the neat and modest appearance of the house referred to. “I’ll bet you a guinea,” said Theodore, “that in one week that nice quiet dwelling shall be the most famous in all London.” The bet was taken. In the course of the next four or five days, Hook wrote and despatched more than a thousand letters, conveying orders to tradesmen of every sort, all to be executed on one particular day, and as nearly as possible at one fixed hour. From wagons of coal and potatoes to books, prints, feathers, ices, jellies, tarts, anything and everything available was ordered from rival dealers scattered from Wapping to Lambeth, from Whitechapel to Paddington. In 1810 Oxford Road was not approachable from Westminster, or Mayfair, or from the city, otherwise than through a complicated series of lanes. Imagine the crash and jam and tumult that followed! Hook had provided himself with a temporary lodging on the opposite side of the street, and there, with a couple of trusty allies, he watched the development of the drama. But, for prudential reasons, some of the _dramatis personæ_ were seldom, if ever, alluded to afterwards. Hook had no objection to open references to the arrival of the Lord Mayor and his chaplain, invited to take the death-bed confession of a peculating common councilman, but he would rather have buried in oblivion that precisely the same sort of liberty was taken with the Governor of the Bank of England, the Chairman of the East India Company, the Lord Chief Justice, a cabinet minister, the Archbishop of Canterbury, and his Royal Highness the Commander-in-Chief. They all obeyed the summons—every pious and patriotic feeling had been most movingly appealed to. We are not sure that they all reached Berners Street, but the Duke of York’s military punctuality and crimson liveries brought him to the point of attack before the poor widow’s astonishment had risen to terror and despair. No assassination, no conspiracy, no royal demise or ministerial revolution was a greater godsend to the newspapers than this daring piece of mischief. In Hook’s own theatrical world he was instantly suspected, but no sign escaped either him or his confidants. Beyond that circle the affair was serious. Fierce were the growlings of the doctors and surgeons, scores of whom had been cheated of valuable hours. Attorneys, teachers of all kinds (male and female), hair-dressers, tailors, preachers, and philanthropists had been victimized, and were vociferous in their complaints. The tangible material damage done was itself considerable. Beer casks and wine casks were overturned, glass and china were smashed, harpsichords and coach-panels were broken, and men and horses, under the resistless pressure of a countless multitude, were thrown down and trampled upon. It was a field-day for the pickpockets. A fervent hue and cry arose for the detection of the trickster, but he disappeared and did not return to his accustomed haunts until the storm had blown over.

_The Point of View_

The girl stood on the roller skates, But then she could not go; She was afraid to tempt the fates, Because she wobbled so. She called aloud, “Say, Chawley, say: Do come; help me along!” But Chawley went the other way, Because his legs went wrong; There came a crash—a thunder sound; The girl, oh, where was she? Ask of the giddy youth around, Who viewed her hosiery.

_Vicissim_

A class of schoolgirls, highly educated on the newest principles, were pouring forth to the Bishop of Manchester a list of Latin words, with the English equivalents, and they came to the word which we elders should call _vicissim_, “We-kiss-im,” said the girls; “we-kiss-im—by turns.” “Oh, do you?” answered the bishop; “then I don’t wonder at your adopting the new pronunciation.”

_Jack and Jill_

’Twas not on Alpine snow nor ice, But honest English ground; Excelsior! was their device; But sad the fate they found.

They did not climb for love nor fame, But followed Duty’s call; They were together in their aim, But parted in their fall.

_High Diddle Diddle, the Cat and the Fiddle_

Heard ye that mirthful melody? Remote It rose; and straight the strain, approaching near, Caught of the careful cat the critic ear— Proud dame, in tortoise decked or tabby coat, The villain vermin’s vixen vanquisher. Her frolic paw the festive fiddle smote, Which, as high Hesper poured his glittering glance, Inspired the not unawkward cow to dance Above the beamy moon; all this beheld The dog diminutive, while its strange romance With laughter loud his simple bosom swelled: The dish, high heaped with food of savory store, Kissed the bright spoon by kindred love impelled,— Such is the nursery tale of infant lore.

_Mary’s Little Lamb_

Mary possessed a diminutive sheep, Whose external covering was as devoid of color as the congealed aureous fluid which occasionally presents insurmountable barriers to railroad travel on the Sierras; And everywhere that Mary peregrinated The juvenile Southdown was certain to get up and get right after her. It tagged her to the alphabet dispensary one day, Which was in contravention of established usage;

It caused the other youthful students to cachinnate and skyfungle To perceive an adolescent mutton in an edifice devoted to the dissemination of knowledge. And so the preceptor ejected him from the interior. And he continued to roam in the immediate vicinity, And remained in the neighborhood until Mary Once more became visible. “What causes the juvenile sheep to hanker after Mary so?” Queried the inquisitive children of their tutor. “Why, Mary bestows much affection upon the little animal to which the wind is tempered when shorn, you must be aware,” The preceptor with alacrity responded.

_The Meeting_

They met; ’twas in the starry depths Of August’s cloudless sky; Fair Luna trod her silvery path In matchless majesty: The cricket chirped, the firefly Pursued his fitful dance. ’Twas in the balmy slumb’rous night That those two met by chance.

With throbbing heart and beating pulse He spoke in accents low, And in her glancing eye there came A deeper, warmer glow: Then up the apple tree she flew And there vindictive spat, For “he” was “Jack” my terrier, And “she” our neighbor’s cat.

FLASHES OF REPARTEE

_Hereditary Transmission_

Madame Bonaparte (Betsy Patterson) once attended a state dinner, and was escorted to the table by Lord Dundas. He had already received some of her sarcastic speeches, and in a not very pleasant mood asked her whether she had read Mrs. Trollope’s book on America. She had. “Well, madame,” said the Englishman, “what do you think of her pronouncing all Americans vulgarians?” “I am not surprised at that,” answered sprightly Betsy Bonaparte. “Were all the Americans descendants of the Indians or the Esquimaux, I should be astonished; but being the direct descendants of the English, it would be very strange if they were not vulgarians.” There was no more heard from Lord Dundas that evening.

_Fitting Answers_

One sultry evening, Phœbe Cary, dressed as usual in a close-fitting bodice, entered the room where John G. Saxe and others were seated. Saxe greeted her with, “Miss Phœbe, why do you dress so closely in such hot weather? Look at me.” He had on a linen duster, and was fanning himself industriously. Phœbe replied instantly, “I never feel comfortable with loose sacks around me.”

On another occasion, at the tea-table, the question arose about the number of children John Rogers had—“nine small children and one at the breast.” The company were evenly divided whether there were nine or ten. Phœbe was appealed to, when she said, “Ten, of course.” “How do you reach such a positive decision?” some one asked. “Don’t nine and one to carry make ten?” was her reply.

_Left-Handed Compliments_

Leyden, having had a quarrel with the author of “The Pleasures of Hope,” once said to Sir Walter Scott,—

“You may tell Campbell that I hate him, but that he has written the best poetry that has been written for fifty years.”

Scott conveyed the message with fidelity, and Campbell replied,—

“Tell Leyden that I detest him, but I know the value of his critical approbation.”

_Not Beyond Reach_

Rev. Dr. Bethune asked a morose and miserly man how he was getting along. The man replied, “What business is that of yours?” Said the doctor, “Oh, sir, I am one of those who take an interest even in the meanest of God’s creatures.”

_Limitation of Authority_

Pope Paul IV. was so shocked at Michael Angelo’s undressed figures in his famous “Last Judgment,” that he employed Daniele da Volterra to clothe them; and he, in consequence, received the nickname of “Il Braghettone” (the breeches-maker). Michael Angelo, with his usual wit, punished Messer Biagio da Cesena, master of the ceremonies (who first suggested to the Pope the impropriety of nude figures), by painting him in hell, with ass’s ears, as Midas.

The story goes that Biagio implored the Pope to insist upon the removal of this caricature, whereupon Paul IV. replied:

“I might have released you from purgatory, but over hell I have no power!”

_Like Topsy_

When General Schenck was United States minister to England, the wife of a British cabinet officer assured him that “England made America all that she is.” “Pardon, madam,” said the general, “you remind me of the answer of the Ohio lad in his teens who, attending Sunday school for the first time, was asked by the teacher, ‘Who made you?’ ‘Made me?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Why, God made me about so long (holding his hands about ten inches apart), but I growed the rest.’”

_Opposite Effects_

“The matrimonial fever seems to be raging in this vicinity,” said a smart young man to a young lady in a street car.

“Are you sure it only seems to be?” said she, not wishing to commit herself.

“It is raging about as bad as the yellow fever in the South last year,” said he, further pushing his opportunity.

“Yes,” she replied, in a utilitarian tone of voice, “but it has just the opposite effect upon the population.”

_Maternity_

“I never could _bear_ children,” said a crusty old maid to Mrs. Partington. “Perhaps, if you could, you would like them better,” mildly replied the old lady.

_Date of Possession_

“Don’t you think,” said a husband, mildly rebuking his wife, “that women are possessed by the devil?” “Yes,” was the quick reply, “as soon as they are married.”

_The Old Dominion_

When a distinguished French abbe was making a visit to this country in the early days of our national history, he happened to be dining with some Washington celebrities, of whom John Randolph, of Roanoke, was one, and the place of whose residence was not known to the foreigner. The question was put to the abbe:

“And how were you pleased with the South?”

“Exceedingly; but I confess to having been a little disappointed—I had heard so much—in the Virginia gentlemen.”

“Perhaps you were unfortunate in your circle,” broke in Randolph, with a sneer. “You did not come to Roanoke, for instance.”

“True,” said the abbe, covering his evident annoyance at the rude tone with his usual calm smile. “True; the next time I visit Virginia I shall certainly go to Roanoke.”

“_Gentlemen_,” answered Randolph, emphasizing the word, “do not come to Roanoke unless they are _invited_!”

It was a cruel thrust, but the abbe took it in the same placid manner; and lifting his gray head, paused for a moment to give due emphasis to his words, and then replied, looking inquiringly at the other guests:

“Said I not, messieurs, that I was disappointed in Virginia gentlemen?”

_No Jury Then and There_

Allen, the Quaker, waited upon the Duke of Sussex to remind him of his promise to present a petition to abolish capital punishment. The duke did not seem to like the job, and observed that Scripture has declared, “Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.” “But please note,” replied the Quaker, “that when Cain killed Abel he was not hung for it.” “That’s true,” rejoined the duke, “but remember, Allen, there were not twelve men in the world then to make a jury.”

_Each His Own Way_

Among the anecdotes recalled by the death of M. Leverrier is one which describes M. Villemain, the secretary of the French Academy, as declaiming in the library one day in a vigorous manner against Napoleon III. Leverrier, who was an ardent imperialist, chanced to overhear some of his remarks, and demanded, “How dare you speak thus of the emperor in a public building?” Villemain looked up carelessly and replied, “And pray who may you be?” “You know me, sir,” said the astronomer. “Your face may be familiar to me, but I don’t exactly recall your name.” “Leverrier is my name.” “Oh, yes, Leverrier. Astronomer, I think? In his day I was intimately acquainted with M. Laplace; he was an astronomer, too,—and a gentleman.” “Sir,” said Leverrier, “I despise wit, but if you continue speaking thus I warn you that I shall report your words to the proper authorities.” “Well,” said Villemain, shrugging his shoulders, “every one has his way of making a living.”

_Nature’s Painting_

A young lady with very rosy cheeks, walking down Charles Street in Baltimore, overheard a clubman say, “By Heaven, she’s painted.” Turning quickly around, she said, “Yes, and by Heaven only.”

_A Boomerang_

Some years ago several army officers were stopping at a hotel in Washington. Among them were a Captain Emerson and a Captain Jones. Emerson and Jones used to have a good deal of fun together at the dinner-table and elsewhere. One day at the dinner-table, when the dining-hall was well filled, Captain Jones finished his dinner first, got up, and walked almost to the dining-hall door, when Emerson called to him in a loud voice: “Hallo, captain! see here. I want to speak to you a minute.” The captain turned and walked back to the table and bent over him, when Emerson whispered, “I wanted to ask you how far you would have gone if I had not spoken to you.” The captain never changed a muscle, but straightened up and put his fingers into his vest pocket and said, “Captain Emerson, I don’t know of a man in the world I would rather lend five dollars to than you, but the fact is I haven’t a cent with me to-day,” and he turned on his heel and walked away. Emerson was the color of a dozen rainbows, but he had to stand it.

_Relationship_

As my wife and I at the window one day, Stood watching a man with a monkey, A cart came by with a “broth of a boy,” Who was driving a stout little donkey. To my wife I then spoke, by way of a joke, “There’s a relation of yours in that carriage,” To which she replied, as the donkey she spied, “Ah, yes, a relation _by marriage_.”

_Decay’s Effacement_

In an action that was tried in an English court, when the question in dispute was as to the quality and condition of a gas-pipe that had been laid down many years before, a witness stated that it was an old pipe, and therefore out of condition. The judge remarking that “people do not necessarily get out of condition by being old,” the witness promptly answered, “They do, my lord, if buried in the ground.”

_A Woman’s Revenge_

Sophie Arnould was a last century favorite, whose voice gave way in youth, and of her the Abbe Galiani caustically said, “She has the finest asthma I ever heard.” But the lady revenged herself, if not on him, on the religious order to which he belonged. Hearing that a capuchin had been eaten by wolves, she exclaimed, “Poor beasts! what a dreadful thing hunger must be!”

_Best for Her_

An old bachelor, picking up a book, exclaimed, upon seeing a woodcut representing a man kneeling at the feet of a woman, “Before I would ever kneel to a woman I would encircle my neck with a rope and stretch it!” And then, turning to a young woman, he inquired, “Do you not think it would be the best thing I could do?” “It would, undoubtedly, be the best for the woman.”

_Ecclesiastical Tit-for-Tat_

Two young men who had been chums in college entered the ministry. One became a Baptist, the other an Episcopalian. They did not meet again for several years. When brought together once more, the Baptist invited the Episcopalian to preach from his pulpit, which, though out of the usual course, he did, to the great satisfaction of the congregation. Sermon over, the two divines ducked their heads behind the breastwork of the preaching desk, and held the following colloquy: “Fine sermon, Tom; much obliged. Sorry I can’t repay your kindness for preaching by asking you to stay to our communion. Can’t though, you know, because you have never been baptized.” “Oh, don’t concern yourself about that, Jim. I couldn’t receive the communion at your hands because you have never been ordained.”

_Even Chances_

He was an entire stranger to the girls present, and the boys were mean and would not introduce him. He finally plucked up courage, and, stepping up to a young lady, requested the pleasure of her company for the next dance. She looked at him in surprise, and informed him that she had not the pleasure of his acquaintance. “Well,” remarked the young man, “you don’t take any more chances than I do.”

_A Quick-Witted Damsel_

A young lady was sitting with a gallant captain in a charmingly decorated recess. On her knee was a diminutive niece, placed there _pour les convenances_. In the adjoining room, with the door open, were the rest of the company. Says the little niece, in a jealous and very audible voice, “Auntie, kiss me, too.” What had just happened may be easily imagined. “You should say _twice_, Ethel dear; _two_ is not grammar,” was the immediate rejoinder. Clever girl that!

_Meeting an Emergency_

It is related of Compton, the English comedian, that he happened to stop at a hotel where a meeting of clergymen had just been ended, and the preachers were about to dine. The landlord, seeing his white tie and long black coat, mistook him for a minister, and said he was sure the Dean would be pleased to have the visitor dine with them. “I thank you,” answered Compton, who was very hungry. “I have no card. You can say, the Rev. Mr. Payne, who is passing through the town.” The Dean not only invited Compton to dine, but seated him at his right, and, through courtesy, asked him to say grace. Compton felt a cold chill run through him, but, with perfect presence of mind, he recalled the opening part of the church service, and solemnly said, “O Lord, open thou our _lips_, and our _mouths_ shall show forth thy praise.”

_Declined with Thanks_

When Mr. Wilberforce, the great anti-slavery advocate (the father of the late Bishop of Winchester), was once a candidate for parliamentary honors, his sister, an amiable and witty young lady, offered the compliment of a new gown to each of the wives of those freemen who voted for her brother, on which she was saluted with the cry of “Miss Wilberforce forever!” when she pleasantly observed, “I thank you, gentlemen; but I cannot agree with you, for I really do not wish to be ‘Miss Wilberforce’ forever.”

_A Courteous Retort_

A good illustration of “the retort courteous” was given to Count Herbert Bismarck, the rough-and-rude son of Prince Bismarck, on the occasion of the German Emperor’s visit to Rome. At the railway station Count Herbert pushed rudely against an Italian dignitary, who was watching the proceedings. The dignitary, greatly incensed, remonstrated forcibly against such unceremonious treatment, whereupon Count Herbert turned around haughtily and said,—

“I don’t think you know who I am. I am Count Herbert Bismarck.”

“That,” replied the Italian, bowing politely, “as an excuse, is insufficient, but as an explanation it is ample.”

_Bearding the Lion_

(Snoggs, the Lion Comique of the music halls, has made himself unendurably offensive by his vulgar familiarity.) Lion Comique: “Dunno me? Well, you ought to; my name is in the papers often enough.” Irritated Swell: “I daresay; but I seldom if ever read the police reports!”

_Distinction With a Difference_

Dr. St. John Roosa, of New York, in the course of a speech which he made at the dinner of the State Medical Society, emphasized a point by telling a story. A person not entirely well up in music asked a professor of music if Mendelssohn was still composing. “No,” was the reply, “he is still decomposing.”

_Future Provision_

A refractory Boston youngster was being sharply rebuked by his mother for his numerous transgressions.

“Harry, Harry,” she exclaimed, “if you behave in that way, you will worry your father and mother to death; and what will you do without any father and mother?”

“The Lord is my shepherd,” said the small boy; “I shall not want.”

Which went to prove that his Sunday-school training had not been entirely lost on him.

_Sumner’s Legal Learning_

When Charles Sumner visited Europe the first time, he took with him letters from Judge Story. At one time he was invited to sit with the Lord Chief-Justice of the King’s Bench. During the trial a point arose which seemed a novel one. The Lord Chief-Justice turned to Sumner and asked him if there were any American decisions on that point. “No, your lordship,” he replied, “but this point has been decided in your lordship’s court in such a case,” giving him the citation. This remarkable readiness gave him _éclat_ throughout the kingdom.

_Walk_ vs. _Conversation_

A tutor of one of the Oxford colleges who limped in his walk was some years after accosted by a well-known politician, who asked him if he was not the chaplain of the college at such a time, naming the year. The doctor replied that he was. The interrogator observed, “I knew you by your limp.” “Well,” said the doctor, “it seems my limping made a deeper impression than my preaching.” “Ah, doctor,” was the reply, with ready wit, “it is the highest compliment we can pay a minister, to say that he is known by his walk rather than by his conversation.”

_The Last Chance_

Some years ago Phillips Brooks was recovering from an illness, and was denying himself to all visitors, when Robert G. Ingersoll called. The bishop received him at once. “I appreciate this very much,” said Mr. Ingersoll, “but why do you see me when you deny yourself to your friends?”

“It is this way,” said the bishop; “I feel confident of seeing my friends in the next world, but this may be my last chance of seeing you.”

_Divine Knowledge_

An itinerant called on John Bunyan one day with “a message from the Lord,” saying he had been to half the jails in England in search of him, and was glad at last to find him. To which Bunyan replied, “If the Lord had sent you, you would not have needed to take so much trouble to find me out, for He knew that I have been in Bedford Jail these seven years past.”

_A Quaint Reproof—Acceptability Without a Dress Suit_

Ramsay, in his “Scottish Characteristics,” says, “A well-known member of the Scottish bar, when a youth, was very foppish, and short and sharp in his temper. He was going to pay a visit in the country, and was making a great fuss in preparing and putting up his habiliments. His old aunt was much annoyed at all this bustle, and stopped him with the somewhat contemptuous question, ‘Whaur’s this you’re gaun’, Robbie, that ye mak sic a grand wark about yer claes?’ The young man lost temper, and pettishly replied, ‘I’m going to the devil.’ ‘’Deed, Robbie, then’, was the quiet answer, ‘ye needna be sae nice; he’ll juist tak’ ye as ye are.’”

_Marriage in Heaven_

Says Sylvia to a reverend Dean, “What reason can be given, Since marriage is a holy thing, That there is none in heaven?”

“There are no women,” he replied. She quick returns the jest: “Women there are, but I’m afraid They cannot find a priest.”

_Force and Argument_

Many persons who have seen the following lines of Dr. Trapp on a regiment being sent to Oxford, and at the same time a valuable library sent to Cambridge, by George I. in 1715, have not seen the answer which they provoked:

The king, observing with judicious eyes The state of both his universities, To Oxford sent a troop of horse; and why? That learned body wanted loyalty: To Cambridge books he sent, as well discerning How much that loyal body wanted learning.

The answer came from Sir William Browne, a physician of Lynn in Norfolk:

The King to Oxford sent a troop of horse, For Tories own no argument but force; With equal skill to Cambridge books he sent, For Whigs admit no force but argument.

_The Condemned Jester_

Horace Smith, one of the authors of the “Rejected Addresses,” tells us that a king of Scanderoon had a jester who played audacious tricks on the royal family, the courtiers, and persons of great distinction. But at length, emboldened by long tolerance of his freaks and hoaxes, the buffoon went too far:

Some sin, at last, beyond all measure Incurred the desperate displeasure Of his serene and raging highness; Whether he twitched his most revered And sacred beard Or had intruded on the shyness Of the seraglio, or let fly An epigram at royalty, None knows—his sin was an occult one; But records tell us that the sultan, Meaning to terrrify the knave, Exclaimed, “’Tis time to stop that breath; Thy doom is sealed, presumptuous slave! Thou stand’st condemned to certain death. Silence, base rebel! no replying. But such is my indulgence still Out of my own free grace and will, I leave to thee the mode of dying.” “Thy royal will be done—’tis just,” Replied the wretch, and kissed the dust; “Since, my last moments to assuage, Your majesty’s humane decree Has deigned to leave the choice to me, I’ll die, so please you, of old age!”

_Marjorie_

“Oh, dear,” said Farmer Brown one day, “I never saw such weather! The rain will spoil my meadow-hay And all my crops together.” His little daughter climbed his knee; “I guess the sun will shine,” said she.

“But if the sun,” said Farmer Brown, “Should bring a dry September, With vines and stalks all wilted down, And fields scorched to an ember”— “Why then ’twill rain,” said Marjorie, The little girl upon his knee.

“Ah, me!” sighed Farmer Brown, that fall, “Now what’s the use of living? No plan of mine succeeds at all”— “Why, next month comes Thanksgiving, And then, of course,” said Marjorie, “We’re all as happy as can be.”

“Well, what should I be thankful for?” Asked Farmer Brown. “My trouble This summer has grown more and more, My losses have been double, I’ve nothing left”—“Why, you’ve got me!” Said Marjorie, upon his knee.

THE WORD-TWISTING OF THE PUNSTERS

A nephew of Mr. Bagges, in explaining the mysteries of a tea-kettle, describes the benefits of the application of steam to useful purposes. “For all which,” remarked Mr. Bagges, “we have principally to thank—what was his name?” “Watt was his name, I believe, uncle,” replied the boy.

Of Dr. Keate many anecdotes are afloat among old Etonians. One was told that is well worth repeating. A boy named Rashleigh, with all the others of his class, was set to write a theme on the maxim: _Temere nil facias_. When the time came for giving in the papers, Rashleigh appeared without his. “Where is your theme, sir?” asked the formidable Doctor. “I haven’t done it, sir,” answered Rashleigh. “Not done your theme, sir?” “No, sir!” persisted he, undaunted by the near prospect of the “apple twigs.” “Why, you told me not to do it!” “I told you!” “Yes, sir; you said, _Temere nil facias_—do nothing, Rashleigh.” And the headmaster was so taken by the Latin pun that the apple twigs were allowed to repose on the shelf.

“So old Scrapetill is dead at last,” observed David from the interior of his evening paper; “oceans of money, too.” “What did he do with it?” queried Dora. “Oh, left it here and there,” said David. “That scapegrace son gets a quarter of a million. If he doesn’t paint the town red, now, then I’m a Canadian.” “I should think,” mused Dora, softly, as she helped herself to another needleful of silk—“I should think that anybody with a quart of vermilion might paint a town very red indeed.” And David was so astounded that he put his paper in the fire and laid a fresh stick of wood in the very centre of the plush-covered table.

Punning would not be so bad were it not so infectious. Puns leave germs which lie in idle minds until they fructify and bear a baleful crop of more puns. The other day some of us got to talking about that witty old cynic, Dean Swift, when one of the company took advantage of the opening and gave us this _jeu de mot_ of his: “Why,” asked the Dean, “is it right, by the _lex talionis_, to pick an artist’s pocket?” It was given up, of course, and the answer was: “Because he has pictures.” A silence fell about the table round, until, one by one, we saw it. Then one thoughtful man observed, “It was impossible to give the answer—because the Dean had contrived to reserve the answer to himself. I could not, for instance, say that it is right for me to pick an artist’s pocket, because he has picked yours.” Here is another conundrum, founded upon a pun, which only the propounder can solve: An old man and a young one were standing by a meadow. “Why,” asked the young man, “is this clover older than you?” “It is not,” replied the other. “It is, though,” returned the man, “because it is pasturage.” Thereupon an abstracted looking person, who had not followed the line of remark, and who had not understood the illustration, startled us all with this irrelevant inquiry, “Why cannot a pantomimist tickle nine Esquimaux? Give it up? Why it’s because he can gesticulate.”

When Jonah interviewed the whale And haunted his internals, As erst it is recorded in The truthfulest of journals, What monarch did he symbolize? (A far-fetched joke you’ll style it.) It seems to us he might have been A sort of _paunch’s pilot_.

“I’d rather not,” Augustus said, The truffles quick rejecting; “How now, my dear,” said she, “what fresh Conceit are you affecting? I do not wish t’ruffle you. Nor yet to make a pun, Gus; But then I surely thought that you Were fond of any fun-Gus.”

“In St. Mary’s Church, Nottingham, England, on the tombstone of Mary Angell are these lines:

‘Sleep on in peace, await thy Maker’s will, Then rise unchanged, and be an Angell still.’

The stone is an old one, and the punning epitaph is according to the spirit of the times, when so many queer inscriptions were put on monuments.”

A young minister of high-church tendencies was called to preside over a congregation that abhorred ritualism and was a stickler for the simplest of services. He asked Bishop Potter of New York what would be the result if he went in for ritualism just a bit.

“Suppose I should burn a pastille or two during the service, what do you think would happen?” he inquired. “I dearly wish to try the experiment.”

“Your congregation would be incensed, your vestrymen would fume, and you would go out in smoke,” replied the Bishop.

Gustave Doré bought a villa on the outskirts of Paris, and wrote over the entrance the musical notation, “Do, Mi, Si, La, Do, Re.” This being properly interpreted, is “Domicile a Doré.”

I saw Esau kissing Kate, And what’s more, we all three saw; For I saw Esau, he saw me, And she saw I saw Esau.

Why should girls, a wit exclaimed, Surpassing farmers be? Because they’re always studying The art of husbandry.

Sentimental young lady to perfumer: “I don’t think you forwarded the scent I meant; it seems entirely different from that I ordered.”

Perfumer, who is fond of punning: “Madam, I am sure that what you meant I sent; the scent I sent was the scent you meant, consequently we are both of one sentiment.”

A duel was fought in Texas by Alexander Shott and John S. Nott. Nott was shot, and Shott was not. In this case it is better to be Shott than Nott. There was a rumor that Nott was not shot, and Shott avows that he shot Nott, which proves either that the shot Shott shot at Nott was not shot, or that Nott was shot notwithstanding. Circumstantial evidence is not always good. It may be made to appear on trial that the shot Shott shot shot Nott or, as accidents with fire-arms are frequent, it may be possible that the shot Shott shot shot Shott himself, when the whole affair would resolve itself into its original elements, and Shott would be shot, and Nott would be not. Apparently the shot Shott shot shot not Shott, but Nott; anyway, it is hard to tell who was shot.

On the death of Lord Kennet, in 1786, Sir William Nairne was raised to the bench under Lord Dunsinnan—a circumstance which called forth a _bon mot_ from the Duchess of Gordon. Her grace, happening to meet his lordship shortly after his elevation, inquired what title he had assumed. “Dunsinnan,” was, of course, the reply. “I am astonished at that, my lord,” said the duchess, “for I never knew that you had begun sinning.”

A noted Washington wag and beau of many years ago signed his name “A. More.” Mrs. John Washington had invited him to a formal dinner party at Mount Vernon. The company all arrived except Mr. More, but knowing his queer ways the hostess did not wait for him. After she was seated some time a huge envelope was handed her, in which she found an enormous leaf of a sycamore tree. The interpretation was “Sick.—A. More.”

A young lady of Louisville, having received urgent proposals of marriage from an old gentleman, sent the following answer by mail:

“Why thus urge me to compliance? Why compel me to refuse? Yet though I court not your alliance, Perchance a younger I may choose. For ’tis a state I’ll ne’er disparage, Nor will I war against it wage; I do not, sir, object to marriage, I but dislike to marri-age.”

Madame Cresswell, a woman of infamous character, bequeathed ten pounds for a funeral sermon, in which nothing ill should be said of her. The Duke of Buckingham wrote the sermon, which was as follows: “All I shall say of her is this—she was born _well_, she married _well_, lived _well_, and died _well_; for she was born at Shad-well, married to Cress-well, lived at Clerken-well, and died in Bride-well.”

In 1835 John Howard Payne spent some time in the South and formed the acquaintance of a daughter of Judge Samuel Goode, of Montgomery, Alabama. An old autograph album of hers contains the following lines in Payne’s handwriting and over his signature:

“Lady, your name, if understood, Explains your nature, to a letter; And may you never change from _Goode_, Unless, if possible, to _better_.”

On the next page is a response, written by Mirabeau B. Lamar, afterwards President of the “Lone Star Republic” of Texas. It runs as follows:

“I am content with being _Goode_; To aim at _better_ might be vain; But if I do, ’tis understood, Whate’er the cause—it is not _Payne_.”

To church the two together went, Both, doubtless, on devotion bent. The parson preached with fluent ease, On Pharisees and Sadducees. And as they homeward slowly walked, The lovers on the sermon talked, And he—he deeply loved the maid— In soft and tender accents said: “Darling, do you think that we Are Pharisee and Sadducee?” She flashed on him her bright black eyes In one swift look of vexed surprise, And thus he hastened to aver, He was her constant worshipper; “But, darling, I insist,” said he, “That you are very fair I see; I know you don’t care much for me, And that makes me so sad you see.”

The wife of an optical instrument maker tried, on landing at New York, after a European tour, to smuggle under her dress a quantity of artificial eyes. In reply to the usual question whether she had anything to declare, she said, “No,” most positively; but on the officer shaking her dress the deception was exposed, and in spite of her “No’s,” the eyes had it. But how absurd of the fair smuggler to hope to escape detection when _every eye was upon her_!

On the marriage of Ebenezer Sweet and Jane Lemon a wag said,—

How happily extremes do meet in Jane and Ebenezer! She no longer sour, but sweet, and he a lemon squeezer.

And George D. Prentice once said,—

A Mr. J. Lemon, of the North Carolina Legislature, has abandoned the Whigs and joined the Democrats. That’s all right enough. If the Democrats think they can recruit their strength with Lemon-aid, they are welcome to try the experiment.

_Toast_ any girl but her, said Ned, With every other flutter— I’ll be content with Annie Bread, And won’t have any _but her_.

A young man in one of our Western towns had patronized the arts so far as to buy a picture of the Temptation of Adam and Eve. Some one asked him if it was a chaste picture. “Yes,” he said, “_chased_ by a snake.” This would have been witty if he had known it, but he didn’t.

A judge did once his tipstaff call, And say, “Sir, I desire You go forthwith and search the hall And bring me in the crier.”

“And search in vain, my lord, I may,” The tipstaff gravely said; “The crier cannot cry to-day, Because his wife is dead.”

When the fleet commanded by Lord Howe was stationed at Torbay, some time previous to his defeat of St. André (1794), the inhabitants used to play upon his name, saying,—

Lord _Howe_ he went out! Lord _Howe_ he came in!

After the great victory over the French, the following toast was much in vogue:

May the French know _Howe_ to be master of the seas.

“How is it that you can tell such whoppers?” asked a caller, addressing the editor of the fish-story department.

“Well, you see,” replied the editor, “our wife’s name is Anna.”

“What has that to do with it?”

“A great deal. When we are writing fish stories we usually have Anna nigh us to help us.”

Two Quaker girls about to do some ironing on the same table, one asked the other which side she would take, the right or left. She answered promptly: “It will be right for me to take the left, and then it will be left for thee to take the right.”

How a French marshal conveyed an order under cover of a cough, in 1851, is told as follows:

The prevalence of coughs and colds at the present moment reminds me of the fact that it was a cough which was mainly responsible for the immense amount of bloodshed that attended the _coup d’état_ whereby Napoleon III. obtained his throne.

That unscrupulous but brilliant adventurer, General, and afterward Field Marshal, de St. Arnaud, had charge of the military operations. But he was unwilling to assume the direct responsibility of ordering the troops to fire upon the people, being not altogether certain as to the result of Napoleon’s memorable enterprise.

When the moment for action arrived and the mob began to show signs of sweeping aside the troops, the brigadier generals under his orders sent an officer to him at head-quarters to ask him what they were to do, whether they were to fire on the populace or give way.

Strangely enough, St. Arnaud was seized at that moment with a violent fit of coughing which lasted for several minutes. Finally when it ceased the General just managed to gasp the words, “Ma sacrée toux!” (my cursed cough).

The officer having waited until the General had recovered his breath repeated the question. Again St. Arnaud was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which terminated, as on the previous occasion, with the parting exclamation of “Ma sacrée toux!”

The officer was no fool; he could take a hint as well as anyone else, and saluting he left St. Arnaud’s presence. On returning to the brigadiers and colonels who had sent him for instructions he was asked what reply St. Arnaud had made.

“The General’s only words and commands were massacrez tous!” (massacre everybody).

These commands were obeyed to the letter, and many thousand people were shot down and bayoneted in consequence.

The word-twisters do not hesitate to invade the cemeteries and leave their mark on tombstones. Here is one of Dr. Dibdin’s epitaphs:

Reader, of these four lines take heed, And mend your life for my sake; For you must die, like ISAAC REED, Though you may _read_ till your _eyes ache_.

Cecil Clay, the counsellor of Lord Chesterfield, directed this whimsical pun upon his name to be put on his tombstone:

Sum quod fui. (I am what I was.)

On an Oxford organist:

Here lies one blown out of breath, Who lived a merry life and died a Merideth.

On a Norwich celebrity:

Hic jacet Plus, plus non est hic, Plus et non plus, quomodo sic?

Here lies More, no more is he, More and no more, how can that be?

In All Saints’ Church, Hertford, we are told “Here _sleeps_ Mr. _Wake_.” The inscription over the bones of Captain Jones, the famous traveller and story-teller, winds up with “He swore all’s true, yet here he _lies_.” On the slab of a cockney cook is written, “Peace to his hashes.” Of a drunken cobbler, a friend to _awl_, who toward the close of life repented of his evil courses, it was said, “He saved his _sole_ by _mending at the last_.” Of John Potter, Archbishop of Canterbury, 1736, it is recorded, “Potter himself is turned to clay.”

A well known anecdote of Dr. Johnson’s dislike of punning is told in the following way: “Sir,” said Johnson, “I hate a pun. A man who would perpetrate a pun would have little hesitation in picking a pocket.” Upon this, Boswell hinted that his illustrious friend’s dislike to this species of small wit might arise from his inability to play upon words. “Sir,” roared Johnson, “if I were punish-ed for every pun I shed, there would not be left a puny shed of my punnish head.”

Two merchants of a Scotch town were noted for many sharp bargains. One of them was named Strong and the other answered to the name of Wiley. One Sunday the good old minister greatly surprised his hearers by invoking “a blessing upon us, for our enemies are wily and strong, as Thou knowest, O Lord.” Notwithstanding the solemnity of the occasion, few could resist a smile, feeling how applicable it was.

Among a party dining with W. S. Caine, M.P., was Rev. Dr. John Watson (Ian Maclaren). Mr. Caine offered to give fifty pounds to a hospital fund through the man who would make the best pun on his name within five minutes. Cogitation became active, and then, just as the time was about to expire, and Mr. Caine thought he would escape, Mr. Watson said, “Don’t be in such a hurry, Caine.”

Daniel Webster, when a young man in New Hampshire, indulged in a form of pleasantry on one occasion, unusual with him even in his lightest moods. Party spirit running high in Portsmouth in the days of the embargo, great efforts were made at an annual State election by both parties to carry the town. The Republicans succeeded in electing their moderator, Dr. Goddard, a position of potentiality, because he decided, in case of a challenge, the right to vote. A man’s vote was offered on the part of Mr. Webster’s friends which the Republican party objected to, and the moderator was appealed to for a decision. The doctor hesitated; he did not wish to decide against his own party, and still he was too conscientious to make intentionally a wrong decision. He seemed at a loss what to do. “I stand,” said he to the meeting, “between two dangers; on the one side is Scylla, on the other, Charybdis, and I don’t know which to do.” “I fear then,” said Mr. Webster, “that your Honor will take the _silly_ side.”

In the way of oddities among the books may be noted a short man reading Longfellow; a burglar picking at Locke; a jeweller devouring Goldsmith; an artilleryman with Shelley; an omnibus driver calling for one Moore; a nice young man going to the Dickens; a laborer at his Lever; a young woman with her Lover; a Tom studying Dick’s works; a lancer learning Shakspeare; a servant looking for the Butler; a miller deep in Mill; a glazier’s hour with Paine; a hedger absorbed in Hawthorne; a Dutchman interested in Holland; a domestic man with Holmes; a bookseller trying to save his Bacon; a woman in Thiers; a lazy man’s Dumas; a determined man with Kant; a corn-doctor with Bunyan’s Progress; a philologist contemplating Wordsworth; a minstrel reading Emerson; a Catholic at Pope; a creditor pleased with Sue; a jolly fellow laughing over Sterne.

CLEVER HITS OF THE HUMORISTS

_Mistaken Vanity_

It is told of Père Monsabre, the famous Dominican preacher, that one day, as he was on the way to officiate in the church, a message came to him that a lady wanted to see him. She was worrying about an affair of conscience, she felt that she must see him, she feared that she was given up to vanity. That very morning, she confessed, she had looked in her looking-glass, and yielded to the temptation of thinking herself pretty.

Père Monsabre looked at her and said quietly, “Is that all?”

She confessed that it was.

“Well, my child,” he replied, “you can go away in peace, for to make a mistake is not a sin.”

_Toast_

In the days before the war, days famous for generous but unostentatious hospitality in the South, a brilliant party was assembled at dinner in a country homestead. Across the table wit flashed back and forth, and, when the merry party had adjourned to the broad veranda, the guests began to vie with one another in proposing conundrums.

Mr. Alexander H. Stephens offered one which puzzled the whole company. “What is it that we eat at breakfast and drink at dinner?”

For some time no answer came, and the bright eyes of the Southern orator began to sparkle with triumph, when Colonel Johnston, taking up the Commonplace Book of the hostess which lay conveniently by, wrote, impromptu, upon the fly-leaf the following answer:

“What is eaten for breakfast and drunken at dinner? Is it coffee or eggs—or butter or meats? Sure double the stomach of obdurate sinner Who eats what he drinks and drinks what he eats.

But let us consider—’tis surely not butter, Nor coffee, nor meats, whether broiled or roast, Nor boiled eggs, nor poached, nor fried in a batter. It _must_ then be bread—ah, yes! when ’tis _toast_.”

_The Preferred Beverage_

Near Invermark, on Lord Dalhousie’s estate, a fountain was some years ago erected to commemorate a visit paid to the place by the Queen. It bears this inscription, in gold letters, “Rest, stranger, on this lovely scene, and drink and pray for Scotland’s Queen—Victoria.” A Highlander was shocked one morning to read the following addenda, traced in a bold hand, suggestive of the London tourist, immediately underneath the original: “We’ll pray for Queen Victoria here, but go and drink her health in beer.”

_Identified_

In a very scarce book, Hal’s “Parochial History of Cornwall,” published at Exeter in 1750, mention is made of Killigrew, the celebrated Master of the Revels _temp._ Charles II., though he never was formally installed as Court Jester. The following anecdote will show that, at all events, he deserved the appointment, even though he did not get it: When Louis XIV. showed him his pictures at Paris, the King pointed out to him a picture of the Crucifixion between two portraits. “That on the right,” added his Majesty, “is the Pope, and that on the left is myself.” “I humbly thank your Majesty,” replied the wit, “for the information; for though I have often heard that the Lord was crucified between two thieves, I never knew who they were till now.”

_An Uncivil Retort_

The attention of a tourist was attracted to the following epitaph in an English church-yard:

“Here I lie at the chancel door, Here I lie because I am poor; When I rise at the Judgment Day, I shall be as warm as they.”

Whereupon the irreverent visitor scribbled underneath:

_From a Spirit within._

“’Tis true, old sinner, there you lie, ’Tis true you’ll be as warm as I; But, restless spirit, why foretell That when you rise you’ll go to hell?”

_Unmistakable Legality_

On one occasion when Daniel Webster and Rufus Choate were pitted against each other in court, Mr. Choate had lucidly, with great emphasis, stated the law. Mr. Webster, than whom a greater master of attitude, gesture, and facial expression never existed, turned on him the gaze of his great eyes, as if in mournful, despairing remonstrance, against such a sad and strange perversion. “That is the law, your Honor,” thundered Mr. Choate, catching the glance, advancing a step, and looking full in Webster’s face—“that is the law, in spite of the admonishing and somewhat paternal look in the eye of my illustrious friend!” And it was the law, as affirmed by the court.

_A Very Long Bill_

Mr. Nathan Appleton and Mr. Longfellow, travelling in Switzerland, reached Zurich, where the landlord charged very exorbitant prices for their entertainment. Mr. Appleton wrote his name on the books and paid while demurring at the price charged.

“I have put my name on the books,” said Mr. Longfellow, “and if you will allow me I will treat the innkeeper as he deserves.”

The name of the inn was the “Raven.” He took the book aside, and wrote these lines:

“Beware of the raven of Zurich, ’Tis a bird of omen ill, With an ugly, unclean nest, And a very, very long bill.”

_Whittier’s Impromptu_

John G. Whittier often wrote impromptu verses in albums and elsewhere, bright with a gayety that does not often appear in his more important works. In the album of a young lady—who with her friends had been rallying him on his bachelorhood—he wrote the following lines:

Ah, ladies, you love to levy a tax On my poor little paper parcel of fame; Yet strange it seems that among you all Not one is willing to take my name— To write and rewrite, till the angels pity her, The weariful words, Thine truly, WHITTIER.

_Seeing is Believing_

“I should like to see any man kiss me,” The prudish young Boston maid cries. Miss Innocence answers, “Why, bless me! Do you usually close your eyes?”

_A Killarney Echo_

A good-natured Anglican parson was riding one day in a jaunting-car near the Lakes of Killarney, whose famous echoes sometimes repeat a sound as many as eight times. Wishing to “take a rise out of the driver,” the clergyman said,—

“Do you know, Pat, that there are none but Protestant echoes here?”

“No, sir, I niver h’ard it, and I don’t believe it aither,” was the reply.

“Well, you shall hear it very soon,” said the Anglican. Arriving at a favorable spot he called out softly, raising his voice to a loud pitch on the last word: “Do you believe in Pio Nono?” and the echo replied,—

“No, no! No, no! No, no!”

Pat was delighted at the joke, and, rubbing his hands gleefully, said,—

“Bedad, whin I drive one of the _raal_ clargy here won’t I have the sport out of him?”

_Not Rousseau_

The Russian poet Puschkin was plagued day after day by a certain Ivan Iakowlewitsch (John, James’s son) to give him his autograph. Puschkin always excused himself, but the petitioner was one of the men who never take a hint. The poet at last consented, in no good humor; he seized the book out of the man’s hand, and scribbled off the following lines:

Vous êtes Jean, Vous êtes Jacques, Vous êtes roux, Vous êtes sot, Mais vous n’êtes pas, mon cher, Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

_Love of Specie-s_

Sydney Smith, preaching a charity sermon, frequently repeated the assertion that of all nations, Englishmen were most distinguished for generosity and the love of their species. The collection happened to be inferior to his expectations, and he said that he had evidently made a great mistake, and that his expression should have been that they were distinguished for the love of their specie.

_His Station_

At a banquet in London Ambassador Choate sat next to a distinguished nobleman, who during the course of the conversation had occasion to inquire,—

“And to what station in your country, Mr. Choate, does your Mr. Chauncey M. Depew belong?”

“To the Grand Central Station, my lord,” readily replied the diplomat, without a quiver.

The noble Englishman’s face clouded for a moment with uncertainty.

“I’m afraid you don’t know what I mean,” added Mr. Choate, about to go to his rescue. But milord quickly smiled a glad smile of intelligence.

“Ah! I see, I see, Mr. Choate!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Depew belongs to your grand, great middle class!”

_Frankness_

That was a frank reply to a friend’s intimation of his approaching marriage: “I should make my compliments to both of you; but as I don’t know the young lady, I can’t felicitate you, and I know you so well that I can’t felicitate her.”

_Double X_

A wealthy brewer in Montreal built a church and inscribed on it: “This church was erected by Thomas Molson at his sole expense. Hebrews xi.” Some wags altered the inscription so as to make it read: “This church was erected by Thomas Molson at his soul’s expense. He brews XX.”

_Met the Emergency_

At a French provincial theatre, in a military play, the actor who was credited with the part of a general slipped on the stage and fell ignominiously at the very moment when he was supposed to be conducting his troops to battle. With ready wit, however, he saved himself from ridicule by exclaiming, “Soldiers, I am mortally wounded, but do not stay to aid me. Pass over my prostrate body to victory.”

_A Similar Privilege_

In Carlsbad, Bohemia, is a restaurant keeper, who, when he finds any distinguished person dining at his establishment, presents himself in a dress coat, with many bows, and asks the honor of an autograph. Rothschild, the banker, signed himself simply “R. de Paris.” Oppenheim, a rich banker of Cologne, was subsequently appealed to. He looked at the list and asked who “R. de Paris” was. “That,” said the restaurant man, with pride, “is the Baron Rothschild of Paris.” “Ah!” said Oppenheim, “what Rothschild did, I can do,” and signed himself “O. de Cologne.”

_Caderousse’s Wager_

The following curious anecdote is related in the _Événement_: Some young men were conversing in a private room of the Maison d’Or. Among them was the Duke de Gramont-Caderousse, who died at the age of thirty-two. Some one reproached him with being too much in favor of the people, and with being imbued with the new democratic ideas. After having replied according to his conscience, he exclaimed, “Well, gentlemen, I’ll wager that, without having done anything to merit it, I will get myself arrested before an hour.” “Without having done anything to deserve it?” “Nothing.” The bet was taken—fifty louis. Caderousse jumped into a cab, drove to the Temple, and soon returned in a sordid costume—a tattered cap on his head, trousers in rags, hobnailed boots, torn, muddy, down at the heels. He rubbed his face and hands over with dirt and then begged some one to follow him. Thus prepared, he entered a café on the Boulevard Poissonnière, seated himself at a table, and called out, “Waiter, a bottle of champagne!” The man hesitated a moment, and then said in an undertone, “That costs twelve francs.” “Well,” replied De Gramont, “I have money to pay with.” And he drew from his pocket forty bank-notes of a thousand francs each, which he laid on the table. The master of the establishment sent at once for some sergents de ville, and in a few minutes the pretended vagabond was saying to the commissary of police, “I am the Duke de Gramont-Caderousse. I had laid a wager that I should be arrested without having done anything to deserve it.... I have won, and I have only now to thank you.”

_According to Agreement_

The parson wanted to furnish hymn-books for his congregation, and was told by a speculator that he would provide books, provided they included with the hymns advertisements. On the first Sunday after the new books had been distributed the congregation found themselves singing,—

Hark! the herald angels sing Beecham’s pills are just the thing; Peace on earth and mercy mild. Two for men and one for child.

_A Pulpit Wager_

Many humorous stories are told of Lorenzo Dow. He preached once from the text from St. Paul, “I can do all things.” “No, Paul,” he said, “you’re wrong for once. I’ll bet you five dollars you can’t,” and he took a five-dollar bill from his pocket and laid it on the desk. He continued to read, “through our Lord Jesus Christ.” “Oh, Paul,” said he, “that’s an entirely different thing,—the bet is off.” “This,” says an English writer, “beats any anecdote ever told of Spurgeon.”

_Rhus Toxicodendron_

The San Francisco manufacturer of a lotion advertises as follows:

He built a bower of leafy sprays To shield his darling from the heat. “Would we might live thus all our days,” He said, reclining at her feet. Alas, poor love-blind, foolish folk, To hold of life so crude a notion! The bower was built of poison oak And they had to use Blank’s healing lotion.

_Mark Twain Convinced_

A story is told that on one occasion Charles Dudley Warner, who was neighbor and friend to Mark Twain, wanted him to go walking, and Mark, as usual, refused. Dudley insisted, but to no purpose.

“You ought to do it,” he said finally. “It’s according to Scripture.”

“No ‘Mark-the-perfect-man’ chestnuts on me,” replied the wily humorist. “Where’s your authority?”

“The fifth chapter of Matthew, verse the forty-first,” said Mr. Warner, “which reads thus: ‘And whoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him, Twain.’”

Mr. Clemens went with Mr. Warner that time.

_Motto for a Tavern Sign_

Lockhart, in his “Life of Sir Walter Scott,” tells a story of a Flodden boniface who asked Scott for a motto from his poems to put on the sign-board of his house. He says:

“Scott opened the book (Marmion) at the death-scene of the hero and his eye was immediately caught by the inscription in black letter,—

“‘Drink, weary pilgrim, drink, and pray For the kind soul of Sybil Grey, Who built this cross and well.’

“‘Well, my friend,’ said he, “‘what more would you have? You need but strike out one letter in the first of these lines and make your painter-man, the next time he comes this way, print between the jolly tankard and your own name,

“‘Drink, weary pilgrim, drink, and PAY.’

“Scott was delighted to find, on his return, that this suggestion had been adopted, and for aught I know, the romantic legend may still be visible.”

_A New Light_

A widower, in his great bereavement, expressed his feelings by having engraved on the tombstone of his wife the line, “My light has gone out.” As he was about to marry again, he asked the advice of Bishop Henry C. Potter as to whether or not he should have the inscription erased, as it seemed at variance with the new conditions. “Oh, no,” said the bishop, “I wouldn’t have it taken off; just put underneath it, ‘I have struck another match!’”

_Schweininger’s Thrust_

When Bismarck made the acquaintance of his last doctor he was sick and peevishly declined to answer questions. “As you like,” said the doctor; “then send for a veterinary surgeon, as such practitioners treat their patients without asking them any questions.” The Chancellor was captured.

_Significant Change_

A French paper revives the story of Alexandre Dumas being one day the guest of Dr. Gistal, an eminent medical man of Marseilles, who after dinner requested the novelist to enrich his album with one of his witty improvisations. “Certainly,” replied Dumas, with a smile, and drawing out his pencil he wrote, under the eyes of his entertainer, lines which may be imitated as follows:

“Since Dr. Gistal came to our town, To cure diseases casual and hereditary, The hospital has been pulled down”—

“You flatterer!” here exclaimed the doctor, mightily pleased; but the poet went on—

“And we have made a larger cemetery.”

_The Remedy_

Goldy’s touching lines, “When lovely woman stoops to folly,” fare sadly in the hands of a silk dyer, who sends about a circular with this parody:

“When lovely woman tilts her saucer, And finds too late that tea will stain— Whatever made a woman crosser— What art can wash all white again?

The only art the stain to cover, To hide the spot from every eye, And wear an unsoiled dress above her, Of proper color, is _to dye_!”

_Botanical Misnomer_

In one of the early comic annuals there are some amusing lines of Hood’s describing how a country nurseryman had made a large sum out of the sale of a simple little flower which he sold under the name of the “Rhodum Sidus.” This charming name had proved quite an attraction to the ladies, and the flower had become the rage of the season. At length a pertinacious botanist, who found that the flower was a not uncommon weed, insisted on knowing where the nurseryman had got his name from; he elicited the following reply:

“I found this flower in the road beside us, So christened it the Rhodum Sidus.”

_Not Interchangeable_

A rather amusing incident occurred recently at a show in Paris, where the wonderful “Performing Fleas” were exhibited. One of the dear creatures, which acted as coachman to the great flea-coach, managed to hop off his box, and elected a rather stout lady, standing near, as his first resting-place. The proprietor of the show, who had spent much time and patience upon the education of his insect, was in despair, and the lady was asked if she would mind making a search for the missing pet. She accordingly retired to a private room, and in a few minutes returned triumphant, carefully holding the captive in the most approved style. She handed him to the showman, who started and changed color, and returning the flea to the lady remarked: “Je vous remercie, Madame, mais celle la est à vous, pas à moi!” (Thank you, Madame, but that’s not mine.)

_Business Economy_

Two commercial tourists, chancing to meet in an inn of a country town, began, after lighting their cigars, a dispute as to the relative extent of the business of their respective houses. One, zealous to prove the superiority of the establishment he represented, after enumerating extraordinary instances, reached the climax with the assertion that the business of his house was so extensive, that in their correspondence alone, it cost them over five hundred dollars a year for ink.

“Pooh, pooh,” said the other, “why, we save that much yearly by just omitting the _dots_ to the _i’s_ and the strokes to the _t’s_.”

_Completing an Unfinished Stanza_

It is related that Dr. Mansel, of Trinity College, Cambridge, by chance called at the rooms of a brother Cantab, who was absent, but had left on his table the opening of a poem, in the following lofty strain:

“The sun’s perpendicular rays Illumined the depths of the sea.”

Here the flight of the poet, by some accident, stopped short, but Dr. Mansel, equal to the occasion, completed the stanza in the following facetious style:

“And the fishes, beginning to sweat, Cried ‘Damn it,’ how hot we shall be.”

_Sonnet to a Cow_

Why cow, how canst thou be so satisfied? So well content with all things here below? So unobtrusive and so sleepy-eyed So meek, so lazy, and so awful slow? Dost thou not know that everything is mixed, That naught is as it should be on this earth, That grievously the world needs to be fixed, That nothing we can give has any worth, That times are hard, that life is full of care, Of sin and trouble and untowardness, That love is folly, friendship but a snare? Prit, cow! this is no time for laziness! The cud thou chewest is not what it seems! Get up and moo! Tear ‘round and quit thy dreams!

_Xanthippe Vindicated_

The admirers of Sorosis have waited patiently for that sisterhood to discuss and vindicate the character of that long maligned and grossly misunderstood victim of history, Xanthippe. But Sorosis procrastinates, and fails to declare that Socrates would have tried any woman’s temper.

Xanthippe has been called a shrew, a harridan, a scold, a virago, a termagant. Her temper has been represented as hasty, and her poor, patient husband, Socrates, has commanded not only respect for his genius, but pity for his domestic woes. It is extraordinary that such a misconception of the facts arose. It is remarkable that hitherto not one apologist for Xanthippe has arisen.

But the champion of woman, of womanhood—yea, even of woman’s rights—cannot study the facts preserved in history concerning this ill-assorted pair without perceiving the gross injustice done to a simple-minded and worthy dame. Reduced to its simplest terms, our proposition is that Xanthippe lived and died a victim to the Socratic method.

Ladies, put yourselves in her place. Married to an ugly man in the bloom of her youthful beauty,—to a man conspicuously ugly, with a flat nose, thick lips, bulging eyes, so ugly that the handsome Alcibiades compared him to Silenus,—we see at the outset that it was clearly a _mariage de convenance_. Think of the discoveries the poor girl made after the wedding! Her homely husband refused to wear shoes or stockings when the courting days had passed. He not only never dressed for dinner, but even refused to change his clothes at all, day in and day out. Having once secured a housekeeper he rarely stayed at home, was constantly off in the city, loafing in the market-place, disputing with every comer. He had given up his trade as a sculptor as soon as he had her dowry to spend, and spent his time gadding about with young men and neglecting the proud, fair girl at home.

It was common talk that at the banquets, for which he forsook his home, he drank more than any one else present. The misguided man, moreover, seems to have had a devil, or demon, constantly instigating him to some singular deed or remark. No wonder Xanthippe’s beauty faded! No wonder that the being looked at askance at every meeting of the Society of Athenian Dames she attended resulted in her gradually isolating herself from social affairs! Confined to the narrow limits of her small home, soured by neglect, yet ever faithful to the satyr Socrates, who left home early and drank till the wee sma’ hours at night, it is evident that the trials she contended with were great. But, you say, she must, as a cultivated, ambitious woman, have greatly enjoyed and as greatly profited by the opportunities of converse, infrequent but priceless, with the great dialectician when he actually was in the bosom of his family. That is the very point at issue. Our contention is that Socrates’s conversation, if he conversed with his wife at all, was the very straw that broke the camel’s back. Imagine being kept awake every night, say from two to four by a husband, more or less the worse for wine, and obliged to converse with him in question and answer, and being constantly held down to rigid logical rules of expression! What woman could endure having to voice her complaints in logical phrase? How the war-horse of dialectics would snort in the excitement of battle at hearing the feminine argument “Because” advanced in answer to some impertinent question on his part.

It is undoubtedly true, and Plato incidentally corroborates it, that one day when Xanthippe was out of wood, and the week’s ironing was all waiting to be done, Socrates, in sheer laziness, and from no ascertainable motive but pure cussedness, stood still for twenty-four hours continuously. His apologist adds that he was entranced in thought, and a partial public has believed it. But tell me, oh twentieth century wife, what effect it would have had on your nerves and temper if your Thomas or Jack were to treat you so?

If he had only brought his friends home occasionally and brightened Xanthippe’s life somewhat in that way! Even the rough, uncouth Xenophon would have been better than nobody. But this garrulous Greek seems to have had no redeeming domestic features—unless we except what Xenophon records in his Memorabilia (II. 2) as to his admonishing his eldest son, Lamprocles, to be grateful to his mother, which was only decent in the old man, as we infer from the context that Xanthippe had furnished Lamprocles with liberal pocket-money.

We have a profound sympathy with Xanthippe. If she became a shrew, it was Socrates’s fault. But it does not appear that she ever failed in the great duties of womanhood. And it ill beseems either the man or his apologists to malign a hard-working, much-abused woman whose defects of temper were not congenital, but created and increased by this malicious maieutic philosopher himself.

_Democritus at Belfast_[3]

Tyndall, high perched on Speculation’s summit, May drop his sounding line in Nature’s ocean, But that great deep has depths beyond his plummet, The springs of law and life, mind, matter, motion.

Democritus imagined that the soul Was made of atoms, spheric, smooth and fiery; Plato conceived it as a radiant whole— A heavenly unit baffling man’s inquiry.

Indolent Gods, immeasurably bored, Beyond the blast of Boreas and Eurus, Too lazy Man to punish or reward, Such was the heaven conceived by Epicurus.

If, as the wide-observant Darwin dreams, Man be developed of the Ascidian, · Methinks his great deeds and poetic dreams Scarce square with his molluscous pre-meridian.

But, even as Milton’s demons, problem tossed, When they had set their maker at defiance, Still “found no end, in wandering mazes lost,” So is it with our modern men of science.

Still in the “Open Sesame” of Law, Life’s master key professing to deliver, But meeting with deaf ear or scorn-clenched jaw, Our question, “Doth not law imply lawgiver?”

Betwixt the Garden and the Portico, Thou vacillating servant, often flittest, And when we seek the source of law to know, Giv’st us a phrase, “survival of the fittest.”

Pray who may be the fittest to survive, The spark of thought for coming time to kindle, The sacred fire of science keep alive?— Plato, Agassiz, Humboldt, Huxley, Tyndall?

If Tyndall’s last word be indeed the last— Of Hope and Faith hence with each rag and tatter! A black cloud shrouds our future as our past: Matter, the wise man’s God; the Crowd’s—no Matter.

Footnote 3:

(See Report of Professor Tyndall’s Inaugural Discourse to the British Association.)

_Christmas Chimes_

Little Penelope Socrates— A Boston maid of four— Wide opened her eyes on Christmas morn, And looked the landscape o’er. “What is it inflates my _bas de bleu_?” She asked with dignity; “’Tis Ibsen in the original; Oh, joy beyond degree.”

Miss Mary Cadwallader Rittenhouse, Of Philadelphia town, Awoke as much as they ever do there, And watched the snow come down. “I’m glad that it is Christmas,” You might have heard her say, “For my family is one year older now Than it was last Christmas day.”

’Twas Christmas in giddy Gotham, And Miss Irene de Jones Awoke at noon and yawned and yawned, And stretched her languid bones.

“I’m sorry it is Christmas, Papa at home will stay, For ’Change is closed and he won’t make A single cent to-day.”

Windly dawned the Christmas On the city by the lake, And Miss Arabel Wabash Breezy Was instantly awake. “What’s that thing in my stocking? Well, in two jiffs I’ll know.” And she drew a grand piano forth From ’way down in the toe.

_The Nestling Shuttlecock_

The amusing verses of Peter Pindar (Dr. John Wolcot) on the King and the Apple Dumplings have been so much copied in school books and collections of humorous poetry that most readers are familiar with the monarch’s questioning:

“Strange I should never of a dumpling dream; But Goody, tell me, where, where, where’s the seam?” “Sir, there’s no seam,” quoth she, “I never knew That folks did apple dumplings sew.” “No?” cried the staring monarch with a grin, “Then how the devil got the apple in?”

But Pindar’s “King of France and the Fair Lady” is seldom, if ever, found outside of his now scarce poetical works:

A king of France upon a day, With a fair lady of his court, Was pleased at battledore to play— A very fashionable sport.

Into the bosom of this fair court dame, Whose whiteness did the snow’s pure whiteness shame, King Louis by odd mischance did knock The shuttlecock. Thrice happy rogue, upon the town of doves, To nestle with the pretty little loves! “Now, sire, pray take it out,” quoth she, With an arch smile. But what did he? What? what to charming modesty belongs! Obedient to her soft command, He raised it—but not with his hand! No, marvelling reader, but the chimney tongs.

What a chaste thought in this good king; How clever! When shall we hear again of such a thing? Lord! never. Now were our princes to be prayed To such an act by some fair maid, I’ll bet my life not one would mind it; But handy, without more ado, The youths would search the bosom through, Although it took a day to find it.

_Proverbial Philosophy in New Dress_

Teach not your parent’s parent to extract The golden contents of the egg by suction. The good old lady can the feat enact Quite irrespective of your kind induction.

A member of the feathered federation, A prisoner by your palm and digits made, Is worth at least a couple of his brothers Who in your leafy arbor seek the shade.

_Theory and Practice_

Doctor (to brother physician)—“Yes, sir, the sovereign remedy for all ills is fresh air and plenty of it. People don’t let enough air into their houses. Well, I must hurry off; I’m on an errand.”

Brother Physician—“Going far?”

Doctor—“No; only down to the hardware store to get half a mile of weather-strips.”

THE HITS OF THE SATIRISTS

_Thanks for Victory_

Mr. Punch mercilessly satirized the despatches of a great royal soldier, a religiously minded man, as follows:

By the blessing of God, my dear Augusta, We’ve had again an awful buster. Ten thousand Frenchmen sent below; Praise God from whom all blessings flow!

_Battle Prayer_

The following has been shrewdly suggested as a good form for a battle prayer:

O God, we who are about to plunge into battle pray Thee that Thou wilt be with us and so direct our guns that we may mow down the enemy like chaff. May we kill hundreds outright and maim many more, thereby causing gloom and desperation to settle upon the hearts and the hearthstones of our enemies.

O Thou God of Battles, enable us to make many widows and orphans; let there be hundreds of homes desolated; let there be devoted sons left to mourn the fathers that we shall kill; let there be distracted wives and mothers to cry unceasingly at the loss of the light of their homes and the support of their declining years.

O God, if there be good men on the other side who pray to Thee for success, turn Thou their prayers to empty words.

Let it be given to us to sink more skips and to cause more misery than our enemy, with all his striving, can do; and this we ask for the sake of Christ, who labored to bring peace and good-will to earth. Amen.

_Silly Newspaper Queries_

Those who are blessed with a keen sense of humor will appreciate the playful ridicule in a specimen letter published in the New York _Evening Post_:

“TO THE EDITOR:

Having for a long time been a reader of your valuable paper, I write to ask if you will have the kindness to inform me through the columns of the same who is the author of the following pathetic poem:

“‘Hard was he up; And in the hardness of his upness Stole a ham.

“‘Down on him swooped, And swooping, up him scooped, The minions of the law.’ NEPTUNE.”

Commenting upon this thrust at silly queries, the editor remarks: “It shows what a newspaper has practised upon it daily in one form or another; yet the writers of communications quite as absurd as the foregoing wear very solemn faces, and enter long complaints against the editors for declining to print queries which would merely make the public laugh, or may be answered by consulting the nearest dictionary, or are of no possible interest to anybody save the querist himself. A bit of satire like ‘Neptune’s’ is a word to the wise; we almost despair, however, of its producing any effect upon the foolish.”

_Puffery Extraordinary_

A manufacturer of patent medicines wrote to a friend living on a farm in the West for a good strong recommendation for his (the manufacturer’s) “Balsam.” In a few days he received the following:

“DEAR SIR,—The land composing my farm had hitherto been so poor that a Scotchman could not get a living off it, and so stony that we had to slice our potatoes and plant them edgeways, but hearing of your balsam, I put some on a ten-acre lot surrounded by a railroad fence, and in the morning I found that the rock had entirely disappeared, a neat stone wall encircled the field, and the rails were split into oven wood, and piled up systematically in my back-yard.

I put half an ounce into the middle of a huckleberry swamp; in two days it was cleared off, planted with corn and pumpkins, and a row of peach-trees in full blossom through the middle.

As an evidence of its tremendous strength, I would say that it drew a striking likeness of my eldest son out of a mill-pond, drew a blister all over his stomach, drew a load of potatoes four miles to market, and eventually drew a prize of ninety-seven dollars in a lottery.”

_Beaconsfield_

Among the abundant political satires aimed at Beaconsfield was the following, in which will be recognized his well-known passion for alliteration:

“I am the Peerless Premier, ’Tis mine to speak and yours to hear. Intelligent England! now the time has come, As all must own And see, When you must rally round Me and the Throne— Particularly Me: Or else the random rage of ruthless Rome, The fickle falsehood of fair fawning France, Bismarckian braggadocia from Berlin, The mystic Muscovite’s most monstrous maw, Home-Rulers hoarsely howling hideous humbug, where, smug They batten on their melancholy isle,” etc.

_Burns’s Impromptu_

A specimen of Burns’s facility in impromptu satire, when provoked by anything which he considered mean, is one of the memories of Brownhill Inn. It is related that he was washing at the horse-trough, having apparently been drinking all night. Just then a black-coated parson, who had slept at the inn, came out and ordered his horse. Before he mounted he said to the hostler, taking fourpence out of his pocket, “You see, I ought to give you all this fourpence, but I shall want to pay threepence for the ferry hard by, so I can only give you a penny.” Burns, who had been looking on all the time, roared out,—

“Black’s your coat, Black’s your hair, And black’s your conscience, of which you’ve damned little to spare.”

He then gave the hostler sixpence.

_The Prince Regent_

Byron’s “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers” maintains its place in the forefront of commingled ridicule and censure, but nothing in that famous satire, or its sequel, “Hints from Horace,” approaches in caustic severity his castigation of that royal voluptuary, the Prince Regent, afterwards George IV. Byron chanced to see him standing between the coffins of Charles I. and Henry VIII., and thereupon penned the following epigram:

“Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies; Between them stands another sceptred thing; It moves, it reigns, in all but name a king. Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, In _him_ the double tyrant wakes to life. Justice and death have mixed their dust in vain, Each royal vampire wakes to life again: Ah, what can tombs avail? since these disgorge The blood and dust of both to mould a _George_.”

_The American Eagle_

Benjamin Franklin, in a letter to his daughter, Mrs. Sarah Bache, written in the seventy-eighth year of his age, regrets, in a characteristic passage, that the bald eagle had been preferred to the turkey as the national emblem. “For my own part,” said he, “I wish the bald eagle had not been chosen as the representative of our country; he is a bird of bad moral character; he does not get his living honestly; you may have seen him perched on some dead tree where, too lazy to fish for himself, he watches the labor of the fishing-hawk; and when that diligent has at length taken a fish, and is bearing it to his nest for the support of his mate and young ones, the bald eagle pursues him, and takes it from him. With all this injustice he is never in good case, but, like those among men who live by sharping and robbing, he is generally poor and often very lousy. Besides, he is a rank coward; the little king bird, not bigger than a sparrow, attacks him boldly and drives him out of the district. He is, therefore, by no means a proper emblem for the brave and honest Order of the Cincinnati of America, who have driven all the _King birds_ from our country; though exactly fit for that order of knights which the French call _Chevaliers d’Industrie_. I am, on this account, not displeased that the figure is not known as a bald eagle, but looks more like a turkey. For, in truth, the turkey is, in comparison, a much more respectable bird, and withal, a true original native of America. Eagles have been found in all countries, but the turkey was peculiar to ours. He is besides (though a little vain and silly, ’tis true, but none the worse for that) a bird of courage, and would not hesitate to attack a grenadier of the British guards, who should presume to invade his farm-yard with a red coat on.”

_The Drama as an Instrumentality_

The political satirical drama founded by Aristophanes was copied in England in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The Greek comic poet introduced real characters on the stage for the purpose of satirizing them. His freedom and boldness in depicting corrupt men and corrupt measures were prominently shown in his caricature of the coarse and noisy Cleon, when that Athenian leader was at the height of his power and insolence. In a similar way the first Earl of Shaftesbury was assailed by Dryden in an opera entitled “Albion and Albanis.” “The subject of this piece,” as Baker says, in his “Biographica Dramatica,” “is wholly allegorical, being intended to expose Lord Shaftesbury and his adherents.” But there is a more violent and virulent satire upon the same individual in Otway’s play of “Venice Preserved.” In reference to the former, Baker quotes Dr. Johnson as truly describing those portions of the play, now never represented, and in which the leading character was Antonio, as “despicable scenes of vile comedy.” All the vices assigned to Antonio were intended to depict Anthony, Earl of Shaftesbury; and it was on account of these very scenes that the play was a favorite with Charles II. Both political parties, at that period of English history, were merciless in their treatment of each other, and made use of the forms of a drama to gratify their detestation of their adversaries.

_Compliments to Boswell_

In a copy of Boswell’s “Tour to the Hebrides,” Horace Walpole wrote the following stinging lines:

“When Boozy Bozzy belched out Johnson’s Sayings, And half the volume filled with his own Brayings, Scotland beheld again before her pass A Brutal Bulldog coupled with an Ass.”

_Forbidden Fruit_

Among the poems attributed to Lord Byron is one commencing with—

“What! the girl I adore by another embraced!”

Reference to the sentiments expressed in his poem “The Waltz” makes it probable that the lines came from his pen. The subject of waltzing serves as a reminder of an impromptu addressed by an indignant lover to his betrothed and her partner:

“You have brushed the bloom from the peach, From the rose its soft hue. What you’ve touched you may take, Pretty waltzer, adieu.”

_A Statesman as a Scientist_

In the “Crotchet Castle,” published in 1831, is a merciless exposure of astonishing inaccuracies in some papers on scientific subjects, written by Lord Brougham for the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge. Among the sarcastic thrusts is the following:

“I suppose the learned friend [Brougham] has written a sixpenny treatise on mechanics, and the rascals who robbed me have been reading it.

“_Mr. Crotchet_: Your house would have been very safe, doctor, if they had had no better science than the learned friend’s to work with.”

_Lardner’s Mistaken Prediction_

Few men have presented as prominent a target for irony as Dr. Dionysius Lardner, in view of his alleged statement, in 1836, that steam navigation for a voyage across the Atlantic was impracticable. What he said, according to the report of his address in the London _Times_, August 27, 1836, was that by collation of the amount of coal needed per horse-power, the speed obtainable, and the number of hours needed for the distance, no vessel could stow away enough coal to carry her through a voyage of three thousand miles, and that two thousand miles was the longest possible run. Brunel, the chief engineer of the Great Western Railway, pointed out an arithmetical error in the “demonstration” which vitiated the whole of it, and the learned doctor sat down suddenly without acknowledgment of his palpable error.

_The Lawyers and the Playwrights_

Samuel Hand, Esq., in the course of an address before the New York State Bar Association said, “It must be confessed that in modern times there has been strongly impressed upon the world’s imagination a dark view of the lawyer and his pursuits. Hear Ben Jonson describe us in the age of Shakespeare:

“‘I oft have heard him say how he admired Men of your large profession, that could speak To every cause, and things mere contraries, Till they were hoarse again, yet all be law; That with most quick agility, could turn And return; make knots and undoe them; Give forked counsel; take provoking gold On either hand, and put it up; these men He knew would thrive with their humility And (for his part) he thought he would be blest To have his heir of such a suffering spirit, So wise, so grave, of so perplexed a tongue And loud withal, that would not wag nor scarce Lie still without a fee; when every word Your worship but lets fall is a zecchin.’

“Turning to the contemporary dramatists, Boucicault and others, we find the advocate generally handsomely used, but the attorney most outrageously maltreated and abused. Indeed, it is difficult to imagine anything more revolting than the figure usually cut by a stage attorney. He is depicted as meanness itself—vulgar, impudent, prying, without modesty or veracity, to whom honor is nothing but a word, offering his person to be kicked and himself to be reviled, if, by that means, any money can be made. I do not know how it may be with others, but when this libel on us appears on the stage I can hardly keep my countenance. It is needless to say that, whatever else may be true of us, these disgusting pictures are not even good caricatures. They have not the merit of suggesting the reality. It is difficult to conjecture how they could have originated, or what circumstances retain them in dramatical composition, for they have not the most remote resemblance, even in caricature, to the real average attorney, either English or American.”

_Bancroft as a Historian_

In the Critical and Political Essays of Severn Teackle Wallis, in his day the leader of the Maryland bar, is a severe arraignment of Bancroft as a historian. Mr. Wallis charges the author of the “History of the United States” with such trespasses as “misstatement, omission, garbling, perversion, and suppression;” the indictment is sustained, and the conviction is complete. A single paragraph will serve as a specimen of his vigor.

“Every one who knows anything of our revolutionary history is aware of the feeling which from time to time was manifested in the Continental Army against some of the troops and officers from New England. The attempts of modern historians and lecturers in that quarter to conceal the traces and evade the justice of this feeling are equally notorious. The controversy between Lord Mahon and Mr. Sparks is familiar to our readers. Those who have taken the pains to read what Washington did actually think and write upon the subject will remember how often, in the bitterness and sadness of despair, and with the fierce indignation of his own burning and unselfish patriotism, he denounced the trading spirit, the littleness, the cowardice, the mean cabals and interests by which the troops in question so frequently imperilled the great cause. In the face of facts so generally known and incontestable, we confess our amazement at finding, on page 335 of the volume of his history now under review, the broad statement by Mr. Bancroft that ‘it was on the militia of these (the New England) States, that Washington placed his chief reliance.’ Nor is this inconceivable assertion guarded by qualifications of any sort, as to time, or place, or occasion. On the contrary, it is coupled with an observation ascribed to the British commander-in-chief, that the New England militia, ‘when brought into action, were the most persevering of any in all North America,’—the purpose of combining the two statements being, of course, to perpetuate it as a historical fact, attested by the heads of both armies, that the troops from New England were the right arm of the one and the terror of the other. It is the misfortune of criticism that its decorum has no language by which falsifications of the sort can be properly characterized. Happily, on the other hand, it is but seldom called to expose anything so gross. Mr. Bancroft did himself infinite injustice by not adding to it at once, that John Adams was the unswerving friend and stay of Washington in the dark hours of doubt; that the Declaration of Independence was signed in Boston, and the sword of Cornwallis surrendered on Bunker Hill.”

_Unsuspected Turns_

When Charles Lamb was invited, at a public dinner, to say grace, and responded with the remark, “Is there no minister present? Then let us thank God!” he was a satirist, and knew it. When a sheriff up in Vermont, in opening the county court, cried, “All persons having causes or matters pending therein, draw near, and they shall be heard, and God save the people!” he was a satirist and didn’t know it.

_Plain Speaking_

An elderly resident of a village in Western New York still tells with glee the story of his aspirations to become justice of the peace many years ago, when his youthful temper was not always under control. He says he went to the leader of the dominant party in the town, still well remembered for his prominence in that locality and with whom he was on familiar terms, and told him that he would like to get the nomination for justice of the peace. The answer he got, pronounced with great deliberation and dignity, was “A——, you are just as fit for justice of the peace as hell is for a powder house.”

_Stanhope_

Lord Chesterfield’s “Letters to his Son,” though unrivalled as models for epistolary style, have incurred strong reprehension on two grounds: first, because some of their maxims are repugnant to good morals; and, secondly, as insisting too much on manners and graces instead of more solid acquirements. What effect these lessons in the art of dissimulation, these precepts for uniting wickedness and the graces, had upon Philip Stanhope, for whom they were designed, may be inferred from the following stanzas:

“Vile Stanhope—Demons blush to tell— In twice two hundred places Has shown his son the road to hell Escorted by the Graces; But little did the ungenerous lad Concern himself about them; For base, degenerate, meanly bad, He sneaked to hell without them.”

_Pens Dipped in Gall_

Theodore Hook declared that Shelley’s “Prometheus Unbound” was the most appropriate of titles, rattling off his criticism in the lines:

“For surely an age would be spent in the finding A reader so weak as to pay for the binding.”

Erskine is the author of an ill-natured couplet concerning Sir Walter Scott’s “On Waterloo’s Ensanguined Field:”

“None by sabre or by shot Fell half so flat as Walter Scott.”

Samuel Rogers, the London poet and banker, was the victim of a woman’s unsparing wit, when Lady Blessington wrote of his exquisitely illustrated “Italy” that “the work would surely have been dished had it not been for the plates.” Tom Moore once experienced a savage dislike for a cross-eyed woman, who was said to be a poetess, and sneeringly observed that “instead of her gazing at one muse at a time, she had an eye for the whole nine at once.” Garrick was a relentless critic of Sir John Hill, who was a doctor and dramatist:

“Thou essence of dock and valerian and sage At once the disgrace and the pest of the age, The worst that we wish thee for all thy sad crimes Is to take thine own physic and read thine own rhymes.”

The great lake poets, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey, were satirized by a cynical author, who wrote:

“They came from the lakes, an appropriate quarter For poems diluted with plenty of water.”

It was one of Pope’s observations: “We have just enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love one another.” Swift, who was the keenest of English satirists, remarked in the same vein: “A man of business should always have his eyes open, but must often seem to have them shut.” Satire has its place, and the foibles of individuals and races may be dealt with most effectively at times with the pen dipped in gall, but in general its use is to be deplored, not alone in criticism, but in all the relationships of life.

_Samuel Rogers_

Captain Medwin, in his “Life of Shelley,” copies the following verses on the poet-banker Rogers, which he attributes, whether justly or not, to Byron:

“Nose and chin would shame a knocker, Wrinkles that would puzzle Cocker, Mouth which marks the envious scorner, With a scorpion at the corner, Turning its quick tail to sting you, In the place that most may wring you; Eyes of lead-like hue and gummy, Carcase picked up from some mummy, Bowels—but they were forgotten, Save the liver and that’s rotten; Skin all sallow, flesh all sodden, From the devil would frighten Godwin. Is’t a corpse set up for show? Galvanized at times to go? With the Scripture in connection, New proof of the resurrection? Vampire! ghost! or goat, what is it? I would walk ten miles to miss it.”

“The author of the ‘Pleasures of Memory,’” remarks William Howitt, “has never met with that species of Mohawk criticism, that scalping and scarifying literary assault and battery, which so many of his contemporaries have had to undergo.” Nevertheless, it would be hard to find in the wide range of Satanic literature a scarification as intense and as sweeping as that in the lines above quoted.

_Junius on the Duke of Bedford_

“My lord, you are so little accustomed to receive any marks of respect or esteem from the public, that if in the following lines a compliment or expression of applause should escape me, I fear you would consider it as a mockery of your established character, and perhaps an insult to your understanding. You have nice feelings if we may judge from your resentments. Cautious, therefore, of giving offence where you have so little deserved it, I shall leave the illustration of your virtues to other hands. Your friends have a privilege to play upon the easiness of your temper, or probably they are better acquainted with your good qualities than I am. You have done good by stealth. The rest is upon record. You have still ample room for speculation when panegyric is exhausted....

“Let us consider you, then, as arrived at the summit of worldly greatness; let us suppose that all your plans of avarice and ambition are accomplished, and your most sanguine wishes gratified in the fear as well as the hatred of the people. Can age itself forget that you are now in the last act of life? Can gray hairs make folly venerable? Is there no period to be reserved for meditation and retirement? For shame, my lord! Let it not be recorded of you that the latest moments of your life were dedicated to the same unworthy pursuits, the same busy agitations, in which your youth and manhood were exhausted. Consider that though you cannot disgrace your former life, you are violating the character of age and exposing the impotent imbecility, after you have lost the vigor of the passions.

“Your friends will ask, perhaps, Whither shall this unhappy old man retire? Can he remain in the metropolis where his life has been so often threatened, and his palace so often attacked? If he returns to Woburn, scorn and mockery await him; he must create a solitude round his estate if he would avoid the face of reproach and derision. At Plymouth his destruction would be more than probable; at Exeter, inevitable. No honest Englishman will ever forget his attachment, nor any honest Scotchman forget his treachery, to Lord Bute. At every town he enters he must change his liveries and name. Whichever way he flies, the hue and cry of the country pursues him.

“In another kingdom, indeed, the blessings of his administration have been more sensibly felt, his virtues understood; or, at worst, they will not for him alone forget their hospitality. As well might Verres have returned to Sicily. You have twice escaped, my lord; beware of a third experiment. The indignation of a whole people, plundered, insulted, and oppressed as they have been, will not always be disappointed.

“It is in vain, therefore, to shift the scene; you can no more fly from your enemies than from yourself. Persecuted abroad, you look into your own heart for consolation, and find nothing but reproaches and despair. But, my lord, you may quit the field of business, though not the field of danger; and though you cannot be safe, you may cease to be ridiculous. I fear you have listened too long to the advice of those pernicious friends with whose interests you have sordidly united your own, and for whom you have sacrificed every thing that ought to be dear to a man of honor. They are still base enough to encourage the follies of your age, as they once did the vices of your youth. As little acquainted with the rules of decorum as with the laws of morality, they will not suffer you to profit by experience, nor even to consult the propriety of a bad character. Even now they tell you that life is no more than a dramatic scene, in which the hero should preserve his consistency to the last; and that as you lived without virtue, you should die without repentance.”

_Ruskin on the Bicycle_

This is what John Ruskin thought of the bicycle: “Some time since I put myself on record as an antagonist of the devil’s own toy, the bicycle. I want to reiterate, with all the emphasis of strong language, that I condemn all manner of bi-, tri-, and 4–, 5–, 6–, or 7–cycles. Any contrivance or invention intended to supersede the use of human feet on God’s own ground is damnable. Walking, running, leaping, and dancing are legitimate and natural joys of the body, and every attempt to stride on stilts, dangle on ropes, or wiggle on wheels is an affront to the Almighty. You can’t improve on God’s appointed way of walking by substituting an improved cart-wheel.”

_A Serious Interruption_

An amusing story about the late Baron James de Rothschild, who was as sarcastic as he was shrewd, is now going the rounds of the French press. It is to the effect that the baron was playing whist one night, “a financier’s game”—for moderate stakes, that is—with the wealthy Marquis d’Aligre and a party, when the marquis, having let a louis fall on the floor, insisted on stopping the game until he found it. The baron, learning the cause of the interruption, exclaimed in a pathetic tone, “A louis on the floor? Ah! that is a serious matter,” and coolly taking a hundred-franc note from his pocket, rolled it up, lighted it at a candle, and held the blazing paper down to the carpet with profound gravity to help the marquis in his search!

_Imitation of Shakespeare’s Commentators_

“_Stilton Cheese._”—So, some of the old copies; yet the 4to, 1600, reads “_Tilton_.” But I confess the word _Tilton_ gives me no idea. I find Stilton to be a village in Huntingdon, famous for its cheese—a fact which clearly evinces the propriety of the reading in the old copy, and justifies my emendation.

THEOBALD.

Here we have a very critical note! The word Tilton can give Mr. Theobald no idea. And it is true, words cannot give a man what nature has denied him. But though our critic may be ignorant of it, it is well known that in the days of chivalry _Tilting_ was a very common amusement in England; and I find that, during the performance of these martial exercises the spectators were frequently entertained with a sort of cheese, which, from the occasion on which it was made, was called _Tilting_, and by corruption _Tilton_ cheese. Mr. Theobald’s emendation, therefore, as needless and truly absurd, ought by all means to be rejected.

WARBURTON.

The emendation, in my opinion, is not more absurd than the remark which the learned annotator has made upon it. There is, indeed, a stupid error in some of the old copies. But discordant opinions are not always nugatory, and by much agitation the truth is elicited. I think Mr. Theobald’s alteration right.

JOHNSON.

Stilton is a village in Huntingdon on the great North road. Tilton, though not so well known, is a village in Leicester. In an old collection of songs, black-letter, no date, we read “_Tilton’s_ homely fare,” which all critics will allow can only mean cheese. In an old MS. of which I remember neither the date nor the title Tilton is said to abound in rich pasturage; both which circumstances make it highly probable that our author wrote, not as Mr. Theobald supposes, _Stilton_, but _Tilton_; though I confess the passage is not without difficulty.

STEEVENS.

_Wordsworth’s Horse_

Will Wordsworth was a steady man, That lived near Ambleside, And much he longed to have a horse, Which he might easy ride.

It chanced one day a horse came by, Of pure Arabian breed, Gentle, though proud, and strong of limb; It was a gallant steed!

Full many a noble rider bold This gallant steed had borne; And every one upon his brow The laurel wreath had worn.

Those noble riders dead and gone, And in the cold earth laid, The gallant steed by Wordsworth’s door Without an owner strayed.

No more ado; the steed is caught; Upon him Wordsworth gets; The generous courser paws and rears, And ’gainst the bridle frets.

“He’s too high mettled,” Wordsworth says, “And shakes me in my seat; He must be balled, and drenched, and bled, And get much less to eat.”

So balled, and drenched, and bled he was, And put on lower diet; And Wordsworth with delight observed Him grow each day more quiet.

At first he took from him his oats, And then he took his hay; Until at last he fed him on A single straw a day.

What happened next to this poor steed There’s not a child but knows; Death closed his eyes, as I my song, And ended all his woes.

And on a stone, near Rydal Mount, These words are plain to see,— “Here lie the bones of that famed steed, High-mettled Poesy.”

_A Sylvan Reverie_

_Scene, Hawarden Park._ [_Mr. Gladstone discovered engaged in felling a tree, surrounded by fourteen hundred liberals of Bolton. He strikes a few blows; the crowd cheer vociferously. Mr. Gladstone pauses from his labors, reflects a few moments, and then sings sotto voce_:]

How sweet are the sounds of the popular voice In an ex-ministerial ear! How surely I know that the national choice _Must_ go with the noisiest cheer! As I gaze upon votaries faithful as those, And their incense of worship ascends, I forget for a moment the malice of foes And—still better—the coldness of friends. I feel I am great, and I know I am good, And no longer regret my position As statesman who’s taken to chopping of wood And abandoned the paths of ambition.

Is it vanity prompting me? Is it self-love? Can I, safe in my conscience, decide That it is not such feelings my bosom that move? Yes ... I think it’s legitimate pride. I am not—or I hope not—a lover of praise; I am humble—I hope so at least. It will do me no harm—on occasional days— Such a rich popularity-feast. For perhaps I _am_ great, and I think I am good, And it’s surely a mark of submission To take, though a statesman, to chopping of wood, And abandon the paths of ambition.

[_He strikes a few more blows with his axe; then again pauses. The cheering is renewed._]

How simple I look! how unconsciously grand, As I rest from my toil for a space, With my waistcoat thrown off, and my axe in my hand, And humanity’s dew on my face! Oh, my brethren in toil, who stand wond’ring around, By what ties have I bound you to me? An orator, scholar and statesman renowned, Condescending to cut down a tree! Yes, I know I am great, something tells me I’m good; And I feel it’s a lofty position, A statesman’s, who’s taken to chopping of wood, And forsaken the paths of ambition.

[_He gazes round him for a few moments with visibly increasing complacency._]

The consular woodman! this citizen host! Could the old world’s imperial Queen In the days of her early simplicity boast A more nobly republican scene? Let me think, as I watch the admirers who note