Chapter XLVI: A domestic picture is given, an interior, with the (11)

After imbibing liquid,
A man in the South
Duly proceeds to stick quid
(Very likely a thick quid)
Into his mouth.

And “Mickey Rooney” contributes this:—

Shure Quicquid is a thick wit,
If he can not rhyme to liquid,
A thing that any Mick wid
The greatest aise can do:
Just take the herb called chick-weed,
Which they often cure the sick wid,
That’s a dacent rhyme for liquid,
And from a Mickey, too.

Some one having challenged a rhyme for _carpet_, the following “lines to a pretty barmaid” were elicited in response:—

Sweet maid of the inn,
’Tis surely no sin
To toast such a beautiful bar pet;
Believe me, my dear,
Your feet would appear
At home on a nobleman’s carpet.

Rhymes were thus found for _window_:—

A cruel man a beetle caught,
And to the wall him pinned, oh!
Then said the beetle to the crowd,
“Though I’m stuck up I am not proud,”
And his soul went out of the window.

Bold Robin Hood, that archer good,
Shot down fat buck and _thin_ doe;
Rough storms withstood in thick greenwood,
Nor care for door or window.

This for _garden_:—

Though Afric’s lion be not here
In showman’s stoutly barred den,
An “Irish Lion” you may see
At large in Winter Garden.

The difficulty with porringer has thus been overcome:—

The second James a daughter had,
Too fine to lick a porringer;
He sought her out a noble lad,
And gave the Prince of Orange her.

And in this stanza:—

When nations doubt our power to fight,
We smile at every foreign jeer;
And with untroubled appetite,
Still empty plate and porringer.

These for _orange_ and _lemon_:—

I gave my darling child a lemon,
That lately grew its fragrant stem on;
And next, to give her pleasure _more_ range
I offered her a juicy orange,
And nuts—she cracked them in the door-hinge.

And many an _ill_, grim,
And travel-worn pilgrim,

has traveled far out of his way before succeeding with widow:—

Who would not always as he’s bid do,
Should never think to wed a widow.

The jury found that Pickwick did owe
Damages to Bardell’s widow.

Pickwick _loquitur_:—

Since of this suit I now am rid, O,
Ne’er again I’ll lodge with a widow!

Among the stubborn proper names are _Tipperary and Timbuctoo_. The most successful effort to match the latter was an impromptu by a gentleman who had accompanied a lady home from church one Sunday evening, and who found her hymn-book is his pocket next morning. He returned it with these lines:—

My dear and much respected Jenny,
You must have thought me quite a ninny
For carrying off your hymn-book to
My house. Had you thoughts visionary,
And did you dream some missionary
Had flown with it to Timbuctoo?

Another attempt runs thus:—

I went a hunting on the plains,
The plains of Timbuctoo;
I shot one buck for all my pains,
And he was a slim buck too.

An unattainable rhyme might be sought for _Euxine_, had not Byron said—

——Euxine,
The dirtiest little sea that mortal ever pukes in.

The following is from Tom Moore’s _Fudge Family in Paris_:—

Take instead of rope, pistol, or dagger, a
Desperate dash down the Falls of Niagara.

A request for a rhyme for Mackonochie elicited numerous replies, one of which, in reference to a charitable occasion, begins thus:—

Who, folk bestowing
Their alms, when o’erflowing,
The coffer unlocks?
Fingers upon a key
Placing, Mackonochie
Opens the box.

Canning’s amusing little extravaganza, with which everybody is familiar, beginning:—

Whene’er with haggard eyes I view
The dungeon that I’m rotting in,
I think of the companions true
Who studied with me at the U-
niversity of Gottingen,

has been parodied a hundred times; but it is itself a parody of Pindar, whose fashion of dividing words in his odes all students of the classics have abundant occasion to remember. The last stanza was appended by William Pitt,—a fact not generally known:—

Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu,
That kings and priests are plotting in
Here doomed to starve on water gru-
el, never shall I see the U-
niversity of Gottingen.

Of these fantastic rhymes, Richard Harris Barham, has given us the finest examples in the language, in his celebrated “Ingoldsby Legends.” In the legend “Look at the Clock,” we have this:—

“Having once gained the summit, and managed to cross it, he
Rolls down the side with uncommon velocity.”

This from “The Ghost”:—

“And, being of a temper somewhat warm,
Would now and then seize upon small occasion,
A stick or stool, or anything that round did lie,
And baste her lord and master most confoundedly.”

In the “Tragedy” we have one even more whimsical and comical:—

“The poor little Page, too, himself got no quarter, but
Was served the same way,
And was found the next day
With his heels in the air, and his head in the water-butt.”

Byron has more than matched any of these in completeness of rhyme and extent, if we may call it so, of rhyming surface, and matched even himself in acidity of cynicism, in his couplet:—

“——Ye lords of ladies intellectual,
Come tell me, have they not hen-pecked you all.”

Punch has some very funny samples of eccentric rhymes, of which the best is one that spells out the final word of a couplet, the last letter or two, making so many syllables rhyme with the ending word of the preceding line. Thus:—

“Me drunk! the cobbler cried, the devil trouble you,
You want to kick up a blest r-o-w,
I’ve just returned from a teetotal party,
Twelve on us jammed in a spring c-a-r-t,
The man as lectured now, was drunk; why bless ye,
He’s sent home in a c-h-a-i-s-e.”

Twenty-five years or more ago, in Boston, Monday was the gathering time for Universalist clergymen, Tompkins’ book store being the place of rendezvous. At these unions, King, Chapin, Hosea Ballou, Whittemore, and other notabilities, were pretty sure to be present; and as it was immediately after the graver labors of the Sabbath, the parsons were apt to be in an unusually frisky condition.

Chapin, ordinarily, is of reticent habit; but when the company is congenial, and he is in exhilarant mood, his wonderful flow of language and quick perception make him a companion rarely equalled for wit and repartee. On one occasion, when King and Chapin, and a dozen other clergymen were at Tompkins’s, as was their wont, Chapin began to rhyme upon the names of those present. Without a moment’s hesitation, he ran off the name of each, rhyming it in verse, to the huge delight of the company. Finally, after exhausting that list, the names of absent clergymen were given to the ready poet, and there was not a single failure. At last a clergyman said:—

“I can give you a name, Brother Chapin, to which you cannot make a rhyme.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Brother Brimblecomb.”

Without a moment’s pause, Chapin said:—

“There was a man in our town,
His name—they called it Brimblecomb;
He stole the tailor’s needle and shears,
But couldn’t make the thimble come.”

Butler’s facility in overcoming stubborn words is amusing. For instance:—

There was an ancient sage philosopher,
Who had read Alexander Ross over.

Coleridge, on the eve of his departure from Göttingen, being requested by a student of the same class in the university to write in his _Stammbuch_, or album, complied as follows:—

We both attended the same college,
Where sheets of paper we did blur many;
And now we’re going to sport our knowledge,
In England I, and you in Germany.

Father Prout, in his polyglot praise of rum punch, says:—

Doth love, young chiel, one’s bosom ruffle? Would any feel ripe for a scuffle? The simplest plan is just to take a Well stiffened can of old Jamaica.

We parted by the gate in June,
That soft and balmy month,
Beneath the sweetly beaming moon,
And (wonth—hunth—sunth—bunth—I can’t find a rhyme to month).

Years were to pass ere we should meet;
A wide and yawning gulf
Divides me from my love so sweet,
While (ulf—sulf—dulf—mulf—stuck again; I can’t get any rhyme to gulf.
I’m in a gulf myself).

Oh, how I dreaded in my soul
To part from my sweet nymph,
While years should their long seasons roll
Before (nymph—dymph—ymph—I guess I’ll have to let it go at that).

Beneath my fortune’s stern decree
My lonely spirit sunk,
For a weary soul was mine to be
And (hunk—dunk—runk—sk—that will never do in the world).

She buried her dear, lovely face
Within her azure scarf,
She knew I’d take the wretchedness
As well as (parf—sarf—darf—half-and-half; that won’t answer either).

O, I had loved her many years,
I loved her for herself;
I loved her for her tender fears,
And also for her (welf—nelf—helf—pelf; no, no; not for her pelf).

I took between my hands her head,
How sweet her lips did pouch!
I kissed her lovingly and said:
(Bouch—mouche—louche—ouch; not a bit of it did I say ouch!)

I sorrowfully wrung her hand.
My tears they did escape,
My sorrow I could not command,
And I was but a (sape—dape—fape—ape; well, perhaps I did feel like an
ape).

I gave to her a fond adieu,
Sweet pupil of love’s school;
I told her I would e’er be true,
And always be a (dool—sool—mool—fool; since I come to think of it, I
was a fool, for she fell in love with another fellow before I was
gone a month).

Hood’s _Nocturnal Sketch_ presents a remarkable example of _la difficulté vaincue_. Most bards find it sufficiently difficult to obtain one rhyming word at the end of a line; but Hood secures three, with an ease which is as graceful as it is surprising:—

Even has come; and from the dark park, hark
The signal of the setting sun—one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime—prime time
To go and see the Drury Lane Dane slain,
Or hear Othello’s jealous doubt spout out,
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much such;
Or else to see Ducrow, with wide tide, stride
Four horses as no other man can span;
Or in the small Olympic pit, sit split,
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.

Anon night comes, and with her wings brings things
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung:
The gas up blazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,
About the streets, and take up Pall-Mall Sal,
Who, trusting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves do enter for your cash, smash, crash,
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep,
But, frightened by policeman B 3, flee,
And while they’re going, whisper low, “No go!”

Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads,
And sleepers grumble, Drat that cat!
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill will.

Now bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charles, or Billy, willy nilly;
But nurse-maid, in a night-mare rest, chest-pressed,
Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Græmes,
And that she hears—what faith is man’s—Ann’s banns
And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice;
White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,
That upward goes, shows Rose knows those beaux’ woes.

Valentines.

A STRATEGIC LOVE-LETTER.

The following love-letter, dated in 1661, was sent by Philip, second Earl of Chesterfield, to Lady Russell:—

Madam:—The dullness of this last cold season doth afford nothing that
is new to divert you; only here is a report that I fain would know the
truth of, which is, that I am extremely in love with you. Pray let me
know if it be true or no, since I am certain that nothing but yourself
can rightly inform me; for if you intend to use me favorably, and do
think I am in love with you, I most certainly am so; but if you intend
to receive me coldly, and do not believe that I am in love, I also am
sure that I am not; therefore let me entreat you to put me out of a
doubt which makes the greatest concern of,

Dear Madam, your most obedient faithful servant,
§Chesterfield§.

(It is the part of a skillful general to secure a good retreat.)

WRITTEN IN SYMPATHETIC INK.

Dear girl, if thou hadst been less fair,
Or I had been more bold,
The burning words I now would write,
Ere this, my tongue had told.

True to its bashful instinct still,
My love erects this screen,
And writes the words it dare not speak
In ink that can’t be seen.

CRYPTOGRAPHIC CORRESPONDENCE.

A lady wrote to a gentleman thus:—

“_I shall be_ much obliged to you, as reading _alone_ engages my
attention _at_ present, if you will lend me any one of the _Eight_
volumes of the Spectator. I hope you will excuse _this_ freedom, but
for a winter’s _evening_ I _don’t_ know a better entertainment. If I
_fail_ to return it soon, never trust me for the time _to come_.”

The words successively italicized convey the secret invitation.

MACAULAY’S VALENTINE.

The following valentine from Lord Macaulay to the Hon. Mary C. Stanhope, daughter of Lord and Lady Mahon, 1851, is worthy of being preserved for the sake as much of its author as of its own merits:—

Hail, day of music, day of love!
On earth below, and air above.
In air the turtle fondly moans,
The linnet pipes in joyous tones:
On earth the postman toils along,
Bent double by huge bales of song.
Where, rich with many a gorgeous dye,
Blazes all Cupid’s heraldry—
Myrtles and roses, doves and sparrows,
Love-knots and altars, lamps and arrows.
What nymph without wild hopes and fears
The double-rap this morning hears?
Unnumbered lasses, young and fair,
From Bethnel Green to Belgrave Square,
With cheeks high flushed, and hearts loud beating,
Await the tender annual greeting.
The loveliest lass of all is mine—
Good morrow to my Valentine!

Good morrow, gentle child: and then,
Again good morrow, and again,
Good morrow following still good morrow,
Without one cloud of strife or sorrow.
And when the god to whom we pay
In jest our homages to-day
Shall come to claim no more in jest,
His rightful empire o’er thy breast,
Benignant may his aspect be,
His yoke the truest liberty:
And if a tear his power confess,
Be it a tear of happiness.
It shall be so. The Muse displays
The future to her votary’s gaze:
Prophetic range my bosom swells—
I taste the cake—I hear the bells!
From Conduit street the close array
Of chariots barricades the way
To where I see, with outstretched hand,
Majestic thy great kinsman stand,[21]
And half unbend his brow of pride,
As welcoming so fair a bride;
Gay favors, thick as flakes of snow,
Brighten St. George’s portico:
Within I see the chancel’s pale,
The orange flowers, the Brussels veil,
The page on which those fingers white,
Still trembling from the awful rite,
For the last time shall faintly trace
The name of Stanhope’s noble race.
I see kind faces round thee pressing,
I hear kind voices whisper blessing:
And with those voices mingles mine—
All good attend my Valentine!

_St. Valentine’s Day, 1851._

§T. B. Macaulay.§

Footnote 21:

Statue of Mr. Pitt, in Hanover Square.

Very tender are Burns’ verses to his ladie loves. For instance:—

Oh! were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a paradise
If thou wert there, if thou wert there;
Or, were I monarch of the globe,
Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

TEUTONIC ALLITERATION.

O du Dido, die du da den, der den, den du liebst liebt, lieb ’o
liebste des Freundes, den Freund des Freundes, des Freundes wegen.[22]

[O you Dido, you who, him, who him you love, loves, love O dearest of
the friend, the friend’s friend, for the friend’s sake.]

Footnote 22:

This will remind some of our German readers of the following
inscription:—

Der, der den, der den, den 15ten März hier gesetzten Warnungspfahl,
das niemand etwas in das Wasser werfen sollte, selbst in das Wasser
geworfen hat, auzeigt, erhält zehn Thaler Belohnung.

(Whoever, him, who, on the 15th of March the here placed warning-post,
that nobody should throw any thing into the water, has thrown the post
itself into the water, denounces, receives a reward of Ten Dollars.)

A LOVER TO HIS SWEETHEART.

Your face, your tongue, your wit,
So fair, so sweet, so sharp,
First bent, then drew, then hit,
Mine eye, mine ear, my heart.

Mine eye, mine ear, my heart,
To like, to learn, to love,
Your face, your tongue, your wit,
Doth lead, doth teach, doth move.

Your face, your tongue, your wit,
With beams, with sound, with art,
Doth bind, doth charm, doth rule,
Mine eye, mine ear, my heart.

Mine eye, mine ear, my heart,
With life, with hope, with skill,
Your face, your tongue, your wit,
Doth feed, doth feast, doth fill.

O face! O tongue! O wit!
With frowns, with check, with smart,
Wrong not, vex not, wound not,
Mine eye, mine ear, my heart.

This eye, this ear, this heart,
Shall joy, shall bend, shall swear,
Your face, your tongue, your wit,
To serve, to trust, to fear.

The lines may be read either from left to right, or from above downwards. They may also be read in various directions.

CARDIAC EFFUSION.

Somebody named John Birchall wrote the following lines in 1684 with his “heart’s blood”:—

These loving lines which I to you have sent,
In secrecy in my heart’s blood are pent,
Y^e pen I slipt as I y^e pen did make,
And freely bleeds, and will do for your sake.

MACARONIC VALENTINE.

Geist und sinn mich beügen über
Vous zu dire das ich Sie liebe!
Das herz que vous so lightly spurn
To you und sie allein will turn
Unbarmherzig—pourquoi scorn
Mon cœur with love and anguish torn?
Croyez vous das my despair
Votre bonheur can swell or faire?
Schönheit kann nicht cruel sein
Mepris ist keine macht divine,
Then, oh then, it can’t be thine.
Glaube das mine love is true,
Changeless, deep wie Himmel’s blue—
Que l’amour that now I swear
Zu Dir Ewigkeit I’ll bear.
Glaube das the gentle rays
Born and nourished in thy gaze
Sur mon cœur will ever dwell
Comme à l’instant when they fell—
Mechante! that you know full well.

George Digby, Earl of Bristol, one of the most graceful writers of the Seventeenth Century, is credited with this:—

Fair Archabella, to thy eyes,
That flame just blushes in the skies,
Each noble heart doth sacrifice.
Yet be not cruel, since you may,
Whene’er you please, to save or slay,
Or with a frown benight the day.
I do not wish that you should rest
In any unknown highway breast,
The lodging of each common guest,
But I present a bleeding heart,
Wounded by love, not pricked by art,
That never knew a former smart.
Be pleased to smile, and then I live;
But if a frown, a death you give,
For which it were a sin to grieve.
Yet if it be decreed I fall,
Grant but one boon, one boon is all:—
That you would me your martyr call.

A COLORED MAN’S LOVE-LETTER.

A colored man living in Detroit had long admired a colored widow in a neighboring street, but being afraid to reveal his passion, went to a white man and asked him to write the lady a letter asking her hand in marriage. The friend wrote, telling the woman in a few brief lines that the size of her feet was the talk of the neighborhood, and asking her if she couldn’t pare them down a little. The name of the colored man was signed, and he was to call on her for an answer. Subsequently the writer of the letter met the negro limping along the street, and asked him what the widow said. The man showed him a bloodshot eye, a scratched nose, a lame leg, and a spot on the scalp where a handful of wool had been violently jerked out; and he answered in solemn tones: “She didn’t say nuffin, an’ I didn’t stay dar mor’n a minute!”

UNPUBLISHED VERSES OF THOMAS MOORE.

Bright leaf, when storms thy bloom shall wither,
Oh, fly for calm and shelter hither;
And I will prize thy tints as truly
As when in Spring they blossom newly.
Bright leaf, when storms thy blooms shall wither,
Oh, fly for calm and shelter hither.

Sweet maid, while hope and rapture cheer thee,
’Tis not for me to linger near thee;
But when joys fade and hope deceives thee,
When all that soothes and flatters leaves thee—
Oh, then, how sweet in one forsaken,
Fresh hopes and joys again to waken!

EGYPTIAN SERENADE.

Sing again the song you sung
When we were together young—
When there were but you and I
Underneath the summer sky.

Sing the song, and sing it o’er,
Though I know that nevermore
Will it seem the song you sung
When we were together young.

PETITIONS.

THE MAIDS AND WIDOWS.

The following petition, signed by sixteen maids of Charleston, South Carolina, was presented to the Governor of that province in March, 1733, “the day of the feast”:—

§To His Excellency Governor Johnson.§

The humble petition of all the Maids whose names are underwritten:—_Whereas_, We the humble petitioners are at present in a very melancholy disposition of mind, considering how all the bachelors are blindly captivated by widows, and our more youthful charms thereby neglected: the consequence of this our request is, that your Excellency will for the future order that no Widow shall presume to marry any young man till the maids are provided for; or else to pay each of them a fine for satisfaction, for invading our liberties; and likewise a fine to be laid on all such bachelors as shall be married to widows. The great disadvantage it is to us maids, is, that the widows, by their forward carriages, do snap up the young men; and have the vanity to think their merits beyond ours, which is a great imposition upon us who ought to have the preference.

This is humbly recommended to your Excellency’s consideration, and hope you will prevent any farther insults.

And we poor Maids as in duty bound will ever pray.

P. S.—I, being the oldest maid, and therefore most concerned, do think it proper to be the messenger to your Excellency in behalf of my fellow subscribers.

A MALADROIT PETITION.

An autograph of Madame de Maintenon has recently been discovered at Chateau-Guinon, the history of which is curious. A worthy priest of Cuiseaux, a small _Commune_ of La Brasse, desiring to repair his church, which was becoming dilapidated, had the happy idea of addressing himself to Madame de Maintenon, whose charitable bounty was upon every tongue. Not being in the habit of corresponding with the great, the style of his supplication cost him much thought, but at last he produced a memorial commencing as follows:—

“Madame:—You enjoy the reputation, which I doubt not is well founded, of according your favors to all who solicit them. I therefore venture to appeal to your bounty in behalf of the church of Cuiseaux,” etc.

The exalted lady had no sooner cast her eyes upon the poor priest’s unlucky exordium, than she flew into a rage, and had him thrown into prison, whence it was with great difficulty that his friends procured a release. The story seems apocryphal, but the memorial bears the following indorsement in the handwriting of Madame de Maintenon:—The lieutenant of police is ordered to issue a _lettre-de-cachet_ against the signer of this petition.

Sonnets.

WRITING A SONNET.

Doris, the fair, a sonnet needs must have;
I ne’er was so put to ’t before;—a Sonnet!
Why fourteen verses must be spent upon it;
’Tis good howe’er to have conquered the first stave,
Yet I shall ne’er find rhymes enough by half,
Said I, and found myself i’ th’ midst o’ the second.
If twice four verses were but fairly reckoned
I should turn back on th’ hardest part and laugh,
Thus far with good success I think I’ve scribbled,
And of the twice seven lines have clean got o’er ten.
Courage! another ’ll finish the first triplet,
Thanks to thee, Muse, my work begins to shorten,
There’s thirteen lines got through driblet by driblet:
’Tis done! count how you will I warrant there’s fourteen.

IN A FASHIONABLE CHURCH.

The air is faint, yet still the crowds press in;
With stir of silks and under-flow of talk
That falls from lips of ladies as they walk,
Ere yet the dainty service doth begin:
Ah me! the very organ’s glorious din
Is tuned to pliant trimness in its place.
And over all a sweet melodious grace
Floats with the incense-stream good souls to win!
O God, that spak’st of old from Sinai’s brow!
And Thou that laid’st the tempest with a word!
Is this Thy worship? Come amongst us now
With all Thy thunders, if Thou wouldst be heard.
So tyrannous is this weight of pageantry,
Almost, we cry, “Give back Gethsemane!”

THE PROXY SAINT.

Each for himself must do his Master’s work,
Or at his peril leave it all undone;
Witness the fate of one who sought to shirk
The Sanctuary service yet would shun
The penalty. A man of earthly aims
(So runs the apologue,) whose pious spouse
Would oft remind him of the Church’s claims,
Still answered thus, “Go, thou, and pay our vows
For thee and me!” Now, when at Peter’s gate
The twain together had arrived at last,
He let the woman in; then to her mate,
Shutting the door, “Thou hast already passed
By _proxy_,” said the Saint—“just in the way
That thou on earth was wont to fast and pray.”

ABOUT A NOSE.

’Tis very odd that poets should suppose
There is no poetry about a nose,
When plain as is the nose upon your face,
A noseless face would lack poetic grace.
Noses have sympathy: a lover knows
Noses are always _touched_ when lips are kissing:
And who would care to kiss where nose was missing?
Why, what would be the fragrance of a rose,
And where would be our mortal means of telling
Whether a vile or wholesome odour flows
Around us, if we owned no sense of smelling?
I know a nose, a nose no other knows,
’Neath starry eyes, o’er ruby lips it grows;
Beauty is in its form and music in its blows.

DYSPEPSIA.

Ah, me! what mischiefs from the stomach rise!
What fatal ills, beyond all doubt or question!
How many a deed of high and bold emprise
Has been prevented by a bad digestion!
I ween the savory crust of filthy pies
Hath made full many a man to quake and tremble,
Filling his stomach with dyspeptic sighs,
Until a huge balloon it doth resemble.
Thus do our lower parts impede the upper,
And much the brain’s good works molest and hinder.
We gorge our cerebellum with hot supper,
And burn, with drams, our viscera to a cinder,
Choosing our arrows from Disease’s quiver,
Till man in misery lives to loathe his liver.

HUMILITY.

Fair, soft Humility, so seldom seen,
So oft despised upon this little earth,
Counted by men as dross of nothing worth,
Though in the sight of Mightiness supreme
’Tis hailed and welcomed as a glorious birth,
Offspring of greatness, beauty perfected,
And yet of such fragility extreme,
That if we call it ours, ’tis forfeited;
Named, it escapes us, thus we need beware,
When with the Publican we plead the prayer,
“A sinner, Lord, be merciful to me!”
Our hearts do not say softly, “I thank Thee,
O Lord, for this sweet grace, Humility,
Which I possess, unlike the Pharisee.”

AVE MARIA.

Ave Maria! ’tis the evening hymn
Of many pilgrims on the land and sea.
Soon as the day withdraws, and two or three
Faint stars are burning, all whose eyes are dim
With tears or watching, all of weary limb
Or troubled spirit, yield the bended knee,
And find, O Virgin! life’s repose in thee.
I, too, at nightfall, when the new-born rim
Of the young moon is first beheld above,
Tune my fond thoughts to their devoutest key,
And from all bondage—save remembrance—free
Glad of my liberty as Noah’s dove,
Seek the Madonna most adored by me,
And say mine “Ave Marias” to my love.

Conformity of Sense to Sound.

In the hexameter rises the fountain’s silvery column; In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.—§Coleridge§: _trans. Schiller_.

ARTICULATE IMITATION OF INARTICULATE SOUNDS.

Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar.
—§Pope§: _Essay on Criticism_.

On a sudden open fly,
With impetuous recoil and jarring sound,
Th’ infernal doors, and on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder.—§Milton§: _Paradise Lost, ii_.

Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw.—§Milton§: _Lycidas_.

His bloody hand
Snatched two unhappy of my martial band,
And dashed like dogs against the stony floor.—§Pope§: _Hom. Odys._

The Pilgrim oft
At dead of night, ’mid his orison, hears
Aghast the voice of time, disparting towers,
Tumbling all precipitous down-dashed,
Rattling around, loud thundering to the moon.
—§Dyer§: _Ruins of Rome_.

What! like Sir Richard, rumbling, rough, and fierce,
With arms, and George, and Brunswick, crowd the verse,
Rend with tremendous sounds your cars asunder,
With drum, gun, trumpet, blunderbuss, and thunder?
Then all your muse’s softer art display:
Let Carolina smooth the tuneful lay,
Lull with Amelia’s liquid name the nine,
And sweetly flow through all the royal line.—§Pope§: _Sat. I._

Remarkable examples are afforded by Dryden’s _Alexander’s Feast_, and _The Bells_ of Edgar A. Poe.

IMITATION OF TIME AND MOTION.

When the merry bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecs sound
To many a youth and many a maid
Dancing in the checkered shade.—§Milton§: _L’Allegro_.

Up the high hill he heaves a huge round stone;
The huge round stone, resulting with a bound,
Thunders impetuous down, and smokes along the ground.
§Pope§: _Hom. Odys._

Which urged, and labored, and forced up with pain,
Recoils and rolls impetuous down, and smokes along the plain.
§Dryden§: _Lucretius_.

A needless Alexandrine ends the song,
That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.
§Pope§: _Essay on Criticism_.

Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o’er th’ unbending corn, and skims along the main.
§Pope§: _Essay on Criticism_.

Oft on a plat of rising ground
I hear the far-off curfew sound,
Over some wide-watered shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar.—§Milton§: _Il Penseroso_.

The well-known hexameters of Virgil, descriptive respectively of the galloping of horses over a resounding plain, and of the heavy blows in alternately hammering the metal on the anvil, afford good examples,—the dactylic, of rapidity, the spondaic, of slowness.

Quadrupe- | dante pu- | trem soni- | tu quatit | ungula | campum,
_Æneid_, viii. 596.

Illi in- | ter se- | se mag- | na vi | brachia | tollunt.—_Æneid_, viii.
452.

IMITATION OF DIFFICULTY AND EASE.

When Ajax strives some rock’s vast weight to throw, The line, too, labors, and the words move slow, &c.—§Pope§: _Ess. on Criticism_.

He through the thickest of the throng gan threke.—§Chaucer§: _Knight’s
Tale_.

And strains from hard-bound brains six lines a year.—§Pope§: _Sat.
Frag._

Part huge of bulk,
Wallowing, unwieldy, enormous in their gait,
Tempest the ocean.—§Milton§: _Paradise Lost_, vii.

He came, and with him Eve, more loath, though first
To offend, discountenanced both, and discomposed.
§Milton§: _Paradise Lost_, x.

So he with difficulty and labor hard Moved on, with difficulty and labor he.—§Milton§: _Paradise Lost_, ii.

Familiar Quotations from Unfamiliar Sources.

_No Cross, no Crown._

Tolle crucem, qui vis auferre coronam.
§St. Paulinus§, Bishop of Nola.

The way to bliss lies not on beds of down,
And he that had no cross deserves no crown.—§Quarles§: _Esther_.

_Corporations have no souls._

A corporation aggregate of many is invisible, immortal, and vests only
in intendment and consideration of the law. They cannot commit
treason, nor be outlawed, nor excommunicate, for _they have no souls_,
neither can they appear in person, but by attorney.—_Coke’s Reports_,
vol. x. p. 32.

_Quem Deus vult perdere prius dementat._
§Euripides§: _Fragments_.

For those whom God to ruin has designed,
He fits for fate and first destroys their mind.
§Dryden§: _Hind and Panther_.

_Men are but children of a larger growth_;

Our appetites as apt to change as theirs,
And full as craving too, and full as vain.
§Dryden§: _All for Love_, iv. 1.

_Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest._

True friendship’s laws are by this rule expressed,
Welcome, etc.—§Pope§: _Odyssey_, B. xv.

_More worship the rising than the setting sun._
§Pompey to Sylla§: _Plutarch’s Lives_.

_Incidis in Scillam cupiens vitare Charybdim._
§Philippe Gaultier§: _Alexandreis_.

_History is philosophy teaching by example._
§Dionysius of Halicarnassus.§

_Consistency a Jewel._

In the search for the source of familiar quotations, none appears to have so completely baffled patient seekers as the phrase “Consistency is a jewel.” Several years ago a perplexed scholar offered a handsome reward for the discovery of its origin. Not till quite recently, however, has the claim been set up that the original was found in the “Ballad of Jolly Robyn Roughhead,” which is preserved in “_Murtagh’s Collection of Ancient English and Scottish Ballads_.” The stanza in which it occurs is the following:—

Tush, tush, my lassie, such thoughts resign,
Comparisons are cruel;
Fine pictures suit in frames as fine,
_Consistency’s a jewel_:
For thee and me coarse clothes are best,
Rude folks in homely raiment drest—
Wife Joan and goodman Robyn.

_Cleanliness next to Godliness._

The origin of the proverb, “Cleanliness is next to godliness,” has been the subject of extended investigation. Bartlett’s “Familiar Quotations” attributes the phrase to Rev. John Wesley; but as this prominent Methodist clergyman uses this sentence in his sermons as a quotation from some other work, it has been suggested that further search is requisite. Rev. Dr. A. S. Bettelheimer, of Richmond, Va., asserts that he has discovered this maxim in an abstract of religious principles contained in an old commentary on the Book of Isaiah. Thus the practical doctrines of religion are resolved into carefulness, vigorousness, guiltlessness, abstemiousness and cleanliness. And cleanliness is next to godliness, which is next to holiness.

_He’s a brick._

An Eastern prince visited the ruler of a neighboring country, and after viewing various objects worthy of attention, asked to see the fortifications. He was shown the troops with this remark—“These are my fortifications; every man is a brick.”

_When you are at Rome do as the Romans do._

This proverb has been traced to a saying of St. Ambrose. St. Augustine mentions in one of his letters (_Ep._ lxxxvj _ad Casulan_.) that when his mother was living with him at Milan, she was much scandalized because Saturday was kept there as a festival; whilst at Rome, where she had resided a long time, it was kept as a fast. To ease her mind he consulted the bishop on this question, who told him he could give him no better advice in the case than to do as he himself did. “For when I go to Rome,” said Ambrose, “I fast on the Saturday, as they do at Rome; when I am here, I do not fast.” With this answer, he says that “he satisfied his mother, and ever after looked upon it as an oracle sent from heaven.”

_A Nation of Shopkeepers._

To found a great empire for the sole purpose of raising up a people of
customers may at first sight appear a project fit only for a nation of
shopkeepers.—§Adam Smith§, _Wealth of Nations_.

On May 31, 1817, Napoleon is reported to have said to Barry O’Meara,—

You were greatly offended with me for having called you a nation of
shopkeepers. Had I meant by this that you were a nation of cowards,
you would have had reason to be displeased.... I meant that you were a
nation of merchants, and that all your great riches arose from
commerce.... Moreover, no man of sense ought to be ashamed of being
called a shopkeeper.—_Voice from St. Helena._

_Only a pauper._

The lines—

Rattle his bones
Over the stones,
He’s only a pauper whom nobody owns,

are from the _Pauper’s Drive_, by Thomas Noel.

_Taking time by the forelock._

Spenser says, _Sonnet_ lxx.:—

Go to my love, where she is careless laid,
Yet in her winter’s bower not well awake;
Tell her the joyous time will not be staid,
Unless she do him by the forelock take.

_What will Mrs. Grundy say?_

In Morton’s clever comedy, _Speed the Plough_, the first scene of the first act opens with a view of a farm-house, where Farmer Ashfield is discovered at a table with his jug and pipe, holding the following colloquy with his wife, Dame Ashfield, who figures in a riding-dress, with a basket under her arm:—

_Ashfield_—Well, Dame, welcome whoam. What news does thee bring vrom
market?

_Dame._—What news husband? What I always told you; that Farmer
Grundy’s wheat brought five shillings a quarter more than ours did.

_Ash._—All the better vor he.

_Dame._—Ah! the sun seems to shine on purpose for him.

_Ash._—Come, come, missus, as thee has not the grace to thank God for
prosperous times, dan’t thee grumble when they be unkindly a bit.

_Dame._—And I assure you Dame Grundy’s butter was quite the crack of
the market.

_Ash._—Be quiet woolye? always ding, dinging Dame Grundy into my
ears—_What will Mrs. Grundy zay?_ What will Mrs. Grundy think? Canst
thee be quiet, let ur alone, and behave thyself pratty.

_Though lost to sight, to memory dear._

This oft-quoted line is traced by a modern wag, of an inventive turn, to Ruthven Jenkyns, who wrote the following verses, published in the _Greenwich Magazine for Marines, in 1701_:—

Sweetheart, good-bye! the fluttering sail
Is spread to waft me far from thee;
And soon, before the fav’ring gale,
My ship shall bound upon the sea.
Perchance, all desolate and forlorn
These eyes shall miss thee many a year;
But unforgotten every charm,
Though lost to sight, to mem’ry dear.

Sweetheart, good-bye! one last embrace!
O, cruel fate! true souls to sever;
Yet in this heart’s most sacred place
Thou, thou alone shalt dwell forever!
And still shall recollection trace
In Fancy’s mirror, ever near,
Each smile, each tear—that form, that face—
Though lost to sight, to mem’ry dear.

_Too low they build who build beneath the stars._

Builders who adopt this motto are indebted for it to Young, _The Complaint_, viii. 215.

_Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel._

Dr. Johnson, according to Boswell, is credited with this phrase.

_So much the worse for the facts._

M. Royer Collard disapproved of the opinions of the Fathers of Port Royal on the doctrine of grace: “_Ils ont les textes pour eux_, disait il, _j’en suis faché pour les textes_.” So much the worse for the texts,—a very different and much more reasonable saying than the paradoxical expression commonly ascribed to Voltaire.

_Conspicuous by its absence._

Earl Russell, in an address to the electors of the city of London, alluding to Lord Derby’s Reform Bill, which had just been defeated, said:—

Among the defects of the Bill, which were numerous, one provision was
conspicuous by its presence, and one by its absence.

In the course of a speech subsequently delivered at a meeting of Liberal electors at the London Tavern, he justified his use of these words thus:—

It has been thought that by a misnomer or a bull on my part I alluded
to it as “a provision conspicuous by its absence,” a turn of
phraseology which is not an original expression of mine, but is taken
from one of the greatest historians of antiquity.

The historian referred to is Tacitus, who, (_Annals_, iii. 761) speaking of the images carried in procession at the funeral of Junia, says: _Sed præfulgebant Cassius atque Brutus eo ipso quod effigies eorum non videbantur_. Russell’s adaptation recalls the “brilliant flashes of silence” which Sydney Smith attributed to Macaulay. Since the Jesuits succeeded in causing the lives of Arnauld and Pascal to be excluded from _L’Histoire des Hommes Illustres_, by Perrault, the epigrammatic expression _Briller par son absence_ has been popular among the French.

_Do as I say, not as I do._

This proverbial expression was in common use among the Italian monks in the Middle Ages. It occurs in the _Decameron_ of Boccacio thus: “Ils croient avoir bien répondu et être absous de tout crime quand ils ont dit, _Faites ce que nous disons et ne faites pas ce que nous faisons_.” The germ of the words thus put into the mouths of the friars of his day, Boccacio no doubt found in the language of our Saviour recorded in Matthew xxiii. 2, 3:—“The scribes and Pharisees sit in Moses’ seat; all therefore whatsoever they bid you observe, that observe and do; but do not ye after their works: _for they say and do not_.”

* * * * *

Mr. Longfellow, in his _New England Tragedies_, puts into the mouth of Captain Kempthorne, back in the times of Quaker persecution, a now familiar phrase. He speaks of

_A solid man of Boston_;
A comfortable man, with dividends,
And the first salmon, and the first green peas.

Aubrey in his _Letters_, speaking of the handwriting of the poet Waller, says:—“He writes a lamentable hand, as bad as the _scratching of a hen_.” Probably suggested by the “_gallina scripsit_” of Plautus.

The phrase _masterly inactivity_, first used by Sir James Mackintosh in his _Vindiciæ Gallicæ_, finds a prototype in the Horatian expression, “_strenua nos exercet inertia_,” (_Epist. lib._ I., xi. 28,) and in the words of Isaiah, “their strength is to sit still” (xxx. 7).

From _Don Quixote_ we have _Honesty is the best policy_. From _Gil Blas_, (Smollet’s trans.,) comes _Facts are stubborn things_. From Burton’s _Anatomy of Melancholy_, (P. iii. Sec. 3, Mem. i. Subs. 2,) _Comparisons are odious_. From Bunyan’s _Pilgrim’s Progress_, _Dark as pitch_, and _Every tub must stand on its own bottom_. From Shakspeare, _Fast and loose_ (_Love’s Labor Lost, iii. 1._); _Main chance_ (_2 Henry IV. iii. 1_); _Let the world slide_ (_Taming of the Shrew_, _Induc. i._). From Burns, (_Epistle from Esopus to Maria_,) _Durance vile_.

§Christmas§ comes but once a year.—§Thomas Tusser§, 1580.

It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good.

Originally written,—

It is an ill wind turns none to good.—§Thomas Tusser.§

Look ere thou leap.—§Tusser.§

And

Look before you ere you leap.—§Butler§: _Hudibras_, c. 2.

Bid the devil take the hindmost.—_Hudibras_, c. 2.

Count the chickens ere they’re hatched.—_Hudibras_, c. 3.

Necessity, the tyrant’s plea.—§Milton.§—_Paradise Lost, B._ iv.

Peace hath her victories, &c.—§Ibid.§: _Sonnet_ xvi.

The old man eloquent.—§Ibid.§: _Tenth Sonnet_.

On the light fantastic toe.—§Ibid.§: _L’Allegro_.

The devil may cite Scripture for his purpose.
§Shakspeare§: _Merchant of
Venice_.

Assume a virtue though you have it not.—_Hamlet._

Brevity is the soul of wit.—_Hamlet._

The sere, the yellow leaf.—_Macbeth._

Curses not loud, but deep.—_Macbeth._

Make assurance doubly sure.—_Macbeth._

Thereby hangs a tale.—_As You Like It._

Good wine needs no bush.—As You Like It.

Though last, not least, in love.—_Julius Cæsar._

Food for powder.—_First Part Henry IV._

One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.—_Troilus and Cressida._

And made a sunshine in a shady place.—§Spenser§: _Fairy Queen_.

Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new.
§Dr. Johnson§: _Prologue at the opening of the Drury Lane Theatre_,
1747.

To point a moral or adorn a tale.—§Ibid.§: _Vanity of Human Wishes_.

Slow rises worth by poverty depressed.—§Ibid.§: _London_.

Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no fibs.
§Goldsmith§: _She Stoops to
Conquer_.

And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.—§Ibid.§:
_Retaliation_.

Winter lingering chills the lap of May.—§Ibid.§: _The Traveller_.

Of two evils I have chose the least.—§Prior.§

His (God’s) image cut in ebony.—§Thomas Fuller.§

Richard’s himself again.—§Colley Cibber.§

Building castles in the air.

Originally written,—

Building castles in Spain.—§Scarron.§

Hope, the dream of a waking man.—§Basil.§

Music has charms to soothe a savage breast.
§Congreve§: _The Mourning Bride_.

Earth has no rage like love to hatred turned.—§Ibid.§

Let who may make the laws of a people, allow me to write their
ballads, and I’ll guide them at my will.—§Sir Philip Sidney.§

When Greek meets Greek, then comes the tug of war.

Originally,

When Greeks joined Greeks, then was the tug of war.
§Nat Lee§: _Play of Alexander the Great_, 1692.

Westward the course of empire takes its way.—§Bishop Berkeley§.

No pent-up Utica contracts your powers,
But the whole boundless continent is yours.
§J. M. Sewall§: _Epilogue to Cato_,
1778.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Originally,

Out of minde as soon as out of sight.—§Lord Brooke§.

Through thick and thin.—§Dryden§: _Absalom and Achitophel_.

He whistled as he went for want of thought.—§Ib.§: _Cymon and
Iphigenia_.

Great wits are sure to madness near allied.—§Ib.§: _Absalom &
Achitophel_.

None but the brave deserve the fair.—§Ibid.§: _Alexander’s Feast_.

To err is human; to forgive, divine.—§Pope§: _Essay on Criticism_.

In wit a man; simplicity, a child.—§Ibid.§: _Epitaph on Gay_.

I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.—§Ib.§: _Prologue to the
Satires_.

Damns with faint praise.—§Ibid.§: _Prologue to the Satires_.

Order is Heaven’s first law.—§Ibid.§: _Essay on Man_.

An honest man’s the noblest work of God.—§Ibid.§: _Essay on Man_.

Looks through nature up to nature’s God.—§Ibid.§: _Essay on Man_.

Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw.—§Ibid.§: _Essay on Man_.

Who never mentions hell to ears polite.—§Ibid.§: _The Epistles_.

From seeming evil still educing good.—§Thomson§: _Hymn_.

To teach the young idea how to shoot: §Ibid.§: _The Seasons, Spring_.

’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.
§Campbell§: _Pleasures of
Hope_.

And man the hermit sighed till woman smiled.—§Ibid.§

Where ignorance is bliss
’Tis folly to be wise.—§Gray§: _Ode on Eton College_.

Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.—§Ib.§: _The Progress of
Poesy_.

Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.—§Burns§: _Tam O’Shanter_.

As clear as a whistle.—§Byrom§: _The Astrologer_.

She walks the waters like a thing of life.—§Byron§: _The Island_.

The cups that cheer but not inebriate.—§Cowper§: _Task_.

Not much the worse for wear.—§Ibid.§

Masterly inactivity.—§Mackintosh§: 1791.

The Almighty Dollar.—§Washington Irving§: _Creole Village_.

Entangling alliances.—§George Washington.§

Where liberty dwells, there is my country.—§Benjamin Franklin.§

The post of honor is the private station.—§Thos. Jefferson.§

Straws show which way the wind blows.—§James Cheatham.§

A good time coming.—§Walter Scott§: _Rob Roy_.

Face the music.—§J. Fenimore Cooper.§

Churchyard Literature.

HIC JACET SACRUM MEMORIÆ.

§Earth’s§ highest station ends in §HERE HE LIES§!
And §DUST TO DUST§ concludes her noblest song.

§Emigravit§ is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies:
Dead he is not, but departed, for the Christian never dies.

A hieroglyph formed by the two first letters of the Greek word
_Christos_, intersecting the _Chi_ longitudinally by the _Rho_,—a
palm-leaf, or a wreath of palm-leaves, indicating victory,—a crown,
which speaks of the reward of the saints,—an _immortelle_, or a vessel
supporting a column of flame, indicating continued life,—an anchor,
which indicates hope,—a ship under sail, which says, “Heavenward
bound,”—the letters _Alpha_ and _Omega_, the Apocalyptic title of
Christ,—the dove, the emblem of innocence and holiness,—the winged
insect escaping from the chrysalis, typical of the resurrection,—the
cross, the Christian’s true and only glory in life and death, by which
he is crucified to the world, and the world to him,—these are the
emblems that speak to the Christian’s heart of faith, and hope, and
love, and humility.

EPITAPHS OF EMINENT MEN.

§Christopher Columbus§ died at Valladolid, May 20, 1506, æt. 70. In 1513 his body was taken to Seville, on the Guadalquivir, and there deposited in the family vault of the Dukes of Alcala, in the Cathedral. Upon a tablet was inscribed, in Castilian, this meagre couplet, which is still legible:—

A Castilla y Arragon
Otro mondo dio Colon.[23]

[To Castile and Aragon
Columbus gave another world.]

Footnote 23:

Irving gives the inscription thus:—

Por Castilla y por Leon
Nuevo mundo hallo Colon.

In 1536, the remains of the great navigator were conveyed to St. Domingo and deposited in the Cathedral, where they continued until a recent period, when they were finally disinterred, and removed to Havana. The inscription on the tablet in the Cathedral of St. Domingo, now obliterated, was as follows:—

Hic locus abscondit præclari membra §Columbi§
Cujus nomen ad astra volat.
Non satis unus erat sibi mundus notus, at orbem
Ignotum priscis omnibus ipse dedit;
Divitias summas terras dispersit in omnes,
Atque animas cœlo tradidit innumeras;
Invenit campos divinis legibus aptos,
Regibus et nostris prospera regna dedit.[24]

Footnote 24:

This spot conceals the body of the renowned Columbus, whose name
towers to the stars. Not satisfied with the known globe, he added to
all the old an unknown world. Throughout all countries he distributed
untold wealth, and gave to heaven unnumbered souls. He found an
extended field for gospel missions, and conferred prosperity upon the
reign of our monarchs.

§William Shakspeare§ died April 23, 1616, æt. 52, and was buried in the chancel of the church of Stratford. The monument erected to his memory represents the poet with a thoughtful countenance, resting on a cushion and in the act of writing. Immediately below the cushion is the following distich:—

Judicio Pylium; genio Socratem; arte Maronem:
Terra tegit; populis mœrot; Olympus habet.[25]

Footnote 25:

A Nestor in discrimination, a Socrates in talent, a Virgil in poetic
art; the earth covers him, the people mourn for him, Heaven possesses
him.

On a tablet underneath are inscribed these lines:—

Stay, passenger: why dost thou go so fast?
Read, if thou canst, whom envious death hath placed
Within this monument,—Shakspeare; with whom
Quick Nature died; whose name doth deck the tomb
Far more than cost; since all that he hath writ
Leaves living Art but page to serve his wit:

and on the flat stone covering the grave is inscribed, in very irregular characters, the following quaint supplication, blessing, and menace:—

Good Friend, for §Jesvs§ sake forbeare

To digg §T-E§ dvst EncloAsed HERE;

Blest be §T-E§ Man T/Y spares §T§-hs stones,

And evrst be He T/Y moves my bones.

§SIR ISAAC NEWTON, OB.§ 1727, §ÆT.§ 85.

Here lies interred Isaac Newton, knight, who, with an energy of mind
almost divine, guided by the light of mathematics purely his own,
first demonstrated the motions and figures of the planets, the paths
of comets, and the causes of the tides; who discovered, what before
his time no one had ever suspected, that the rays of light are
differently refrangible, and that this is the cause of colors; and who
was a diligent, penetrating, and faithful interpreter of nature,
antiquity, and the sacred writings. In his philosophy, he maintained
the majesty of the Supreme Being; in his manners, he expressed the
simplicity of the Gospel. Let mortals congratulate themselves that the
world has seen so great and excellent a man, the glory of human
nature.

Pope’s inscription is as follows:—

Isaacus Newtonus:
Quem Immortalem
Testantur _Tempus_, _Natura_, _Cœlum_:
Mortalem
Hoc marmor fatetur.
Nature and nature’s laws lay hid in night:
§God§ said, _Let Newton be!_ and all was light.

JOHNSON’S EPITAPH ON GOLDSMITH.[26]

Thou seest the tomb of Oliver; retire,
Unholy feet, nor o’er his ashes tread.
Ye whom the deeds of old, verse, nature, fire,
Mourn nature’s priest, the bard, historian, dead.

Footnote 26:

The original is in Greek, as follows:—

Τον ταφον εισοραας τον Ολιβαριοιο, κονιη
Ἀφροσι μη σεμνην, ξεινε, ποδεσσι πατελ.
Οισι μεμηλε φυσις, μετρων χαρις, εργα παλαιων
Κλαιετε ποιητην, ιστορικον, φυσικον.

COWPER’S EPITAPH ON DR. JOHNSON.

Here Johnson lies,—a sage by all allowed,
Whom to have bred may well make England proud;
Whose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught,
The graceful vehicle of virtuous thought;
Whose verse may claim—grave, masculine and strong—
Superior praise to the mere poet’s song;
Who many a noble gift from heaven possessed,
And faith at last, alone worth all the rest.
O man immortal by a double prize,
By fame on earth,—by glory in the skies!

§GEORGE WASHINGTON§, §ob. Dec. 14, 1799, æt. 67§.

When, in 1838, the remains of Washington were removed from the old vault into the new, at Mount Vernon, the coffin was placed in a beautiful sarcophagus of white marble, from a quarry in Chester county, Pennsylvania, and prepared in Philadelphia by the gentleman who presented it. The lid is wrought with the arms of the country and the inscription here appended. Independently of other considerations, it is desirable, for the honor of the nation so largely indebted to Washington, that his grave should be something more than an advertising medium for a marble-mason. But the faithful chronicler must take things as he finds them, not always as they should be:—

WASHINGTON.
By the permission of
Lawrence Lewis,
The surviving executor of
George Washington,
this sarcophagus
was presented by
John Struthers,
of Philadelphia, Marble Mason,
§A.D.§ 1837.

The stone and the inscription over the grave of Franklin and his wife, at the corner of Fifth and Arch Streets, Philadelphia, and recently opened to public view by substituting for the old brick wall a neat iron railing, are according to his own direction in his will. The exceeding plainness of both are strikingly characteristic of the man. The stone is a simple marble slab, six feet by four, lying horizontally, and raised about a foot above the ground. It bears the following:—

§Benjamin§ }
§AND§ } §Franklin.§
§Deborah§ }
1790.