It is incalculable how much that royal bigwig cost Germany. Every prince

imitated the French king, and had his Versailles, his Wilhelmshöhe or

Ludwigslust; his court and its splendors; his gardens laid out with

statues; his fountains, and water-works, and Tritons; his actors, and

dancers, and singers, and fiddlers; his harem, with its inhabitants; his

diamonds and duchies for these latter; his enormous festivities, his

gaming-tables, tournaments, masquerades, and banquets lasting a week

long, for which the people paid with their money, when the poor wretches

had it; with their bodies and very blood when they had none; being sold

in thousands by their lords and masters, who gaily dealt in

soldiers,—staked a regiment upon the red at the gambling table; swapped

a battalion against a dancing-girl’s diamond necklace, and, as it were,

pocketed their people.

As one views Europe, through contemporary books of travel, in the early

part of the last century, the landscape is awful—wretched wastes,

beggarly and plundered; half-burned cottages and trembling peasants

gathering piteous harvests; gangs of such tramping along with bayonets

behind them, and corporals with canes and cats-of-nine-tails to flog

them to barracks. By these passes my lord’s gilt carriage, floundering

through the ruts, as he swears at the postillions, and toils on to the

Residenz. Hard by, but away from the noise and brawling of the citizens

and buyers, is Wilhelmslust or Ludwigsruhe, or Monbijou, or

Versailles—it scarcely matters which—near to the city, shut out by woods

from the beggared country, the enormous, hideous, gilded, monstrous

marble palace, where the prince is, and the Court, and the trim gardens,

and huge fountains, and the forest where the ragged peasants are beating

the game in (it is death to them to touch a feather); and the jolly hunt

sweeps by with its uniform of crimson and gold; and the prince gallops

ahead puffing his royal horn; and his lords and mistresses ride after

him; and the stag is pulled down; and the grand huntsman gives the knife

in the midst of a chorus of bugles; and ’tis time the court go home to

dinner; and our noble traveller, it may be the Baron of Pöllnitz, or the

Count de Königsmarck, or the excellent Chevalier de Seingalt, sees the

procession gleaming through the trim avenues of the wood, and hastens to

the inn, and sends his noble name to the marshal of the court. Then our

nobleman arrays himself in green and gold, or pink and silver, in the

richest Paris mode, and is introduced by the chamberlain, and makes his

bow to the jolly prince, and the gracious princess; and is presented to

the chief lords and ladies, and then comes supper and a bank at Faro,

where he loses or wins a thousand pieces by daylight. If it is a German

court, you may add not a little drunkenness to this picture of high

life; but German, or French, or Spanish, if you can see out of your

palace-windows beyond the trim-cut forest vistas, misery is lying

outside; hunger is stalking about the bare villages, listlessly

following precarious husbandry; ploughing stony fields with starved

cattle; or fearfully taking in scanty harvests. Augustus is fat and

jolly on his throne; he can knock down an ox, and eat one almost; his

mistress, Aurora von Königsmarck, is the loveliest, the wittiest

creature; his diamonds are the biggest and most brilliant in the world,

and his feasts as splendid as those of Versailles. As for Louis the

Great, he is more than mortal. Lift up your glances respectfully, and

mark him eyeing Madame de Fontanges or Madame de Montespan from under

his sublime periwig, as he passes through the great gallery where

Villars and Vendome, and Berwick, and Bossuet, and Massillon are

waiting. Can Court be more splendid; nobles and knights more gallant and

superb; ladies more lovely? A grander monarch, or a more miserable

starved wretch than the peasant his subject, you cannot look on. Let us

bear both these types in mind, if we wish to estimate the old society

properly. Remember the glory and the chivalry? Yes! Remember the grace

and beauty, the splendor and lofty politeness; the gallant courtesy of

Fontenoy where the French line bids the gentlemen of the English guard

to fire first; the noble constancy of the old king and Villars his

general, who fits out the last army with the last crown-piece from the

treasury, and goes to meet the enemy and die or conquer for France at

Denain. But round all that royal splendor lies a nation enslaved and

ruined; there are people robbed of their rights—communities laid

waste—faith, justice, commerce trampled upon, and well-nigh

destroyed—nay, in the very centre of royalty itself, what horrible

stains and meanness, crime and shame! It is but to a silly harlot that

some of the noblest gentlemen, and some of the proudest women in the

world are bowing down; it is the price of a miserable province that the

king ties in diamonds round his mistress’s white neck. In the first half

of the last century this is going on all Europe over. Saxony is a waste

as well as Picardy or Artois; and Versailles is only larger and not

worse than Herrenhausen.

THE BITER BIT.

Jerry White, the Chaplain to Cromwell, carried his ambition so far as to

think of becoming son-in-law to his Highness, by marrying his daughter,

the lady Frances; and as Jerry had those requisites that generally

please the fair sex, he won the affections of the young lady: but as

nothing of this sort could happen without the knowledge of the watchful

father, who had his spies in every place, and about every person, it

soon reached his ears. There were as weighty reasons for rejecting Jerry

as there had been for dismissing His Majesty Charles II., who had been

proposed by the Earl of Orrery as a husband. Oliver therefore, ordered

the informer to observe and watch them narrowly; and promised that upon

substantial proof of the truth of what he had declared, he should be as

amply rewarded as Jerry severely punished. It was not long before the

informer acquainted his Highness that the Chaplain was then with the

lady; and upon hastening to his daughter’s apartment, he discovered the

unfortunate Jerry upon his knees, kissing her Ladyship’s hand: seeing

which, he hastily exclaimed, “What is the meaning of this posture before

my daughter Frances?” The Chaplain, with great presence of mind,

replied, “May it please your Highness, I have a long time courted that

young gentlewoman there, my lady’s woman, and cannot prevail: I was

therefore humbly praying her Ladyship to intercede for me.” Oliver,

turning to the waiting-woman, said:—“What is the meaning of this? He is

my friend, and I expect you should treat him as such:” who, desiring

nothing more, replied, with a low courtesy, “If Mr. White intends me

that honor, I shall not oppose him.” Upon which Oliver said, “We’ll call

Goodwin: this business shall be done presently, before I go out of the

room.” Jerry could not retreat. Goodwin came, and they were instantly

married,—the bride, at the same time, receiving £500 from the Protector.

Mr. Jerry White lived with this wife (not of his choice) more than fifty

years. Oldmixon says he knew both him and Mrs. White, and heard the

story told when they were present; at which time Mrs. White acknowledged

“there was something in it.”

THE LAST NIGHT OF THE GIRONDISTS.

Of all the prisons of Paris, the Conciergerie is the most

interesting, from its antiquity, associations, and mixed style of

architecture,—uniting as it were the horrors of the dungeons of the

Middle Ages with the more humane system of confinement of the

present century. It exhibits in its mongrel outline the progressive

ameliorations of humanity toward criminals and offenders,—forming a

connecting link between feudal barbarity and modern civilization.

Situated in the heart of old Paris, upon the Ile de la Cité,

separated from the Seine by the Quai de l’Horologe, it is one of a

cluster of edifices pregnant with souvenirs of tragedy and romance.

These buildings are the Sainte Chapelle, the Prefecture de Police,

and the Palais de Justice, formerly the residence of the French

monarchs. The Conciergerie, which derives its name from _concierge_,

or keeper, was anciently the prison of the palace. It is now chiefly

used as a place of detention for persons during their trial. Recent

alterations have greatly diminished the gloomy and forbidding effect

of its exterior; but sufficient of its old character remains to

perpetuate the associations connected with its former uses, and to

preserve for it its interest as a relic of feudalism. The names of

the two turrets flanking the gateway, Tour de César, and Tour

Boubec, smack of antiquity. Compared with Cæsar, however, its age is

quite juvenile, being less than nine hundred years.

The oldest legible entry in the archives of the Conciergerie is that of

the regicide Ravaillac, who was incarcerated May 16, 1610. Among the

memorable names on its register are those of Damiens, who attempted the

life of Louis XV.; Eleonore Galigaï, the confidante of Marie de Medicis;

La Voisine, the famous female poisoner, who succeeded Madame de

Brinvilliers; Cartouche the noted robber, and high above them all in

point of tragic interest, the innocent and unfortunate queen, Marie

Antoinette.

The records of this prison furnish extraordinary illustrations of

stoicism in the midst of civil calamity, and its walls bear witness to

almost inconceivable indifference to the mastery of violence. We know

that there is no social upheaval to which human nature, with its

versatility of powers for good or evil, may not become accustomed, and

if the condition be inevitable, even become reconciled. But the conduct

of the prisoners of the Conciergerie, in many instances, tinged as it

was with mingled sublimity and folly, surpasses comprehension. During

the Reign of Terror they were almost daily decimated by the guillotine;

yet their constant _amusement_ was to play at charades and

the—_guillotine_. Both sexes and all ranks assembled in one of the

halls. They formed a revolutionary tribunal—choosing accusers and

judges, and parodizing the gestures and voice of Fouquier Tinville and

his coadjutors. Defenders were named; the accused were taken at hazard.

The sentence of death followed close on the heels of the accusation.

They simulated the toilet of the condemned, preparing the neck for the

knife by feigning to cut the hair and collar. The sentenced were

attached to a chair reversed to represent the guillotine. The knife was

of wood, and as it fell, the individual, male or female, thus sporting

with their approaching fate, tumbled down as if actually struck by the

iron blade. Often while engaged in this _play_, they were interrupted by

the terrible voice of the public crier, calling over the “names of the

brigands who to-day have gained the lottery of the holy guillotine.”

But among the curious souvenirs of this celebrated jail, the most

memorable is that of the last night of the Girondists, that unique

festivity which was certainly the grandest triumph of philosophy in the

annals of human events. Those fierce, theoretical deputies, who had so

recently sent to the scaffold the King and Queen of France, were now in

turn on their way thither. Christianity teaches men to live in peaceful

humility, and to die with hopeful resignation. The last hour of a true

believer is calmly joyous. Here was an opportunity for infidelity to

assert its superiority in death, as it had claimed for itself the

greatest good in life. Let us be just to even these deluded men. They

had played a terrible role in the history of their country, and they

resigned themselves to die with the same intrepidity with which they had

staked their existence upon the success of their policy. They made it a

death fête, each smiling as he awaited the dread message, and devoting

his latest moments to those displays of intellectual rivalry which had

so long united them in life. Mainvielle, Ducos, Gensonné, and Boyer

Foufréde abandoned themselves to gayety, wit and revelry, repeating

their own verses with friendly rivalry, and stimulating their companions

to every species of infidel folly. Viger sang amorous songs; Duprat

related a tale; Gensonné repeated the Marseillaise; while Vergniaud

alternately electrified them with his eloquence, or discoursed

philosophically of their past history, and the unknown future upon which

they were about to enter. The discussion on poetry, literature, and

general topics, was animated and brilliant; on God, religion, the

immortality of the soul, grave, eloquent, calm and poetic. The walls of

the prison echoed to a late hour in the morning to their patriotic

cries, and were witnesses to their fraternal embraces. The corpse of

Valazé, the only one of their number who by a voluntary death eluded the

scaffold, remained with them.

The whole scene was certainly the wildest and most dramatic ever born of

courage and reason. Yet throughout their enthusiasm there appears a

chill of uncertainty, and an intellectual coldness that appals the

conscience. We feel that for the Girondists it was a consistent

sacrifice to their theories and their lives; but for a Christian and

patriot, a sad and unedifying spectacle.

While history cannot refute the tribute of admiration to high qualities,

even when misdirected, it is equally bound to record the errors and

repeat the warnings of those who claim a place in its pages. The lives

of the Girondists, as well as their deaths, formed a confused drama of

lofty aspirations, generous sentiments and noble sacrifices, mingled

with error, passion and folly. Their character presents all the cold

brilliancy of fireworks, which excite our admiration only to be chilled

with disappointment at their speedy eclipse. Their death-scene was

emphatically a _spectacle_. It exhibited neither the simple grandeur of

the death of Socrates, nor the calm and trustful spirit that

characterized the dying moments of Washington; the one yielding up his

spirit as a heathen philosopher; the other dying as a Christian

statesman.

QUEEN ELIZABETH AND THE RING.

Concerning the love-token which Queen Elizabeth gave to Essex, with an

intimation that if he forfeited her favor, its return would secure her

forgiveness, Miss Strickland quotes the testimony of Lady Spelman, who

says that when Essex lay under sentence of death, he determined to try

the virtue of the ring, by sending it to the queen, and claiming the

benefit of her promise; but knowing he was surrounded by the creatures

of those who where bent on taking his life, he was fearful of trusting

it to any of his attendants. At length, looking out of his window, he

saw early one morning a boy whose countenance pleased him, and him he

induced by a bribe to carry the ring, which he threw down to him from

above, to the Lady Scrope, his cousin, who had taken so friendly

interest in his fate. The boy, by mistake, carried it to the Countess of

Nottingham, the cruel sister of the fair and gentle Scrope, and, as both

these ladies were of the royal bedchamber, the mistake might easily

occur. The countess carried the ring to her husband the Lord Admiral,

who was the deadly foe of Essex, and told him the message, but he bade

her suppress both. The queen, unconscious of the accident, waited in the

painful suspense of an angry lover for the expected token to arrive; but

not receiving it, she concluded he was too proud to make this last

appeal to her tenderness, and, after having once revoked the warrant,

she ordered the execution to proceed.

Multum in Parvo.

Prior, says Leigh Hunt, wrote one truly loving verse, if no other. It is

in his _Solomon_. The monarch is speaking of a female slave, who had a

real affection for him—

_And when I called another, Abra came._

* * * * *

Coleridge says that Noah’s Ark affords a fine image of the world at

large, as containing a very few men, and a great number of beasts.

* * * * *

The boxes which govern the world are the cartridge-box, the ballot-box,

the jury-box, and the band-box.

* * * * *

There are certain things upon which even a wise man must be content to

be ignorant. “I cannot fiddle,” said Themistocles, “but I can take a

city.”

* * * * *

Sir Thomas Overbury said of a man who boasted of his ancestry, that he

was like a potato—the best thing belonging to him was under the ground.

* * * * *

“Go and see Carlini” (the famous Neapolitan comedian), said a physician

to a patient, who came to consult him upon habitual depression of

spirits. “I am Carlini,” said the man.

* * * * *

The words _Abstemiously_ and _Facetiously_ contain all the vowels in

consecutive order.

* * * * *

When Mr. Pitt’s enemies objected to George III. that he was too young,

his Majesty answered: “That is an objection the force of which will be

weakened every day he lives.”

* * * * *

Prayer moves the hand

That moves the universe.

* * * * *

The clock that stands still, points right twice in the four-and-twenty

hours; while others may keep going continually, and be continually going

wrong.

* * * * *

The Mexicans say to their new-born offspring, “Child, thou art come into

the world to suffer. Endure, and hold thy peace.”

* * * * *

Balzac makes mention of a man who never uttered his own name without

taking off his hat, as a mark of reverence for the exalted appellation.

* * * * *

Gibbon says: As long as mankind shall continue to bestow more liberal

applause on their destroyers than on their benefactors the thirst of

military glory will ever be the vice of the most exalted characters.

* * * * *

In the works of Prof. Thomas Cooper it is said,—Mankind pay best, 1.

Those who destroy them, heroes and warriors. 2. Those who cheat them,

statesmen, priests and quacks. 3. Those who amuse them, as singers,

actors, dancers and novel writers. But least of all, those who speak the

truth, and instruct them.

* * * * *

Wax-lights, though we are accustomed to overlook the fact, and rank them

with ordinary commonplaces, are true fairy tapers,—a white metamorphosis

from the flowers, crowned with the most intangible of all visible

mysteries—fire.

* * * * *

An illustration of false emphasis is supplied by the verse, (I. Kings

xiii. 27,) “And he spoke to his sons, saying, Saddle me the ass. And

they saddled _him_.”

* * * * *

Shakspeare, in the compass of a line, has described a thoroughly

charming girl:—

Pretty, and witty; wild, and yet, too, gentle.

* * * * *

The foundation of domestic happiness is confidence in the virtue of

woman; the foundation of political happiness is reliance on the

integrity of man; the foundation of all real happiness, temporal and

spiritual, present and eternal, is faith in the mercy of God through

Jesus Christ, and Him crucified.

* * * * *

Buckingham’s Epitaph on Thomas Lord Fairfax:—

He might have been a King,

But that he understood

How much it is a meaner thing

To be unjustly great, than honorably good.

* * * * *

A favorite exclamation of the Parisian mob, who must always have a

“_vive_” something or other, became during the Revolution, “_vive la

mort!_”

* * * * *

Alphonso, King of Aragon, in his judgment of human life, declared that

there were only four things in this world worth living for: “Old wine to

drink, old wood to burn, old books to read, and old friends to converse

with.”

* * * * *

David refers to a good old form of salutation and valediction in Psalm

cxxix. 8:—

“The blessing of the Lord be upon you; we bless you in the name of the

Lord.”

* * * * *

An eastern sage being desired to inscribe on the ring of his Sultan a

motto, equally applicable to prosperity or adversity, returned it with

these words engraved upon the surface: “And this, too, shall pass away.”

* * * * *

Oliver Cromwell’s grace before dinner:—

Some have meat, but cannot eat,

And some can eat, but have not meat,

And so—the Lord be praised.

Life and Death.

All death in nature is birth, and in death appears visibly the

advancement of life. There is no killing principle in nature, for

nature throughout is life: it is not death that kills, but the higher

life, which, concealed behind the other, begins to develop itself.

Death and birth are but the struggle of life with itself to attain a

higher form.—§Fichte.§

I came in the morning,—it was spring,

And I smiled;

I walked out at noon,—it was summer,

And I was glad;

I sat me down at even,—it was autumn,

And I was sad;

I laid me down at night,—it was winter,

And I slept.

BEAUTIFUL ILLUSTRATIONS OF LIFE.

What a fine passage is that of Bishop §Heber§, which is said to have

suggested to §Cole§ his justly-famed series of paintings, entitled _The

Voyage of Life_!

Life bears us on like the stream of a mighty river. Our boat at first

glides swiftly down the narrow channel, through the playful murmurings

of the little brook and the windings of its grassy borders: the trees

shed their blossoms over our young heads, and the flowers on the brink

seem to offer themselves to our young hands; we rejoice in hope, and

grasp eagerly at the beauties around us; but the stream hurries us on,

and still our hands are empty.

Our course in youth and manhood is along a wider and deeper flood, and

amid objects more striking and magnificent. We are animated by the

moving picture of enjoyment and industry that is passing before us; we

are excited by some short-lived success, or depressed and rendered

miserable by some short-lived disappointment. But our energy and

dependence are alike in vain. The stream bears us on, and our joys and

griefs are left behind us: we may be shipwrecked, but we cannot anchor;

our voyage may be hastened, but cannot be delayed; whether rough or

smooth, the river hastens toward its home; the roaring of the waves is

beneath our keel, the land lessens from our eyes, the floods are lifted

up around us, and we take our last leave of earth and its inhabitants,

and of our future voyage there is no witness save the Infinite and the

Eternal!

THE ROUND OF LIFE.

From the Aphorisms of Dr. Horne, Bishop of Norwich:—

Some are serving,—some commanding;

Some are sitting,—some are standing;

Some rejoicing,—some are grieving;

Some entreating,—some relieving;

Some are weeping,—some are laughing;

Some are thirsting,—some are quaffing;

Some accepting,—some refusing;

Some are thrifty,—some abusing;

Some compelling,—some persuading;

Some are flattering,—some degrading;

Some are patient,—some are fuming;

Some are modest,—some presuming;

Some are leasing,—some are farming;

Some are helping,—some are harming;

Some are running,—some are riding;

Some departing,—some abiding;

Some are sending,—some are bringing;

Some are crying,—some are singing;

Some are hearing,—some are preaching;

Some are learning,—some are teaching;

Some disdaining,—some affecting;

Some assiduous,—some neglecting;

Some are feasting,—some are fasting;

Some are saving,—some are wasting;

Some are losing,—some are winning;

Some repenting,—some are sinning;

Some professing,—some adoring;

Some are silent,—some are roaring;

Some are restive,—some are willing;

Some preserving,—some are killing;

Some are bounteous,—some are grinding;

Some are seeking,—some are finding;

Some are thieving,—some receiving;

Some are hiding,—some revealing;

Some commending,—some are blaming;

Some dismembering,—some new-framing;

Some are quiet,—some disputing;

Some confuted and confuting;

Some are marching,—some retiring;

Some are resting,—some aspiring;

Some enduring,—some deriding;

Some are falling,—some are rising.

These are sufficient to recite,

Since all men’s deeds are infinite;

Some end their parts when some begin;

Some go out,—and some come in.

RULES OF LIVING.

_From Rev. Hugh Peters’ Legacy to his Daughter._

_London, §A.D.§ 1660._

Whosoever would live long and blessedly, let him observe these following

rules, by which he shall attain to that which he desireth:—

Let thy

Thoughts be divine, awful, godly.

Talk — little, honest, true.

Works — profitable, holy, charitable.

Manners — grave, courteous, cheerful.

Diet — temperate, convenient, frugal.

Apparel — sober, neat, comely.

Will — confident, obedient, ready.

Sleep — moderate, quiet, seasonable.

Prayers — short, devout, often, fervent.

Recreation — lawful, brief, seldom.

Memory — of death, punishment, glory.

DR. FRANKLIN’S MORAL CODE.

The great American philosopher and statesman, Benjamin Franklin, drew up

the following list of moral virtues, to which he paid constant and

earnest attention, and thereby made himself a better and happier man:—

_Temperance._—Eat not to fulness; drink not to elevation.

_Silence._—Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid

trifling conversation.

_Order._—Let all your things have their places; let each part of your

business have its time.

_Resolution._—Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail

what you resolve.

_Frugality._—Make no expense, but do good to others as yourself; that

is, waste nothing.

_Industry._—Lose no time, be always employed in something useful; but

avoid all unnecessary actions.

_Sincerity._—Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly; and, if

you speak, speak accordingly.

_Justice._—Wrong no one by doing injuries, or omitting the benefits that

are your duty.

_Moderation._—Avoid extremes; forbear resenting injuries.

_Cleanliness._—Suffer no uncleanliness in body, clothes, or habitation.

_Tranquillity._—Be not disturbed about trifles, or at accidents common

or unavoidable.

_Humility._—Imitate Jesus Christ.

EMPLOYMENT OF TIME.

The celebrated Lord Coke wrote the subjoined couplet, which he

religiously observed in the distribution of time:—

Six hours to sleep,—to law’s grave studies six,—

Four spent in prayer,—the rest to nature fix.

But Sir William Jones, a wiser economist of the fleeting hours of life,

amended the sentence in the following lines:—

Seven hours to law,—to soothing slumber seven,—

Ten to the world allot,—and all to heaven.

LIVING LIFE OVER AGAIN.

Good Sir Thomas Browne says, Though I think no man can live well once

but he that could live twice, yet for my own part I would not live over

my hours past, nor begin again the thread of my days; not upon Cicero’s

ground,—because I have lived them well,—but for fear I should live them

worse. I find my growing judgment daily instruct me how to be better,

but my untamed affections and confirmed vitiosity make me daily do

worse. I find in my confirmed age the same sins I discovered in my

youth; I committed many then, because I was a child, and because I

commit them still, I am yet an infant. Therefore I perceive a man may be

twice a child before the days of dotage, and stand in need of Æson’s

bath before threescore.

RHYMING DEFINITIONS.

§Fame.§—A meteor dazzling with its distant glare.

§Wealth.§—A source of trouble and consuming care.

§Pleasure.§—A gleam of sunshine, passing soon away.

§Love.§—A morning stream whoso memory gilds the day.

§Faith.§—An anchor dropped beyond the vale of death.

§Hope.§—A lone star beaming o’er the barren heath.

§Charity.§—A stream meandering from the fount of love.

§Bible.§—A guide to realms of endless joy above.

§Religion.§—A key which opens wide the gates of Heaven.

§Death.§—A knife by which the ties of earth are riven.

§Earth.§—A desert through which pilgrims wend their way.

§Grave.§—A home of rest when ends life’s weary day.

§Resurrection.§—A sudden waking from a quiet dream.

§Heaven.§—A land of joy, of light and love supreme.

EARTH.

What is earth, sexton?—A place to dig graves.

What is earth, rich man?—A place to work slaves.

What is earth, greybeard?—A place to grow old.

What is earth, miser?—A place to dig gold.

What is earth, school-boy?—A place for my play.

What is earth, maiden?—A place to be gay.

What is earth, seamstress?—A place where I weep.

What is earth, sluggard?—A good place to sleep.

What is earth, soldier?—A place for a battle.

What is earth, herdsman?—A place to raise cattle.

What is earth, widow?—A place of true sorrow.

What is earth, tradesman?—I’ll tell you to-morrow.

What is earth, sick man?—’Tis nothing to me.

What is earth, sailor?—My home is the sea.

What is earth, statesman?—A place to win fame.

What is earth, author?—I’ll write there my name.

What is earth, monarch?—For my realm it is given.

What is earth, Christian?—The gateway of heaven!

RHYMING CHARTER.

The following grant of William the Conqueror may be found in Stowe’s

_Chronicle_ and in Blount’s _Ancient Tenures_:—

HOPTON, IN THE COUNTY OF SALOP.

_To the Heyrs Male of the Hopton, lawfully begotten_:

From me and from myne, to thee and to thyne

While the water runs, and the sun doth shine.

For lack of heyrs to the king againe,

I, William, king, the third year of my reign

Give to the Norman hunter,

To me that art both _line_[40] and deare,

The Hop and the Hoptoune,

And all the bounds up and downe.

Under the earth to hell,

Above the earth to heaven,

From me and from myne

To thee and to thyne;

As good and as faire

As ever they myne were.

To witness that this is _sooth_,[41]

I bite the wite wax with my tooth,

Before Jugg, Marode, and Margery

And my third son Henery,

For one bow, and one broad arrow,

When I come to hunt upon Yarrow.

Footnote 40:

Related, or of my lineage.

Footnote 41:

True.

NICE QUESTIONS FOR LAWYERS.

A gentleman, who died in Paris, left a legacy of $6000 to his niece in

Dubuque, Iowa, who it appears also died about the same hour of the same

day. The question which died first turns upon the relation of solar to

true time, and must be decided by the difference of longitude. If the

niece died at four o’clock §A.M.§, and her uncle at ten o’clock §A.M.§,

the instants of their death would have been identical. Assuming that to

be the hour of the testator’s death, if the niece died at any hour

between four and ten, although the legacy would apparently revert to his

estate, it would really vest in her and her heirs, since by solar time

she would have actually survived her uncle.

Another case where great importance depended upon the precise time of

death was that of the late Earl Fitzhardinge, who died “about midnight,”

between October 10th and 11th. His rents, amounting to £40,000 a year,

were payable on Old Lady-day and Old Michaelmas-day. The latter fell

this year (1857) on Sunday, October 11, and the day began at midnight:

so that if he died before twelve, the rents belonged to the parties

taking the estate; but if after, they belonged to and formed part of his

personal estate. The difference of one minute might therefore involve

the question as to the title of £20,000.

THE BONE NOT DESCRIBED BY MODERN ANATOMISTS.

God formed them from the dust, and He once more

Will give them strength and beauty as before,

Though strewn as widely as the desert air,

As winds can waft them, or the waters bear.

The Emperor Adrian—the skeptic whose epigrammatic address to his soul in

prospect of death,

Animula, vagula, blandula,[42] &c.,

Footnote 42:

_Byron’s Translation._

Ah! gentle, fleeting, wavering sprite,

Friend and associate of this clay!

To what unknown region borne,

Wilt thou not wing thy distant flight?

No more with wonted humor gay,

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

is well known—asked Rabbi Joshua Ben Hananiah, in the course of an

interview following the successful siege of Bitter, “How doth a man

revive again in the world to come?” He answered and said, “From _Luz_,

in the back-bone.” Saith he to him, “Demonstrate this to me.” Then he

took _Luz_, a little bone out of the back-bone, and put it in water, and

it was not steeped; he put it into the fire, and it was not burned; he

brought it to the mill, and that could not grind it; he laid it on the

anvil and knocked it with a hammer, but the anvil was cleft, and the

hammer broken.

The name Luz is probably derived from Genesis xlviii. 3, where, however,

it refers to a place, not to a bone. The bone alluded to is the

_sacrum_, the terminal wedge of the vertebral column. Butler, in his

Hudibras, erroneously traces to the Rabbinic belief the modern name _os

sacrum_, its origin really being due to the custom of placing it upon

the altar in ancient sacrifices.

The learned Rabbins of the Jews

Write, there’s a bone, which they call _Luz_

I’ th’ rump of man, of such a virtue

No force in nature can do hurt to;

And therefore at the last great day

All th’ other members shall, they say,

Spring out of this, as from a seed

All sorts of vegetals proceed;

From whence the learned sons of art

_Os sacrum_ justly style that part.—_Hudibras._

DYING WORDS OF DISTINGUISHED PERSONS.

There taught us how to live; and—oh, too high

A price for knowledge!—taught us how to die.—§Tickell.§

On parent knees, a naked, new-born child,

Weeping thou sat’st, while all around thee smiled;

So live that, sinking in thy last long sleep,

Calm thou mayst smile while all around thee weep.[43]

§Sir W. Jones§: _Pers. Trans._

Footnote 43:

A German journal proposed that the following lines should be

translated into any other language, so that the number of lines and

words should not exceed those in the original (twenty words).

Sohn! Du weintest am Tage der Geburt, es lachten die Freunde;

Tracht, dass am Todestag, wæhrend sie weinen, du lachst.

The English response thus complied with the conditions (seventeen

words):—

When I was born I cried, while others smiled;

Oh, may I dying smile, while others weep.

_Napoleon._—Tête d’Armée!

_Sir Walter Raleigh._—It matters little how the head lieth.

_Goethe._—Let the light enter.

_Tasso._—Into thy hands, O Lord.

_Alfieri._—Clasp my hand, my dear friend: I die.

_Martin Luther._—Father in Heaven, though this body is breaking away

from me, and I am departing this life, yet I know that I shall forever

be with thee, for no one can pluck me out of thy hand.

_Mozart._—You spoke of refreshment, my Emilie: take my last notes, sit

down at the piano, sing them with the hymn of your sainted mother; let

me hear once more those notes which have so long been my solace and

delight.

_Haydn._—God preserve the Emperor!

_Haller._—The artery ceases to beat.

_Grotius._—Be serious.

_Erasmus._—Lord, make an end.

_Cardinal Beaufort._—What! is there no bribing death?

_Hilary_, Bishop of Poictiers.—Soul, thou hast served Christ these

seventy years, and art thou afraid to die? Go out, soul, go out.

_Queen Elizabeth._—All my possessions for a moment of time!

_Charles II._—Let not poor Nelly starve.

_Anne Boleyn._—It is small, very small indeed (clasping her neck).

_Sir Thomas More._—I pray you see me safe up; and as for my coming down,

let me shift for myself (ascending the scaffold).

_John Hampden._—O Lord, save my country! O Lord, be merciful to——

_Chancellor Thurlow._—I’m shot if I don’t believe I’m dying.

_Addison._—See with what peace a Christian can die.

_Julius Cæsar._—Et tu, Brute.

_Nero._—Is this your fidelity?

_Herder._—Refresh me with a great thought.

_Frederick V._, of Denmark.—There is not a drop of blood on my hands.

_Mirabeau._—Let me die amid the sound of delicious music and the

fragrance of flowers.

_Madame de Staël._—I have loved God, my father, and liberty.

_Lord Nelson._—Kiss me, Hardy.

_Lord Chesterfield._—Give Dayrolles a chair.

_Hobbes._—I am taking a fearful leap in the dark.

_Byron._—I must sleep now.

_Sir Walter Scott._—I feel as if I were to be myself again.

_Keats._—I feel the daisies growing over me.

_Robert Burns._—Don’t let that awkward squad fire over my grave.

_Lawrence._—Don’t give up the ship.

_Washington._—It is well.

_Franklin._—A dying man can do nothing easy.

_Wolfe._—Now, God be praised, I will die in peace.

_Marion._—Thank God, I can lay my hand upon my heart and say that since

I came to man’s estate I have never intentionally done wrong to any one.

_Adams._—Independence forever!

_Jefferson._—I resign my soul to God, and my daughter to my country.

_J. Q. Adams._—This is the last of earth. I am content.

_Harrison._—I wish you to understand the true principles of the

Government. I wish them carried out. I ask nothing more.

_Taylor._—I have endeavored to do my duty.

_Daniel Webster._—I still live.

THE LAST PRAYER OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.

_Written in her Prayer-Book the morning before her Execution_:

O! Domine Deus, (O my Lord and my God,

Speravi in te,— I have trusted in thee;

O! carè mi Jesu, O Jesus, my love,

Nunc libera me. Now liberate me.

In durâ catenâ, In my enemies’ power,

In miserâ, pœnâ, In affliction’s sad hour,

Desidero te. I languish for thee.

Languendo, gemendo, In sorrowing, weeping,

Et genuflectendo, And bending the knee,

Adoro, imploro, I adore and implore thee

Ut liberes me! To liberate me!)

REMARKABLE TRANCE.

At the siege of Rouen, the body of François de Civille, a French captain

who was supposed to have been killed, was thrown with others into the

ditch, where it remained from eleven o’clock in the morning to half-past

six in the evening, when his servant, observing some latent heat,

carried the body into the house. During the ensuing five days and nights

not the slightest sign of life was exhibited, although the body

gradually recovered its warmth. At the expiration of this time the town

was carried by assault, and the servants of an officer belonging to the

besiegers, having found the supposed corpse of Civille, threw it out of

a window, with no other covering than his shirt. Fortunately for the

captain, he fell upon a heap of straw, where he remained senseless three

days longer, when he was taken up by his relations for sepulture and

ultimately brought to life. What was still more strange, Civille, like

Macduff, had been “from his mother’s womb untimely ripped,” having been

brought into the world by a Cæsarian operation which his mother did not

survive. After his last escape he used to add to his signature, “three

times born, three times buried, and three times risen from the dead by

the grace of God.”

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION.

Whether,—as in the case of the Abbé Prevost in the forest of

Chantilly,—if a supposed _cadaver_, while subjected to the investigating

knife of the anatomist, should awake from a trance only to be conscious

of his horrible condition and to expire from the immediate effect of the

dissection, it is any thing more than homicide _per infortuniam_, or

not.

Whether, in the case of Lazarus, who was restored to life by the Saviour

after decomposition had commenced, he could have reclaimed property

already in the possession and occupancy of the heirs to whom he had

willed it before death.

PRESERVED BODIES.

There is an arched vault, or burying-ground, under the church at

Kilsyth, in Scotland, which was the burying-place of the family of

Kilsyth until the estate was forfeited and the title became extinct in

the year 1715, since which it has never been used for that purpose

except once. The last earl fled with his family to Flanders, and,

according to tradition, was smothered to death about the year 1717,

along with his lady and an infant child, and a number of other

unfortunate Scottish exiles, by the falling in of the roof of a house in

which they were assembled. What became of the body of the earl is not

known; but the bodies of Lady Kilsyth and her infant were disembowelled

and embalmed, and soon afterwards sent over to Scotland. They were

landed, and lay at Leith for some time, whence they were afterwards

carried to Kilsyth, and buried with great pomp, in the vault above

mentioned.

In the spring of 1796, some reckless young men, having paid a visit to

this ancient cemetery, tore open the coffin of Lady Kilsyth and her

infant. With astonishment and consternation they saw the bodies of Lady

Kilsyth and her child as perfect as they had been the hour they were

entombed. For some weeks this circumstance was kept secret; but at last

it began to be whispered in several companies, and soon excited great

and general curiosity. “On the 12th of June,” wrote the minister of the

parish of Kilsyth, in a letter to Dr. Garnet, “when I was from home,

great crowds assembled, and would not be denied admission. At all hours

of the night, as well as the day, they afterwards persisted in

gratifying their curiosity. I saw the body of Lady Kilsyth soon after

the coffin was opened. It was quite entire. Every feature and every limb

was as full, nay, the very shroud was as clear and fresh and the colors

of the ribands as bright, as the day they were lodged in the tomb. What

rendered this scene more striking and truly interesting was that the

body of her son and only child, the natural heir of the title and

estates of Kilsyth, lay at her knee. His features were as composed as if

he had been only asleep. His color was as fresh, and his flesh as plump

and full, as in the perfect glow of health; the smile of infancy and

innocence sat on his lips. His shroud was not only entire, but perfectly

clean, without a particle of dust upon it. He seems to have been only a

few months old. The body of Lady Kilsyth was equally well preserved; and

at a little distance, from the feeble light of a taper, it would not

have been easy to distinguish whether she was dead or alive. The

features, nay, the very expression of her countenance, were marked and

distinct; and it was only in a certain light that you could distinguish

any thing like the agonizing traits of a violent death. Not a single

fold of her shroud was decayed, nor a single member impaired. Neither of

the bodies appear to have undergone the slightest decomposition or

disorganization. Several medical gentlemen made incisions into the arm

of the infant, and found the substance of the body quite firm, and in

its original state.”

The writer states, among other interesting points that attracted his

attention, that the bodies appeared to have been saturated in some

aromatic liquid, of the color of dark brandy, with which the coffin had

been filled, but which had nearly all evaporated.

Other instances of the artificial preservation of bodies might be

mentioned, still more remarkable, though perhaps less interesting, than

the preceding. The tomb of Edward the First, who died on the 7th of

July, 1307, was opened on the 2d of January, 1770, and after the lapse

of four hundred and sixty-three years the body was found undecayed: the

flesh on the face was a little wasted, but not decomposed. The body of

Canute the Dane, who obtained possession of England in the year 1017,

was found quite fresh in the year 1766, by the workmen repairing

Winchester Cathedral. In the year 1522, the body of William the

Conqueror was found as entire as when first buried, in the Abbey Church

of St. Stephen at Caen; and the body of Matilda his queen was found

entire in 1502, in the Abbey Church of the Holy Trinity in the same

city.

No device of art, however, for the preservation of the remains of the

dead, appears equal to the simple process of plunging them into

peat-moss.

In a manuscript by one Abraham Grey, who lived about the middle of the

sixteenth century, now in the possession of his representative Mr.

Goodbehere Grey, of Old Mills, near Aberdeen, it is stated that, in

1569, three Roman soldiers, in the dress of their country, fully

equipped with warlike instruments, were dug out of a moss of great

extent, called Kazey Moss. When found, after the lapse of probably about

fifteen hundred years, they were still fresh and plump!

Modern chemistry teaches us that in these cases there is a conversion of

the tissues of the body into adipocere, a substance closely resembling

spermaceti, and composed, according to Chevreul, of margaric and oleic

acids, with a slight addition of the alkalies. It is generally formed

from bodies buried in moist earth, and especially when they have

accumulated in great numbers. On the removal of the _Cimetière des

Innocens_ in Paris, in 1787, where thousands of bodies had been buried

annually for several centuries, it was found that those bodies which had

been placed in great numbers in the trenches were, without having lost

their shapes, converted into this substance.

FOLLY OF EMBALMING CORPSES.

Full many a jocund spring has passed away,

And many a flower has blossomed to decay,

And human life, still hastening to a close,

Finds in the worthless dust its last repose.—§Firdousi.§

Professor Johnston, in alluding to the custom of converting the human

body into a frightful-looking mummy, or of attempting by various

artificial processes to arrest its natural course of decomposition into

kindred elements, remarks, as beautifully as truly:—

Embalm the loved bodies, and swathe them, as the old Egyptians did, in

resinous cerements, and you but preserve them a little longer, that some

wretched, plundering Arab may desecrate and scatter to the winds the

residual dust. Or jealously, in regal tombs and pyramids, preserve the

forms of venerated emperors or beauteous queens, still, some future

conqueror, or more humble Belzoni, will rifle the most secure

resting-place. Or bury them in most sacred places, beneath high altars,

a new reign shall dig them up and mingle them again with the common

earth. Or, more careful still, conceal your last resting-place where

local history keeps no record and even tradition cannot betray you: then

accident shall stumble at length upon your unknown tomb and liberate

your still remaining ashes.

How touching to behold the vain result of even the most successful

attempts at preserving apart, and in their relative places, the solid

materials of the individual form! The tomb, after a lapse of time, is

found and opened. The ghastly tenant reclines, it may be, in full form

and stature. The very features are preserved,—impressed, and impressing

the spectator, with the calm dignity of their long repose. But some

curious hand touches the seemingly solid form, or a breath of air

disturbs the sleeping air around the full-proportioned body,—when, lo!

it crumbles instantly away into an almost insensible quantity of

impalpable dust!

Who has not read with mingled wonder and awe of the opening, in our own

day, of the almost magical sepulchre of an ancient Etruscan king? The

antiquarian _dilettanti_, in their under-ground researches, unexpectedly

stumbled upon the unknown vault. Undisturbed through Roman and barbaric

times, accident revealed it to modern eyes. A small aperture, made by

chance in the outer wall, showed to the astonished gazers a crowned king

within, sitting on his chair of state, with robes and sceptre all

entire, and golden ornaments of ancient device bestowed here and there

around his person. Eager to secure the precious spoil, a way is forced

with hammer and mattock into the mysterious chamber. But the long spell

is now broken; the magical image is now gone. Slowly, as the vault first

shook beneath the blows, the whole pageant crumbled away. A light, smoky

dust filled the air; and, where the image so lately sat, only the

tinselled fragments of thin gold remained, to show that the vision and

the ornaments had been real, though the entire substance of the once

noble form had utterly vanished.

For a few thousand years some apparently fortunate kings and princes may

arrest the natural circulation of a handful of dust. But in what are

they better than Cromwell, whose remains were pitilessly disturbed,—than

Wyckliffe, whose ashes were sprinkled on the sea,—than St. Genevieve,

whose remains were burned in the Place de Grève and her ashes scattered

to the wind,—than Mausolus, whose dust was swallowed by his wife

Artemisia,—than the King of Edom, whose bones were burned for lime,—or

than St. Pepin and all the royal line of Bourbon, whose tombs were

emptied by a Parisian mob? Lamartine tells us, in his _History of the

Girondists_, that a decree of the Convention had commanded the

destruction of the tombs of the kings at St. Denis. The Commune changed

this decree into an attack against the dead. * * * * The axe broke the

gates of bronze presented by Charlemagne to the Basilica of St. Denis.

* * * They raised the stones, ransacked the vaults, violated the

resting-places of the departed, sought out, beneath the swathings and

shrouds, embalmed corpses, crumbled flesh, calcined bones, empty skulls

of kings, queens, princes, ministers, bishops. Pepin, the founder of the

Carlovingian dynasty and father of Charlemagne, was now _but a pinch of

gray ash, which was in a moment scattered by the wind_. The mutilated

heads of Turenne, Duguesclin, Louis XII., Francis I., were rolled on the

pavement. * * * * Beneath the choir were buried the princes and

princesses of the first race, and some of the third,—Hugh Capet, Philip

the Bold, Philip the Handsome. They rent away their rags of silk and

threw them on a bed of quicklime. * * * * They threw the carcass of

Henry IV. into the common fosse. His son and grandson, Louis XIII. and

XIV., followed. Louis XIII. was but a mummy; Louis XIV. a black,

indistinguishable mass of aromatics. Louis XV. came last out of his

tomb. The vault of the Bourbons rendered up its dead; queens,

dauphinesses, princesses, were carried away in armfuls by the workmen

and cast into the trench. A brief interval of proud separation, and they

were mingled with the common dust! Their ashes dissipated, nothing but

their empty tombs remain,—the houses of the dead, like the houses of the

living, long surviving, as melancholy mementos of the tenants for whom

they were erected.

M. de Saulcy, in his _Journey Round the Dead Sea_, remarks of the

rock-tombs of the valley of Hinnom, “The immense necropolis, traces of

which are to be met with at every step in the valley, dates from the

period when the Jebusites were masters of the country. After them the

Israelites deposited the remains of their fathers in the same grottoes;

and the same tombs, after having become at a still later period those of

the Christians who had obtained possession of the Holy City, have, since

the destruction of the Latin kingdoms of Jerusalem, ceased to change

both masters and occupants. Even the scattered bones are no more found

in them; and from the city of the dead the dead alone have disappeared,

while the abodes are still entire.”

There is a barbaric philosophy, therefore, as well as an apparent

knowledge of the course of nature, in the treatment of the dead which

prevails in Thibet and on the slopes of the Himalaya. In the former

country the dead body is cut in pieces, and either thrown into the lakes

to feed the fishes, or exposed on the hill-tops to the eagles and birds

of prey. On the Himalayan slopes the Sikkim burn the body and scatter

the ashes on the ground. The end is the same among these tribes of men

as among us. They briefly anticipate the usual course of time,—a little

sooner verifying the inspired words, “Dust thou art, and unto dust thou

shalt return.”

Yet a few days, and thee

The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,

Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,

And, lost each human trace, surrendering up

Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix forever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod.—§Bryant.§

WHIMSICAL WILL.

By William Hunnis, Chapel-master to Queen Elizabeth:—

To God my soule I do bequeathe, because it is his owen,

My body to be layd in grave, where to my friends best knowen;

Executors I will none make, thereby great stryfe may grow,

Because the goods that I shall leave wyll not pay all I owe.

THE TRIPOD.

According to the Babylonian Talmud, _Beracoth_, p. 8, and in _Jalkud

Schimoni_ on Ps. lxviii, 20, “Nine hundred and three axe the kinds of

death made in this world.” Physiologists drop the nine hundred, declare

that life stands on a tripod, and assert that we die by the lungs, the

heart, or the brain.

IMPRECATORY EPITAPH.

The Shakspearean imprecation, “Curst be he that moves my bones,” is

paralleled in an epitaph in Runic characters at Greniadarstad church, in

Iceland, which according to Finn Magnussen’s interpretation, concludes

thus:—

“If you willingly remove this monument, may you sink into the ground.”

THE FLEUR-DE-LIS.

Nothing, says an old writer, could be more simple than the lily, which

was the distinctive badge of the French monarchy; nor, at the same time,

could anything be more symbolic of the state of the nobility and gentry,

exempted from the necessity of working for a livelihood or for dress,

than lilies, of which it is said: “They toil not neither do they spin,”

_neque laborant neque nent_,—which was the motto of the royal arms of

France.

THE PLAGUES OF EGYPT.

The waters change to blood; next, frogs arise;

Dust turns to lice; and then come swarms of flies;

Lo! murrain strikes the beasts, but Goshen’s free!

Lo! boils beset the men, save, Israel, thee!

Then fires the thundering hail; then locusts bite;

Then comes three days of one unbroken night;

The first-born’s midnight death, from cot to throne,

Winds up ten plagues that make Egyptians moan.

A STORY OF LONG AGO.

The long time ago of which I mean to tell, says Jean Ingelow, was a wild

night in March, during which, in a fisherman’s hut ashore, sat a young

girl at her spinning-wheel, and looked out on the dark driving clouds,

and listened, trembling, to the winds and the seas. The morning light

dawned at last. One boat that should have been riding on the troubled

waves was missing—her father’s boat! and half a mile from the cottage

her father’s body was washed upon the shore.

This happened fifty years ago, and fifty years is a long time in the

life of a human being; fifty years is a long time to go on in such a

course as the woman did of whom I am speaking. She watched her father’s

body, according to the custom of her people, till he was laid in the

grave. Then she laid down on her bed and slept, and by night got up and

set a candle in her casement, as a beacon to the fishermen and a guide.

She sat by the candle all night, and trimmed it, and spun; then when the

day dawned she went to bed and slept in the sunshine. So many hanks as

she spun before for her daily bread, she spun still, and one over, to

buy her nightly candle; and from that time to this, for fifty years,

through youth, maturity, and old age, she turned night into day, and in

the snow-storms of Winter, through driving mists, deceptive moonlight,

and solemn darkness, that northern harbor has never once been without

the light of her candle.

How many lives she saved by this candle, or how many meals she won for

the starving families of the boatmen, it is impossible to say; how many

a dark night the fishermen, depending on it, went fearlessly forth,

cannot now be told. There it stood, regular as a light-house, and steady

as constant care could make it. Always brighter when daylight waned,

they had only to keep it constantly in view and they were safe; there

was but one thing that could intercept it, and that was the rock.

However far they might have stretched out to sea, they had only to bear

down straight for that lighted window, and they were sure of a safe

entrance into the harbor.

Fifty years of life and labor—fifty years of sleeping in the

sunshine—fifty years of watching and self-denial, and all to feed the

flame and trim the wick of that one candle! But if we look upon the

recorded lives of great men and just men and wise men, few of them can

show fifty years of worthier, certainly not of more successful labor.

Little, indeed, of the “midnight oil” consumed during the last half

century so worthily deserved trimming. Happy woman—and but for the

dreaded rock her great charity might never have been called into

exercise.

But what do the boatmen and the boatmen’s wives think of this? Do they

pay the woman? No, they are very poor; but poor or rich they know better

than that. Do they thank her? No. Perhaps they feel that thanks of

theirs would be inadequate to express their obligations, or, perhaps

long years have made the lighted casement so familiar that it is looked

upon as a matter of course. Sometimes the fishermen lay fish on her

threshold, and set a child to watch it for her till she wakes; sometimes

their wives steal into her cottage, now she is getting old, and spin a

hank or two of thread for her while she slumbers; and they teach their

children to pass her hut quietly, and not to sing and shout before her

door, lest they should disturb her. That is all. Their thanks are not

looked for—scarcely supposed to be due. Their grateful deeds are more

than she expects and much as she desires.

How often in the far distance of my English home, I have awoke in a wild

Winter night, and while the wind and storm were arising, have thought of

that northern bay, with the waves dashing against the rock, and have

pictured to myself the casement, and the candle nursed by that bending,

aged figure! How delighted to know that through her untiring charity the

rock has long since lost more than half its terror, and to consider

that, curse though it may be to all besides, it has most surely proved a

blessing to her.

You, too, may perhaps think with advantage on the character of this

woman, and contrast it with the mission of the rock. There are many

degrees between them. Few, like the rock, stand up wholly to work ruin

and destruction; few, like the woman, “let their light shine” so

brightly for good. But to one of the many degrees between them we must

all most certainly belong—we all lean towards the woman or the rock. On

such characters you do well to speculate with me, for you have not been

cheated into sympathy with ideal shipwreck or imaginary kindness. There

is many a rock elsewhere as perilous as the one I told you of—perhaps

there are many such women; but for this one, whose story is before you,

pray that her candle may burn a little longer, since this record of her

charity is true.

THIS IS NOT OUR HOME.

Among the beautiful thoughts which dropped like pearls from the pen of

that brilliant and talented journalist, George D. Prentice, the

following sublime extract upon man’s higher destiny is perhaps the best

known and most universally admitted. Coming from such a source we can

well appreciate it, for that distinguished man had attained a position

among his fellows which would have satisfied almost any earthly

ambition. Yet all this could not recompense him for the toils and ills

of life, and in the eloquent passage subjoined he portrays, most

beautifully, the restless longings of the human heart for something

higher and nobler than earth can afford.

“It cannot be that earth is man’s only abiding place. It cannot be that

our life is a bubble cast up by the ocean of eternity to float a moment

upon its waves and sink into nothingness. Else, why these high and

glorious aspirations which leap like angels from the temple of our

hearts, forever wandering unsatisfied? Why is it that the rainbow and

cloud come over us with a beauty that is not of earth, and then pass off

to leave us to muse on their loveliness? Why is it the stars which hold

their festival around the midnight throne, are set above the grasp of

our limited faculties, forever mocking us with their unapproachable

glory? And, finally, why is it that the bright forms of human beauty are

presented to our view and taken from us, leaving the thousand streams of

our affections to flow back in Alpine torrents upon our hearts? We were

born for a higher destiny than earth. There is a realm where the rainbow

never fades, where the stars will be spread out before us like the

islands that slumber on the ocean, and where the beautiful beings that

pass before us like shadows, will stay forever in our presence.”

ILL SUCCESS IN LIFE.

One of our best American writers, Geo. S. Hillard, forcibly and truly

says:—

I confess that increasing years bring with them an increasing respect

for men who do not succeed in life, as those words are commonly used.

Heaven is said to be a place for those who have not succeeded on earth;

and it is sure that celestial grace does not thrive and bloom in the hot

blaze of worldly prosperity. Ill success sometimes arises from a

superabundance of qualities in themselves good—from a conscience too

sensitive, a taste too fastidious, a self-forgetfulness too romantic,

and modesty too retiring. I will not go so far as to say, with a living

poet, “that the world knows nothing of its great men,” but there are

forms of greatness, or at least excellence, which “die and make no

sign;” there are martyrs that miss the palm but not the stake, heroes

without the laurel, and conquerors without the triumph.

FUTURITY.

“Life is sweet,” said Sir Anthony Kingston to Bishop Hooper at the

stake, “and death bitter.” “True, friend,” he replied, “but consider

that the death to come is more bitter, and the life to come is more

sweet.”

THE HEART.

In his charming _Hyperion_, Mr. Longfellow says:—

The little I have seen of the world, and know of the history of mankind,

teaches me to look upon the errors of others in sorrow, not in anger.

When I take the history of one poor heart that has sinned and suffered,

and represent to myself the struggles and temptations it has passed,—the

brief pulsations of joy,—the feverish inquietude of hope and fear,—the

tears of regret,—the feebleness of purpose,—the pressure of want,—the

desertion of friends,—the scorn of a world that has little charity,—the

desolation of the soul’s sanctuary,—threatening voices within,—health

gone,—happiness gone,—even hope, that remains the longest, gone,—I would

fain leave the erring soul of my fellow-man with Him from whose hands it

came,

Even as a little girl,

Weeping and laughing in her childish sport.

EVENING PRAYER.

The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep,

My weary spirit seeks repose in Thine.

Father, forgive my trespasses, and keep

This little life of mine.

With loving kindness curtain thou my bed,

And cool, in rest, my burning pilgrim feet;

Thy pardon be the pillow for my head;

So shall my sleep be sweet.

At peace with all the world, dear Lord, and thee,

No fears my soul’s unwavering faith can shake;

All’s well! whichever side the grave for me

The morning light may break.

BEAUTIFUL THOUGHT.

On the shores of the Adriatic sea the wives of the fishermen, whose

husbands have gone far off upon the deep, are in the habit, at

even-tide, of going down to the sea-shore, and singing, as female voices

only can, the first stanza of a beautiful hymn; after they have sung it

they will listen till they hear, borne by the wind across the desert

sea, the second stanza sung by their gallant husbands, as they are

tossed by the gale upon the waves, and both are happy. Perhaps, if we

listen, we, too, might hear on this desert world of ours some whisper

borne from afar to remind us that there is a heaven and a home; and when

we sing the hymn upon earth, perhaps we shall hear its echo breaking in

the music upon the sands of time, and cheering the hearts of those that

are pilgrims and strangers, and look for a city that hath foundation.

LIFE’S PARTING.

Wordsworth read less and praised less the writings of other poets, than

any one of his contemporaries. This gives an especial interest to the

following stanza by Mrs. Barbauld, which he learned by heart, and which

he used to ask his sister to repeat to him. Once, while walking in his

sitting-room at Rydal, with his hands behind him, his friend, Henry

Crabb Robinson heard him say: “I am not in the habit of grudging people

their good things; but I wish I had written those lines:—

Life! we’ve been long together,

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;

’Tis hard to part when friends are dear,

Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear;

Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time;

Say not good night, but in some brighter clime

Bid me good-morning.”

DESTINY.

Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down

Each with its loveliness as with a crown,

Drooped in a florist’s window in a town.

The first a lover bought. It lay at rest,

Like snow on snow, that night, on beauty’s breast.

The second rose, as virginal and fair,

Shrunk in the tangles of a harlot’s hair.

The third, a widow, with new grief made wild,

Shut in the icy palm of her dead child.

SYMPATHY.

Talfourd says in his _Ion_:—

“It is little:

But in these sharp extremities of fortune,

The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter

Have their own season. ’Tis a little thing

To give a cup of water; yet its draught

Of cool refreshment, drain’d by fever’d lips,

May give a shock of pleasure to the frame

More exquisite than when nectarean juice

Renews the life of joy in happiest hours.

It is a little thing to speak a phrase

Of common comfort, which, by daily use,

Has almost lost its sense; yet, on the ear

Of him who thought to die unmourn’d, ’twill fall

Like choicest music; fill the gazing eye

With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand

To know the bonds of fellowship again;

And shed on the departing soul a sense,

More precious than the benison of friends

About the honored death-bed of the rich,

To him who else were lonely, that another

Of the great family is near and feels.”

AFTER.

After the shower, the tranquil sun;

After the snow, the emerald leaves;

Silver stars when the day is done;

After the harvest, golden sheaves.

After the clouds, the violet sky;

After the tempest, the lull of waves;

Quiet woods when the winds go by;

After the battle, peaceful graves.

After the knell, the wedding bells;

After the bud, the radiant rose;

Joyful greetings from sad farewells;

After our weeping, sweet repose.

After the burden, the blissful meed;

After the flight, the downy nest;

After the furrow, the waking seed

After the shadowy river—rest!

DEATH’S FINAL CONQUEST.

[Among the poetic legacies that will “never grow old, nor change, nor

pass away,” is the noble dirge of Shirley, in his _Contention of Ajax

and Ulysses_. Doubtless it was by the fall, if not by the death, of

Charles I., that the mind of the royalist poet was solemnized to the

creation of these imperishable stanzas. Oliver Cromwell is said, on

the recital of them, to have been seized with great terror and

agitation of mind.]

The glories of our mortal state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armor against fate;

Death lays his icy hand on kings:

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant fresh laurels where they kill;

But their strong nerves at last must yield;

They tame but one another still:

Early or late,

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,

When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;

Upon death’s purple altar now,

See where the victor-victim bleeds:

Your heads must come

To the cold tomb:—

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

THE COMMON HERITAGE.

There is no death: what seems so is transition:

This life of mortal breath

Is but a suburb of the life elysian

Whose portal we call Death.—§Longfellow.§

There is—says the author of _Euthanasy_—no universal night in this

earth, and for us in the universe there is no death. What to us here is

night coming on, is, on the other side of the earth, night ending, and

day begun. And so what we call death, the angels may regard as immortal

birth.

We are born—says another writer—with the principles of dissolution in

our frame, which continue to operate from our birth to our death; so

that in this sense we may be said to “die daily.” Death is not so much a

laying aside our old bodies (for this we have been doing all our lives)

as ceasing to assume new ones.

“Say,” said one who was about entering the Dark Valley, to his

amanuensis, “that I am still in the land of the living, but expect soon

to be numbered with the dead.” But, after a moment’s reflection, he

added, “Stop! say that I am still in the land of the dying, but expect

to be soon in the land of the living.”

Says old Jeremy Collier, The more we sink into the infirmities of age,

the nearer we are to immortal youth. All people are young in the other

world. That state is an eternal spring, ever fresh and flourishing. Now,

to pass from midnight into noon on the sudden, to be decrepit one

minute, and all spirit and activity the next, must be an entertaining

change. To call this dying is an abuse of language.

The day of our decease—says Mountford—will be that of our coming of age;

and with our last breath we shall become free of the universe. And in

some region of infinity, and from among its splendors, this earth will

be looked back upon like a lowly home, and this life of ours be

remembered like a short apprenticeship to Duty.

§Mors mortis morti mortem nisi morte dedisset,

Eternæ vitæ Janua clausa foret.§

[Illustration]

INDEX.

§Alphabetical Whims§, 25.

Alphabetical advertisement, 29.

Enigmas, 30.

Eve’s Legend, 28.

Jacobite toast, 30.

Letter H, 31.

Lipogrammata and pangrammata, 25.

Marriage of a lady to Mr. Gee, 32.

On sending a pair of gloves, 32.

The three initials, 30.

Univocalic verses, 32.

§Acrostics§, 39.

Alliterative on Miss Stephens, 45.

Brevity of human life, 48.

Burke, 42.

Chronogrammatic pasquinade, 45.

Crabbe, 42.

Death of Lord Hatherton, 40.

Dryden, 42.

Emblematic fish, 46.

Hempe, 47.

Herbert, George, 41.

Huber, 42.

Irving, 43.

Longfellow, 43.

Macaulay, 44.

Macready, 43.

Masonic memento, 47.

Monastic verse, 45.

Napoleon family, 46.

Oliver’s impromptu on Arnold, 44.

Rachel, 46.

Reynolds, 42.

Scott, Walter, 42.

Southey, 44.

Valentine, a, 49.

Wordsworth, 43.

§Alliteration§, 34.

Alphabetical, 34.

Address to the Aurora, 36.

Belgrade, siege of, 34.

Bunker Hill Monument, 34.

Prince Charles protected by Flora Macdonald, 35.

Title-page for Book of Extracts, 37.

Bevy of belles, 39.

Complimentary of chess, 37.

Couplet on Cardinal Wolsey, 35.

Felicitous flight of fancy, 38.

Hood’s Ode to Perry, 38.

Motives to gratitude, 39.

Pulci’s double alliterations, 36.

Stanza from Drury’s Dirge, 36.

§Anagrams§, 49.

Epitaphial inscriptions, 56.

Telegram anagrammatized, 56.

§Bible, the§, 103.

Accuracy of the Bible, 103.

Bibliomancy, 126.

Books belonging to, lost or unknown, 114.

Dissection of Old and New Testaments, 112.

Distinctions in the gospels, 113.

English Bible translations, 108.

Hexameters in the Bible, 115.

Misquotations from Scripture, 123.

Old and New Testament, names, 125.

Parallelism of the Hebrew poetry, 116.

Parallel passages between Shakspeare and the Bible, 119.

Scriptural bull, 124.

Scriptural sum, 126.

Selah, 114.

Similarity of sound, 118.

Testimony of learned men, 106.

True gentleman, the, 122.

Wit and humor in the Bible, 124.

§Blunders§, 259.

Blunders of translators, 263.

Mistakes of misapprehension, 262.

Serial inconsistency, 262.

Slips of the press, 259.

Slips of the telegraph, 261.

§Bouts Rimés§, 88.

Bogart’s Impromptu, 89.

Reversed rhyming ends, 90.

§Cento§, the, 73.

Biblical cento, 76.

Cento from Pope, 76.

Life, 75.

Mosaic poetry, 73.

Return of Israel, the, 77.

§Chronograms§, 57.

§Churchyard Literature§, 564.

Advertising notices, 583.

Antithesis extraordinary, 606.

Bathos, 600.

Brevity, 607.

Cento, 601.

Earth to earth, 612.

Epitaph, historical, 578.

on a chemist, 609,

dog, Byron’s, 614.

printer, 607.

transcendental, 600.

Epitaphs, aboriginal, 602.

acrostical, 601.

African, 602.

biographical, 578.

curious and puzzling, 596.

eulogistic, apt, appropriate, 570.

Greek, 603.

Hibernian, 602.

laudatory, 608.

miscellaneous, 610.

moralizing and admonitory, 581.

on eminent men, 564.

on infants and children, 575.

self-written, 580.

unique and ludicrous, 583.

Mortuary puns, 591.

Parallels without a parallel, 600.

§Concatenation, or Chain Verse§, 85.

Lasphrise’s novelties, 85.

Ringing Song, 87.

To Death, 86.

Truth, 86.

Trying skying, 87.

§Conformity of Sense to Sound§, 554.

Articulate imitation of inarticulate sounds, 554.

Imitation of difficulty and ease, 555.

time and motion, 554.

§Curious Books§, 720.

Book-amateurs, 722.

Most curious book in the world, 722.

Odd titles of old books, 720.

Silver book, 722.

§Customs, Singular§, 477.

Abyssinian beefsteaks, 478.

Beautiful superstition, 477.

Foundations of Druidical temples, 478.

Hair in seals, 481.

High life in the 15th century, 480.

Lion-catching in South Africa, 479.

Making noses, 479.

Matrimonial advertisement, 481.

Memento mori, 477.

Ostiak regard for boars, 478.

Scorning the church, 481.

Strange fondness for beauty, 477.

§Ecclesiasticæ§, 143.

Excessive civility, 143.

Bascom, eloquence of, 145.

Clerical blunders, 148.

Lord Bishop, the, 146.

Origin of texts, 147.

Preachers of Cromwell’s time, 147.

Protestant excommunication, 149.

Proving an alibi, 148.

Sermon on malt, 144.

Short sermons, 143.

Whitefield and the sailors, 149.

§Echo Verse§, 281.

Acoustics, extraordinary facts in, 289.

Bonaparte and echo, 286.

Critic’s excuse, 287.

Echo answering, 287.

and the lover, 284.

on woman, 285.

Echoes, remarkable, 288.

Gospel echo, 283.

London before the Restoration, 282.

Pasquinade, 283.

Queen Elizabeth, 282.

Song by Addison, 283.

Synod of Dort, 287.

§Emblematic Poetry§, 92.

Altar inscription, 96.

Cross, the, 94.

Crucifixion, curious piece of antiquity on, 95.

Cypher, ingenious, 96.

Essay to Miss Catharine Jay, 97.

Hindu triplet, 93.

Oxford joke, 96.

Rhomboidal dirge, 94

Typographical, 96.

Wine-glass, the, 93.

§English Words and Forms of Expression§, 182.

Compound epithets, 211.

Dictionary English, 182.

Disraelian English, 184.

Eccentric etymologies, 195.

Excise, 189.

Forlorn hope, 193.

Influence of names, 209.

I say, 186.

Its, 185.

No love lost, etc., 193.

Not Americanisms, 191.

Nouns of multitude, 184.

Odd changes of signification, 205.

Our vernacular in Chaucer’s time, 211.

Pathology, 186.

Pontiff, 190.

Pronunciation of ough, 186.

Quiz, 194.

Rough, 190.

Sources of the language, 183.

Tennyson’s English, 194.

That, 185.

That mine adversary, 195.

Ye for the, 185.

§Epigrams§, 515.

Affinities, 524.

Apollo, in return for a sketch of, 525.

Author, to a living, 518.

Bed, to our, 517.

Blades of the shears, 523.

Bonnets, 521.

Butler’s monument, 518.

Campbell’s album verse, 521.

Clock, the, 525.

Commissary Goldie’s brains, 519.

Compliment, overdrawn, 518.

Crier who could not cry, 524.

Dentist, definition of, 522.

Determination, a funny, 526.

Double vision utilized, 527.

Dum vivimus, vivamus, 516.

D.D., on a certain, 521.

Eternity, 518.

Eve and the apple, 523.

Fell, 520.

Fiddler, on a bad, 521.

Fool and poet, 516.

Fools, abundance of, 527.

Friend, to Dr. Robert, 516.

Friend, to a capricious, 519.

Friend in distress, 522.

German tourist, suggested by a, 518.

Giving and taking, 519.

Goodenough, 523.

Hog _vs._ Bacon, 522.

Hot corn, 521.

Impersonal, 524.

Invisible, 524.

Lady who married a footman, 521.

Late repentance, 517.

Law, after going to, 526.

Lawyer, on an ill-read, 520.

Lover to his mistress, with a mirror, 519.

Marriage à la mode, 526.

Marriage of Webb & Gould, 526.

Martial’s, on Epigrams, 515.

Masculine, 525.

Medical advice, 522.

Mendax, 520.

Midas and modern statesmen, 515.

Molly Aston, to, 516.

One good turn deserves another, 520.

One ignorant and arrogant, on, 516.

Pale lady with red-nosed husband, 517.

Parson and butcher, 525.

Portmanteau, clergyman’s, loss of, 518.

Queen Bess on Drake’s ship, 524.

Queen, the frugal, 519.

Quid pro quo, 527.

Reception, a warm, 522.

Reflection, a, 523.

Rogers on Ward’s speeches, 526.

Same jawbone, 526.

Selvaggi’s distich to Milton, 517.

Amplification, by Dryden, 517.

Simplicity, prudent, 522.

Sleep, inscription on a statue of, 516.

Snow, that melted on a lady’s breast, 517.

Songsters, bad, 520.

Terminer sans oyer, 527.

To ——, 519.

Wellington’s nose, 520.

What might have been, 523.

Widows, 525.

Woman,—contra, 527.

pro, 527.

Woman’s will, 520.

World, the, 527.

§Equivoque§, 64.

Age of French actresses, 71.

Double-faced creed, 66.

Fatal double meaning, 68.

Handwriting on the wall, 71.

Houses of Stuart and Hanover, 68.

Ingenious subterfuge, 65.

Love-letter, 65.

Loyalty or Jacobinism, 69.

Neat evasion, 70.

New Regime, 68.

Patriotic toast, 70.

Revolutionary verses, 67.

Richelieu’s letter to the French ambassador, 64.

Triple platform, 61.

§Facetiæ§, 482.

Association of ideas, 491.

Brevity, 484.

False friend, a, 488.

Gasconade and hoaxing, 489.

Jack Robinson, 492.

Jests of Hierocles, 482.

Mathews and the silver spoon, 489.

Old Nick, 488.

P. and Q., 491.

Relics, 490.

Royal quandary, 490.

Russian jester and his jokes, 492.

Same joke diversified, 486.

Syllogism, 488.

Titles for library-door, 482.

§Fabrications§, 269.

Ballad literature, 274.

Description of the Saviour’s person, 269.

Franklin’s parable, 275.

Hoax on Walter Scott, 269.

Ireland’s forgeries, 276.

Literary sell, 271.

Moon hoax, 270.

Mrs. Hemans’s forgeries, 271.

Sheridan’s Greek, 273.

§Familiar Quotations from Unfamiliar Sources§, 556.

§Fancies of Fact, the§, 406.

Aerolites, 443.

Alligators swallowing stones, 418.

America’s discoverers, fate of, 445.

Amount of gold in the world, 423.

Antipathies, 471.

Army of women, 446.

Auditoriums of last century, 409.

Back action, 408.

Beer-casks, capacious, 425.

Bills for strange services, 407.

Black hole at Calcutta, 427.

Broken heart, a, 467.

Chick in the egg, 416.

Cloth-manufacture, celerity of, 421.

Coincidences, singular, 412.

Colors, diversity of, 442.

Composition in dreams, 455.

Cross, true form of the, 409.

Crown of England, 446.

Crude value _vs._ industrial value, 422.

Devonshire superstition, 475.

Diameter to circumference, ratio of, 431.

Difference between English poets, 426.

Diplomatic costume, 448.

Equestrian expeditions, remarkable, 419.

Facial expression, 466.

Fear, effects of, 465.

Feline clocks, 474.

Heaven, dimensions of, 435.

Horse, wonderful, 420.

Indian and his tamed snake, 417.

Innate appetite, 417.

Kaleidoscope, changes of, 441.

Law logic, 407.

Lock, wonderful, 421.

Longevity, instances of remarkable, 449.

Marriage vow, 455.

Mathematical prodigies, 432.

Means of recognition, 454.

Melrose by sunlight, 408.

Memory extraordinary, 433.

Minute mechanism, 430.

Need of Providence, 434.

Noah’s ark and the Great Eastern, 442.

Number nine, 441.

seven, 436.

three, 440.

Opium and East Indian hemp, 461.

Painters, blunders of, 429.

Perils of precocity, 427.

Presidents, facts about the, 445.

Pithy prayer, 408.

Quantity and value, 422,

Reciprocal conversion, 407.

Romans, immense wealth of the, 424.

Romantic highwayman, 476.

Salt as a luxury, 428.

Self-immolation, 434.

Sensation and intelligence after decapitation, 469.

Sheep, habits of, 418.

Silent compliment, 434.

Skull that had a tongue, 475.

Sleep, facts about, 456.

Solomon’s temple, cost of, 435.

Star in the East, 447.

Stone barometer, 428.

Strychnia, bitterness of, 428.

Sympathy, strange instance of, 473.

Taste, singular change of, 429.

Walking blindfolded, 473.

Wine at two millions a bottle, 425.

Wounds of Julius Cæsar, 406.

§Flashes of Repartee§, 495.

§Hiberniana§, 252.

§Historical Memoranda§, 782.

American monarchy, 786.

Amy Robsart, 808.

Annie Laurie, 804.

Biter bit, 818.

Blücher, 794.

Contemporary criticism, 798.

Discovery of America, 803.

Empire (the) is peace, 794.

First blood of the Revolution, 782.

Flight of Eugenie, 789.

French tricolor, 788.

Great events from little causes, 800.

History and fiction, 797.

Jefferson on Marie Antoinette, 794.

Joan of Arc, 807.

Last night of the Girondists, 819.

Mary Magdalene, the traditional, 796.

Mother Goose, 797.

Mother of Charles, V., 795.

Napoleon III., 793.

Political gamut, 788.

Quaker malignants, 786.

Queen Elizabeth’s ring, 822.

Robin Adair, 805.

Signing Declaration of Independence, 802.

Star-spangled banner, 787.

Tea-party and tea-burning, 783.

Time of Le Grand Monarque, 815.

United States Navy, 784.

William Tell, 810.

§Historical Similitudes§, 679.

Art stories, 689.

Ballads and legends, 690.

Battles, 697.

Bishop Hatto, 698.

Burial alive, 692.

Death prophecies, 696.

History repeating itself, 681.

Judgment of Solomon, 685.

Legend of Beth Gelert, 686.

Precedency, 685.

Refusal to separate from kindred, 679.

Ring stories, 695.

Two statesmen, the, 683.

§Humors of Versification§, 230.

Bryant as a humorist, 235.

Curse of O’Kelly, 250.

Elegy on Buckland, 233.

Human ear, the, 238.

Lovers, the, 230.

Ologies, the, 244.

Receipt of a rare pipe, 236.

Reiterative vocal music, 248.

Reminiscence of Troy, 234.

Sir Tray, 240.

Song with variations, 231.

Stammering wife, 231.

Thoughts while rocking the cradle, 232.

Variation humbug, 246.

I. H. S., 130.

Anticipatory use of the cross, 135.

Beautiful legend, 131.

Death-warrant of Jesus Christ, 134.

De nomine Jesu, 130.

Description of the Saviour’s person, 133.

Double hexameter, 135.

Flower of Jesse, the, 131.

Persian apologue, 132.

§Impromptus§, 528.

§Inscriptions§, 615.

Beer-jug, inscription on, 621.

Bells, inscriptions on, 623.

Books, fly-leaf inscriptions in, 627.

English inns in olden time, 622.

Æolian harp, inscription on, 633.

Francke’s discovery, 636.

Golden mottoes, 636.

House inscriptions, 634.

Memorials, 635.

Motto on a clock, 631.

Posies from wedding-rings, 636.

Spring, inscription over, 633.

Sun-dial inscriptions, 632.

Tavern-signs, 615.

Watch-paper inscription, 631.

Wedding ring, Lady Grey’s, 639.

Window-pane inscriptions, 622.

§Interrupted Sentences§, 277.

§Life and Death§, 826.

After, 850.

Beautiful thought, 848.

Bodies, preserved, 836.

Bone not described by modern anatomists, 832.

Charter, rhyming, 830.

Common heritage, the, 851.

Corpses, folly of embalming, 839.

Death’s final conquest, 851.

Definitions, rhyming, 830.

Destiny, 849.

Dying words of distinguished persons, 833.

Earth, 830.

Evening prayer, 848.

Fleur-de-lis, the, 843.

Futurity, 847.

Heart, the, 848.

Ill success in life, 847.

Imprecatory epitaph, 843.

Lawyers, nice questions for, 831.

Life, beautiful illustrations of 826.

Life’s parting, 849.

Living life over again, 829.

Mary, Queen of Scots, last prayer of, 835.

Moral code, Dr. Franklin’s, 828.

Plagues of Egypt, 843.

Questions for discussion, 836.

Remarkable trance, 835.

Round of life, the, 827.

Rules of living, 828.

Story of long ago, 844.

Sympathy, 850.

This is not our home, 846.

Time, employment of, 829.

Tripod, the, 843.

Whimsical will, 843.

§Literariana§, 723.

Additional verses to Sweet Home, 746.

Anachronisms of Shakspeare, 742.

Books and studies, 755.

Comfort for book lovers, 753.

Conflicting testimony of eye-witnesses, 750.

Gray’s elegy, 729.

Hamlet’s age, 745.

Hamlet’s insanity, 746.

Heraldry, Indian, 741.

Letters and their endings, 754.

Letters of Junius, 723.

Old paper, an, 753.

Parting interview of Hector and Andromache, 734.

Pope’s versification, 737.

Punctuation, importance of, 738.

Shakspeare and typography, 744.

Shakspeare’s heroines, 744.

Shakspeare’s sonnets, 745.

Stereotyped falsehoods of history, 747.

Wit and humor, 751.

§Literati§, 756.

Attainments of linguists, 756.

Culture and sacrifice, 761.

Dryden and his publisher, 762.

Literary oddities, 758.

Literary screw, 762.

§Lord’s Prayer, the§, 136.

Acrostical paraphrase, 139.

Echoed, 141.

Gothic version, 136.

Illustrated, 138.

In an acrostic, 142.

Metrical versions, 137.

Spirit of the prayer, 136.

Thy and us, 136.

§Macaronic Verse§, 78.

Am Rhein, 83.

Cat and rats, 82.

Contenti abeamus, 81.

Death of the sea serpent, 84.

Fly-leaf scribbling, 82.

Maginn’s alternations, 80.

Parting address to a friend, 83.

Polyglot inscription, 83.

Suitor with nine tongues, 80.

Treatise of wine, 78.

§Memoria Technica§, 327.

Books of the old Testament, 327.

New Testament, 327.

Days in each month, 330.

Decalogue, the, 329.

English sovereigns, 328.

Metrical Grammar, 330.

Presidents of the United States, 328.

Shakspeare’s plays, 328.

§Metric Prose§, 223.

Cowper’s letter to Newton, 223.

Disraeli’s Tale of Alvoy, 224.

Example in Irving’s New York, 224.

Involuntary versification in the scriptures, 228.

Johnson on involuntary metre, 229.

Kemble and Siddons, 229.

Lincoln’s second inaugural, 229.

Nelly’s funeral, 225.

Niagara, 227.

Night, 227.

Unintentional rhymes of prosers, 228.

§Misquotations§, 266.

§Monosyllables§, 98.

Power of short words, 102.

§Moslem Wisdom§, 508.

Alexandrian Library, the, 510.

Mohammedan logic, 509.

Shrewd decision of Ali, 508.

Turkish expedients, 510.

Wisdom of Ali, 508.

§Multum in Parvo§, 823.

§Name of God, the§, 127.

God in Shakspeare, 128.

Jehovah, 128.

Orthography, 127.

Parsee, Jew, and Christian, 129.

§Nothing New under the Sun§, 375.

Ærial navigation, 382.

Anæsthesia, 383.

Attraction of gravitation, 390.

Auscultation and Percussion, 392.

Boomerang, the, 389.

Circulation of the blood, 382.

Discovery of America, predictions of, 393.

Early invention of rifling, 390.

Magnetic telegraph, foreshadowings of, 375.

Steam-power, first discoveries of, 378.

Stereoscope, the, 393.

Table-moving and alphabet-rapping, 391.

§Origin of Things Familiar§, 331.

All Fools’ day, 332.

American flag, 355.

Bottled ale, 343.

Blue stocking, 366.

Brother Jonathan, 356.

Bumper, 340.

Cards, 336.

Cock fighting, 364.

Dollar-mark, 357.

Drinking healths, 346.

Dun, 340.

Earliest newspapers, 372.

Feather in one’s cap, 346.

First doctors, 368.

epigram, 371.

forged bank-note, 367.

piano-forte, 367.

prayer in Congress, 370.

printing by steam, 373.

reporters, 371.

telegraphic message, 373.

thanksgiving proclamation, 368.

Flag of England, 365.

Foolscap paper, 366.

Friction matches, 365.

Humbug, 340.

India-rubber, 364.

Kicking the bucket, 340.

La Marseillaise, 350.

Mind your P’s and Q’s, 331.

News, 372.

Nine tailors make a man, 346.

Old Hundred, 349.

Order of the garter, 345.

Over the left, 339.

Pasquinades, 341.

Postpaid envelopes, 349.

Potato, the, 343.

Royal saying, 340.

Signature of the cross, 348.

Skedaddle, 366.

Stockings, 344.

Sub rosa, 338.

Tarring and feathering, 344.

Turkish crescent, 348.

Turncoat, 364.

Uncle Sam, 357.

Various inventions and customs, 358.

Viz., 347.

Word Book, 346.

Yankee Doodle, 353.

§O. S. and N. S.§, 325.

Gregorian calendar, 325.

Results of change in style, 326.

§Palindromes§, 59.

§Parallel Passages§, 640.

Historical similitudes, 679.

Shaksperean Resemblances, 677.

Plagiarism of Charles Reade, 677.

§Paronomasia§, 155.

Ben, the sailor, 162.

Book-larceny, 164.

Classical puns and mottoes, 172.

Court-fool’s pun on Laud, 181.

Dr. Johnson’s pun, 160.

Epitaph on an old horse, 165.

Erskine’s toast, 160.

Holmes on Achilles, 162.

Grand scheme of emigration, 166.

Marionettes, 168.

Miss-nomers, the, 180.

Mottoes of English peerage, 174.

Old joke versified, 161.

Perilous practice of punning, 167.

Plaint of the old pauper, 163.

Printer’s epitaph, 161.

Pungent chapter, 157.

Russian double entendre, 171.

Sheridan’s compliment, 162.

Short road to wealth, 159.

Sonnet, 168.

Sticky, 162.

Swift’s Latin puns, 169.

Sydney Smith’s pun, 160.

Tom Moore, 161.

To my nose, 163.

Top and bottom, 161.

Unconscious puns, 171.

Vegetable girl, the, 164.

Whiskers vs. razor, 162.

Winter, 160.

Women, 162.

Jeux de Mots, 175.

Anagrammatic, 175.

Iterative, 175.

Bees of the Bible, 179.

Catalectic monody, 177.

Crooked Coincidences, 181.

Fair letter, 176.

Franklin’s Re’s, 179.

November, 178.

On the death of Kildare, 177.

Schott and Willing, 177.

Swarm of Bees, 179.

Turn to the left, 177.

Write written right, 177.

Spiritual, 175.

§Persian Poetry, excerpta from§, 511.

Beauty’s prerogative, 511.

Broken hearts, 511.

Caliph and Satan, 513.

Double plot, 512.

Earth an illusion, 511.

Folly for one’s self, 512.

Fortune and worth, 511.

From Mirtsa Schaffy, 512.

Generous man, to a, 511.

Heaven an echo of earth, 511.

Impossibility, the, 512.

Moral atmosphere, a, 511.

Proud humility, 512.

Sober drunkenness, 512.

Wine-drinker’s metaphors, 512.

World’s unappreciation, the, 513.

§Personal Sketches and Anecdotes§, 763.

André Major, 767.

André and Arnold, 768.

Bonaparte, name in Greek, 764.

personal appearance of, 765.

Milton and Napoleon, 764.

opinion of suicide, 765.

Cromwell, Oliver, 776.

Elizabeth, Queen, 774.

Flamsteed, the astronomer, 769.

Franklin’s wife, 766.

Lafayette’s republicanism, 764.

Luther, 771.

Nelson’s sang-froid, 769.

Pope’s skull, 779.

Porson, 781.

Shakspeare’s orthodoxy, 776.

Talleyrandiana, 780.

Washington’s dignity, 763.

Wickliffe’s ashes, 779.

§Prototypes§, 699.

Air cushions, 702.

Cat in the adage, 702.

Charge of Light Brigade, 700.

Cinderella’s slipper, 699.

Consequential damages, 705.

Cork-legs, 702.

Curtain lectures, 700.

Excommunication, 706.

Falls of Lanark, 706.

Faust legends, 701.

Franklin, Turgot’s epigraph on, 707.

Know-Nothings, the, 709.

Mecklenburg Declaration of Independence, 708.

Napoleon I., 706.

Oldest proverb, 699.

Old ballads, 715.

Original Shylock, 705.

Pilgrim’s Progress, original of, 710.

Plagiarism, great literary, 715.

Pope’s bull against the comet, 703.

Proverb misascribed to Defoe 713.

Robinson Crusoe: who wrote it, 712.

Scandinavian skull-cups, 714.

Shakspeare said it first, 699.

Swapping horses, 703.

Trade-unions, 704.

Use of language, 714.

Wandering Jew, 716.

Wooden nutmegs, 703.

§Puritan Peculiarities§, 150.

Baptismal names, 150.

Connecticut Blue Laws, extracts from, 153.

Punishments, 151.

Similes, 151.

Virginia penalties in old times, 152.

§Puzzles§, 290.

Bonapartean cypher, 292.

Book of riddles, 299.

Canning’s riddle, 294.

Case for the lawyers, 293

Chinese tea-song, 298.

Cowper’s riddle, 294.

Curiosities of cipher, 301.

Death and life, 298.

Galileo’s logograph, 297.

Newton’s riddle, 294.

Number of the beast, 297.

Persian riddles, 298.

Prize enigma, 294.

Prophetic distich, 296.

Quincy’s comparison, 295.

Rebus, the, 299.

Bacon motto, 299.

French, 291.

Singular intermarriages, 296.

What is it? 299.

Wilberforce’s puzzle, 301.

§Reason Why§, 310.

Boston, 311.

Cardinal’s red hat, 312.

Cutting off with a shilling, 312.

Genealogy, 313.

Huguenots, 311.

Juggler’s mystery, 314.

Roast beef of England, 313.

Royal demise, 311.

Sensible quack, 313.

Weathercocks, 312.

Why Germans eat sauer-kraut, 310.

Why Pennsylvania settled, 311.

§Refractory Rhyming§, 534.

§Sexes, the§, 501.

Female society, 505.

Happy woman, character of, 502.

Letter to a Bride, 507.

My Mother, 506.

Parallel of the sexes, 505.

Praise of women, 504.

Wife,—mistress,—lady, 505.

§Sonnets§, 551.

Ave Maria, 553.

Dyspepsia, 552.

Humility, 553.

In a fashionable church, 551.

Nose, about a, 552.

Proxy saint, the, 552.

Writing a sonnet, 551.

§Tall Writing§, 212.

Anatomist to his dulcinea, 221.

Borde’s prologue, 215.

Burlesque of Dr. Johnson’s style, 217.

Chemical valentine, 220.

Clear as mud, 218.

Domicile erected by John, 212.

Foote’s farrago, 216.

From the Curiosities of Advertising, 213.

From the Curiosities of the Post-office, 214.

Indignant letter, 219.

Intramural æstivation, 220.

Mad poet, the, 216.

Newspaper eulogy, 218.

Ode to Spring, 221.

Pristine proverbs for precocious pupils, 222.

Spanish play-bill, 215.

Transcendentalism, definition of, 212.

§Triumphs of Ingenuity§, 395.

Choosing a king, 402.

Discovery of the planet Neptune, 395.

Discovery of Vulcan, 396.

King John and the abbot, 403.

Lesson worth learning, 402.

Stratagem of Columbus, 399.

§Valentines§, 544.

Burns, verses of, 546.

Cardiac effusion, 547.

Colored man’s valentine, 549.

Cryptographic correspondence, 544.

Digby to Archabella, 548.

Egyptian serenade, 549.

Lover to his sweetheart, 547.

Macaronic, 548.

Macaulay’s valentine, 545.

Moore, verses of, 549.

Strategic love-letter, 544.

Teutonic alliteration, 546.

Written in sympathetic ink, 544.

Petitions, 550.

Maids and widows, the, 550.

Maladroit appeal, 550.

§Weather-Wisdom§, 317.

Davy on weather-omens, 317.

Sheridan’s rhyming calendar, 317.

Signs of the weather, 320.

Unlucky days, 324.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Did not change the various spellings of Shakspeare and Shakespeare.

2. The publisher sometimes left aligned consecutive poems by different

authors but usually did not (including the chapter on parallel

construction). To be consistent all poems with citations have been

centered.

3. Changed “Grand Scheme of Education” to “Grand Scheme of Emigration”

on p. x to agree with subheading on p. 166.

4. Changed ‘Disraeli’s “Alray”’ to ‘Disraeli’s “Alroy”’ on p.xi.

5. Changed “you sins” to “your sins” on p. 37.

6. Changed “Falloit-it que le ciel me rendit amoureux” to “Falloit-il

que le ciel me rendit amoureux” on p. 86.

7. Changed “hateful lax levied” to “hateful tax levied” on p. 189.

8. Changed “takes else’s” to “takes someone else’s” on p. 216.

9. Changed “D’Israeli’s _Wondrous Tale of Alvoy_” to “D’Israeli’s

_Wondrous Tale of Alroy_” on p.224.

10. Changed “Petri Andraæ Matthioli” to “Petri Andreæ Matthioli” on p.

310.

11. Changed “of conversation was” to “of conversion was” on p. 407.

12. Changed “to protects us” to “to protect us” on p. 434.

13. Added a chapter heading “The Fancies of Fact.-§Continued§” on p. 435

per the Table of Contents.

14. Changed “ΕΣΤΗΙΕ, ΠΙΝΕ, ΠΑΙΖΕ. ὩΣ Τ’ ΑΛΛΑ ΤΟΥΤΟΥ ΟΥΚ ΑΞΙΑ” to

“ΕΣΤΗΙΕ, ΠΙΝΕ, ΠΑΙΖΕ. ὩΣ ΤΑΛΛΑ ΤΟΥΤΟΥ ΟΥΚ ΑΞΙΑ” on p. 596.

15. Changed “ON TWO NEIGHBORING” to “ON THREE NEIGHBORING” on p. 604.

16. Changed “Wer nicht liebt Wein, Weiber, und Gesang” to “Wer nicht

liebt Wein, Weib, und Gesang” on p. 771.

17. Changed “Trom Kirk of Edinb.” to “Tron Kirk of Edinb.” on p. 804.

18. Silently corrected typographical errors.

19. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.

20. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

21. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.

22. Enclosed small cap font in §section signs§.

23. Superscripts are denoted by a caret before a single superscript

character, e.g. M^r.

24. Upside down text is denoted by ®registered sign®. Consecutive lines

should be read in reverse order as if the page was turned over.

25. Text rotated 90 degrees is denoted by ©copyright sign©.

26. The column width exceeds 72 characters wherever the essence of the

text would be destroyed by allowing text to wrap.