Chapter VI

Never go to France
Unless you know the lingo;
If you do, like me,
You will repent, by jingo;
Staring like a fool,
And silent as a mummy,
There I stood alone,
A nation with a dummy.

THE DUEL.

A SERIOUS BALLAD.

"Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one nosegay."

In Brentford town, of old renown,
There lived a Mister Bray.
Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,
And so did Mr. Clay.

To see her ride from Hammersmith,
By all it was allowed,
Such fair outsides are seldom seen,
Such Angels on a Cloud.

Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Clay,
You choose to rival me,
And court Miss Bell, but there your court
No thoroughfare shall be.

Unless you now give up your suit,
You may repent your love
I who have shot a pigeon match,
Can shoot a turtle dove.

So pray before you woo her more,
Consider what you do;
If you pop aught to Lucy Bell--
I'll pop it into you.

Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray.
Your threats I quite explode;
One who has been a volunteer
Knows how to prime and load.

And so I say to you unless
Your passion quiet keeps,
I who have shot and hit bulls' eyes
May chance to hit a sheep's.

Now gold is oft for silver changed,
And that for copper red;
But these two went away to give
Each other change for lead.

But first they sought a friend a-piece,
This pleasant thought to give--
When they were dead, they thus should have
Two seconds still to live.

To measure out the ground not long
The seconds then forbore,
And having taken one rash step,
They took a dozen more.

They next prepared each pistol-pan
Against the deadly strife,
By putting in the prime of death
Against the prime of life.

Now all was ready for the foes,
But when they took their stands.
Fear made them tremble so they found
They both were shaking hands.

Said Mr. C. to Mr. B.,
Here one of us may fall,
And like St. Paul's Cathedral now,
Be doom'd to have a ball.

I do confess I did attach
Misconduct to your name;
If I withdraw the charge, will then
Your ramrod do the same?

Said Mr. B. I do agree--
But think of Honour's Courts!
If We go off without a shot,
There will be strange reports

But look, the morning now is bright,
Though cloudy it begun;
Why can't we aim above, as if
We had call'd out the sun?

So up into the harmless air
Their bullets they did send;
And may all other duels have
That upshot in the end.

* * * * *

We next quote brief illustrations of the Cuts on the opposite page. It may be observed that the articles themselves have but little _esprit_, and that, unlike most occasions, the wit lies in the wood.

First is a Sonnet accompanying the cut "Infantry at Mess."

"Sweets to the sweet--farewell."--_Hamlet._

Time was I liked a cheesecake well enough;
All human children have a sweetish tooth--
I used to revel in a pie or puff,
Or tart--we all are _tarters_ in our youth;
To meet with jam or jelly was good luck,
All candies most complacently I cramped.
A stick of liquorice was good to suck,
And sugar was as often liked as lumped;
On treacle's "linked sweetness long drawn out,"
Or honey, I could feast like any fly,
I thrilled when lollipops were hawk'd about,
How pleased to compass hardbake or bull's eye,
How charmed if fortune in my power cast,
Elecampane--but that campaign is past.

* * * * *

"Picking his way," belongs to a day (April 17) in a "Scrape Book," with the motto of "Luck's all:"

"17th. Had my eye pick'd out by a pavior, who was _axing_ his
way, he didn't care where. Sent home in a hackney-chariot that
upset. Paid Jarvis a sovereign for a shilling. My luck all
over!"

* * * * *

The Schoolmaster's Motto, accompanying "Palmam qui meruit ferat!" is too long for extract.

* * * * *

The chief fun of the countryman and his Pigs lies in the cut.

* * * * *

CUTS FROM HOOD'S COMIC ANNUAL.

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS.

BUNYAN'S PILGRIM'S PROGRESS.[5]

[5] Abridged from the paper on Southey's Life of Bunyan, in
the last Quarterly Review.

Of the first appearance of this celebrated parable, Mr. Southey's diligence has preserved the following notices:--

"'It is not known in what year the Pilgrim's Progress was
first published, no copy of the first edition having as yet
been discovered; the second is in the British Museum; it is
"with additions," and its date is 1678; but as the book is
known to have been written during Bunyan's imprisonment, which
terminated in 1672, it was probably published before his
release, or at latest immediately after it. The earliest with
which Mr. Major has been able to supply me, either by means of
his own diligent inquiries, or the kindness of his friends, is
that "eighth e-di-ti-on" so humorously introduced by Gay, and
printed--not for Ni-cho-las Bod-ding-ton, but for Nathanael
Ponder, at the Peacock in the Poultrey, near the Church, 1682;
for whom also the ninth was published in 1684, and the tenth
in 1685. All these no doubt were large impressions.'

"When the astonishing success of the Pilgrim's Progress had
raised a swarm of imitators, the author himself, according to
the frequent fashion of the world, was accused of plagiarism,
to which he made an indignant reply, in what he considered as
verses, prefixed to his 'Holy War.'

'Some say the Pilgrim's Progress is not mine,
Insinuating as if I would shine
In name and fame by the worth of another,
Like some made rich by robbing of their brother;
Or that so fond I am of being Sire,
I'll father bastards; or if need require,
I'll tell a lye in print, to get applause.
I scorn it; John such dirt-heap never was
Since God converted him. Let this suffice
To shew why I my Pilgrim patronize.

It came from mine own heart, so to my head,
And thence into my fingers trickled:
Then to my pen, from whence immediately
On paper I did dribble it daintily.'--p. lxxxix."

Mr. Southey has carefully examined this charge of supposed imitation, in which so much rests upon the very simplicity of the conception of the story, and has successfully shown that the tinker of Elstow could not have profited by one or two allegories in the French and Flemish languages--works which he could have had hardly a chance to meet with; which, if thrown in his way, he could not have read; and, finally, which, if he had read them, could scarcely have supplied him with a single hint. Mr. Southey, however, has not mentioned a work in English, of Bunyan's own time, and from which, certainly, the general notion of his allegory might have been taken. The work we allude to is now before us, entitled, 'The Parable of the Pilgrim, written to a friend by Symon Patrick, D.D., Dean of Peterborough;' the same learned person, well known by his theological writings, and successively Bishop of Chichester and Ely. This worthy man's inscription is dated the 14th of December, 1672; and Mr. Southey's widest conjecture will hardly allow an earlier date for Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, 1672 being the very year in which he was enlarged from prison. The language of Dr. Patrick, in addressing his friend, excludes the possibility of his having borrowed from John Bunyan's celebrated work. He apologizes for sending to his acquaintance one in the old fashioned dress of a pilgrim; and says he found among the works of a late writer, Baker's Sancta Sophia, a short discourse, under the name of a Parable of a Pilgrim; 'which was so agreeable to the portion of fancy he was endowed with, that he presently thought that a work of this nature would be very grateful to his friends also. It appears that the Parable of a Pilgrim, so sketched by Dr. Patrick, remained for some years in the possession of the private friend for whom it was drawn up, until, it being supposed by others that the work might be of general utility, it was at length published in 1678.--Before that year the first edition of the Pilgrim's Progress had unquestionably made its appearance; but we equally acquit the Dean of Peterborough and the tinker of Elstow from copying a thought or idea from each other. If Dr. Patrick had seen the Pilgrim's Progress he would, probably, in the pride of academic learning, have scorned to adopt it as a model; but, at all events, as a man of worth, he would never have denied the obligation if he had incurred one. John Bunyan, on his part, would in all likelihood have scorned, 'with his very heels,' to borrow anything from a dean; and we are satisfied that he would have cut his hand off rather than written the introductory verses we have quoted, had not his Pilgrim been entirely his own.

Indeed, whosoever will take the trouble of comparing the two works which, turning upon nearly the same allegory, and bearing very similar titles, came into existence at or about the very same time, will plainly see their total dissimilarity. Bunyan's is a close and continued allegory, in which the metaphorical fiction is sustained with all the minuteness of a real story. In Dr. Patrick's the same plan is generally announced as arising from the earnest longing of a traveller, whom he calls Philotheus or Theophilus, whose desires are fixed on journeying to Jerusalem as a pilgrim. After much distressing uncertainty, caused by the contentions of pretended guides, who recommend different routes, he is at length recommended to a safe and intelligent one. Theophilus hastens to put himself under his pilotage, and the good man gives forth his instructions for the way, and in abundant detail, so that all the dangers of error and indifferent company may be securely avoided; but in all this, very little care is taken even to preserve the appearance of the allegory: in a word, you have, almost in plain terms, the moral and religious precepts necessary to be observed in the actual course of a moral and religious life. The pilgrim, indeed, sets out upon his journey, but it is only in order again to meet with his guide, who launches further into whole chapters of instructions, with scarcely a reply from the passive pupil. It is needless to point out the extreme difference between this strain of continued didactics, rather encumbered than enlivened by a starting metaphor, which, generally quite lost sight of, the author recollects every now and then, as if by accident--and the thoroughly life-like manner in which John Bunyan puts the adventures of his pilgrim before us. Two circumstances alone strike us as trenching somewhat on the manner of him of Elstow: the one is where the guide awakens some sluggish pilgrims, whom he finds sleeping by the way;[6] the other is where their way is crossed by two horsemen, who insist upon assuming the office of guide. 'The one is a pleasing talker, excellent company by reason of his pleasant humour, and of a carriage very pleasant and inviting; but they observed he had a sword by his side, and a pair of pistols before him, together with another instrument hanging at his belt, which was formed for pulling out of eyes.'[7] The pilgrims suspected this well-armed cavalier to be one of that brood who will force others into their own path, and then put out their eyes in case they should forsake it. They have not got rid of their dangerous companion, by whom the Romish church is indicated, when they are accosted by a man of a quite different shape and humour, 'more sad and melancholy, more rude, and of a heavier wit also, who crossed their way on the right-hand.' He also (representing, doubtless, the Presbyterians or Sectaries) pressed them with eagerness to accept his guidance, and did little less than menace them with total destruction if they should reject it. A dagger and a pocket-pistol, though less openly and ostentatiously disposed than the arms of the first cavalier, seem ready for the same purposes; and he, therefore, is repulsed, as well as his neighbour. These are the only passages in which the church dignitary might be thought to have caught for a moment the spirit of the tinker of Bedford. Through the rest of his parable, which fills a well-sized quarto volume, the dean no doubt evinces considerable learning, but, compared to Bunyan, may rank with the dullest of all possible doctors; 'a worthy neighbour, indeed, and a marvellous good bowler--but for Alexander, you see how 'tis.' Yet Dr. Patrick had the applause of his own time. The first edition of his Parable appeared, as has been mentioned, in 1678; and the _sixth_, which now lies before us, is dated 1687.[8]

[6] Parable of the Pilgrim, chapter xxx.

[7] Ibidem, chapter xxxiv.

[8] The Poet Laureate may, perhaps, like to hear that Dr.
Patrick introduces into his parable a very tolerable edition
of that legend of the roasted fowls recalled to life by St.
James of Compostella, of which he himself has recently given
us so lively and amusing a metrical version.

Mr. Southey introduces the following just eulogium on our classic of the common people:

"Bunyan was confident in his own powers of expression; he
says--

--thine only way
Before them all, is to say out thy say
In thine own native language, which no man
Now useth, nor with ease dissemble can.

And he might well be confident in it. His is a homespun style,
not a manufactured one; and what a difference is there between
its homeliness, and the flippant vulgarity of the Roger
L'Estrange and Tom Brown school! If it is not a well of
English undefiled to which the poet as well as the philologist
must repair, if they would drink of the living waters, it is a
clear stream of current English--the vernacular speech of his
age, sometimes indeed in its rusticity and coarseness, but
always in its plainness and its strength. To this natural
style Bunyan is in some degree beholden for his general
popularity;--his language is every where level to the must
ignorant reader, and to the meanest capacity: there is a
homely reality about it; a nursery tale is not more
intelligible, in its manner of narration, to a child. Another
cause of his popularity is, that he taxes the imagination as
little as the understanding. The vividness of his own, which,
as his history shows, sometimes could not distinguish ideal
impressions from actual ones, occasioned this. He saw the
things of which he was writing as distinctly with his mind's
eye as if they were indeed passing before him in a dream. And
the reader perhaps sees them more satisfactorily to himself,
because the outline only of the picture is presented to him;
and the author having made no attempt to fill up the details,
every reader supplies them according to the measure and scope
of his own intellectual and imaginative powers."

Mr. Southey, observing with what general accuracy this apostle of the people writes the English language, notwithstanding all the disadvantages under which his youth must have been passed, pauses to notice one gross and repeated error. 'The vulgarism alluded to,' says the laureate, 'consists in the almost uniform use of _a_ for _have_--never marked as a contraction, e.g. might _a_ made me take heed--like to _a_ been smothered.' Under favour, however, this is a sin against orthography rather than grammar: the tinker of Elstow only spelt according to the pronunciation of the verb _to have_, then common in his class; and the same form appears a hundred times in Shakspeare. We must not here omit to mention the skill with which Mr. Southey has restored much of Bunyan's masculine and idiomatic English, which had been gradually dropped out of successive impressions by careless, or unfaithful, or what is as bad, conceited correctors of the press.

The speedy popularity of the Pilgrim's Progress had the natural effect of inducing Bunyan again to indulge the vein of allegory in which his warm imagination and clear and forcible expression had procured him such success. Under this impression, he produced the second part of his Pilgrim's Progress; and well says Mr. Southey, that none but those who have acquired the ill habit of always reading critically, can feel it as a clog upon the first. The first part is, indeed, one of those delightfully simple and captivating tales which, as soon as finished, we are not unwilling to begin again. Even the adult becomes himself like the child who cannot be satisfied with the repetition of a favourite tale, but harasses the story-telling aunt or nurse, to know more of the incidents and characters. In this respect Bunyan has contrived a contrast, which, far from exhausting his subject, opens new sources of attraction, and adds to the original impression. The pilgrimage of Christiana, her friend Mercy, and her children, commands sympathy at least as powerful as that of Christian himself, and it materially adds to the interest which we have taken in the progress of the husband, to trace the effects produced by similar events in the case of women and children.

"There is a pleasure," says the learned editor, "in travelling
with another companion the same ground--a pleasure of
reminiscence, neither inferior in kind nor degree to that
which is derived from a first impression. The characters are
judiciously marked: that of Mercy, particularly, is sketched
with an admirable grace and simplicity; nor do we read of any
with equal interest, excepting that of Ruth in Scripture, so
beautifully, on all occasions, does the Mercy of John Bunyan
unfold modest humility regarding her own merits, and tender
veneration for the matron Christiana."

"The distinctions between the first and second part of the
Pilgrim's Progress are such as circumstances render
appropriate; and as John Bunyan's strong mother wit enabled
him to seize upon correctly. Christian, for example, a man,
and a bold one, is represented as enduring his fatigues,
trials, and combats, by his own stout courage, under the
blessing of heaven: but to express that species of inspired
heroism by which women are supported in the path of duty,
notwithstanding the natural feebleness and timidity of their
nature, Christiana and Mercy obtain from the interpreter their
guide, called Great-heart, by whose strength and valour their
lack of both is supplied, and the dangers and distresses of
the way repelled and overcome.

"The author hints, at the end of the second part, as if 'it
might be his lot to go this way again;' nor was his mind that
light species of soil which could be exhausted by two crops.
But he left to another and very inferior hand the task of
composing a third part, containing the adventures of one
Tender Conscience, far unworthy to be bound up, as it
sometimes is, with John Bunyan's matchless parable."

* * * * *

'Tis necessary a writing critic should understand how to write. And though every writer is not bound to show himself in the capacity of critic, every writing critic is bound to show himself capable of being a writer.

_Shaftesbury Criticism_

* * * * *

NOTES OF A READER.

LACONICS.

(_From Maxwell. By Theodore Hook_.)

_Professional People_.

None of our fellow-creatures enjoy life more than the successful member of one of the learned professions. There is, it is true, constant toil; but there are constant excitement, activity, and enthusiasm; at least, where there is not enthusiasm in a profession, success will never come--and as to the affairs of the world in general, the divine, the lawyer, and the medical man, are more conversant and mixed up with them, than any other human beings--cabinet ministers themselves, not excepted.

The divine, by the sacred nature of his calling, and the higher character of his duties, is, perhaps, farther removed from an immediate contact with society; his labours are of a more exalted order, and the results of those labours not open to ordinary observation; but the lawyer in full practice knows the designs and devices of half our acquaintance; it is true, professional decorum seals his lips, but _he_ has them all before him in his "mind's eye,"--all their litigations and littlenesses,--all their cuttings, and carvings, and contrivings. He knows why a family, who hate the French with all the fervour of British prejudice, visits Paris, and remains there for a year or two; he can give a good reason why a man who delights in a well preserved property in a sporting country, with a house well built and beautifully situated, consents to "_spare it_," at a reduced price, to a man for whom he cares nothing upon earth: and looks at the world fully alive to the motives, and perfectly aware of the circumstances, of three-fourths of the unconscious actors by whom he is surrounded.

The eminent medical man stands, if not upon higher ground, at least in a more interesting position. As he mingles with the gay assembly, or visits the crowded ball, he knows the latent ills, the hidden, yet incurable disorders of the laughing throng by which he is encircled; he sees premature death lurking under the hectic flush on the cheek of the lovely Fanny, and trembles for the fate of the kind-hearted Emily, as he beholds her mirthfully joining in the mazy dance. He, too, by witnessing the frequently recurring scenes of death, beholds the genuine sorrow of the bereaved wife, or the devoted husband--and can, by the constant unpremeditated exhibitions of fondness and feeling, appreciate the affection which exists in such and such places, and understand, with an almost magical power, the value of the links by which society is held together.

_Middle Life_.

There is more healthful exercise for the mind in the uneven paths of middling life, than there is on the Macadamized road of fortune. Were the year all summer, how tiresome would be the green leaves and the bright sunshine--as, indeed, those will admit, who have lived in climates where vegetation is always at work.

_Unwelcome Truth_.

Plain speaking was Mousetrap's distinctive characteristic; his conversation abounded in blunt truisms, founded upon a course of thinking somewhat peculiar to himself, but which, when tried by the test of human vice and human folly, proved very frequently to be a great deal more accurate than agreeable.

_Stockbrokers_.

"I know some of them brokering boys are worth a million on Monday, and threepence on Thursday--all in high feather one week, and poor waddling creturs the next."

_Mercantile Life_.

A dark hole of a counting-house, with a couple of clerk chaps, cocked up upon long-legged stools, writing out letters--a smoky fireplace--two or three files, stuck full of dirty papers, hanging against the wall--an almanack, and a high-railed desk, with a slit in a panel, with "bills for acceptance" painted over it. They are the chaps "wot" makes time-bargains--they speculate for thousands, having nothing in the world--and then at the wind-up of a week or two, pay each other what they call the difference: that is to say, the change between what they cannot get, and what they have not got.

_The Secret Spring_.

There are with all great affairs smaller affairs connected, so that in the watch-work of society, the most skilful artist is sometimes puzzled to fix upon the very little wheel by which the greater wheels are worked.

"_Bad Company_."

The subject under discussion was the great advantages likely to arise from the establishment of the North Shields Sawdust Consolidation Company, in which Apperton told Maxwell there were still seventy-four shares to be purchased: they were hundred pound shares, and were actually down at eighty-nine, would be at fifteen premium on the following Saturday, and must eventually rise to two hundred and thirty, for reasons which he gave in the most plausible manner, and which were in themselves perfectly satisfactory, as he said, to the "meanest capacity;" a saying with which it might have been perfectly safe to agree.

_Love_.

What does Sterne say? That love is no more made by talking of it, than a black pudding would be. Habit, association, assimilation of tastes, communion of thought, kindness without pretension, solicitude without effort, a tacit agreement and a silent sympathy; these are the excitements and stimulants of the only sort of love that is worth thinking of.

_Brighton_.

Brighton will be as good a residence as any other; there's nobody there knows much of either of _you_; and the place has got so big, that you may be as snug as you please; a large town and a large party, are the best possible shelters for love matters. Ay, go to Brighton--the prawns for breakfast, the Wheatears (as the Cockneys delicately call them, without knowing what they are talking about) for dinner, and the lobsters for supper, with a cigar, and a little ginnums and water, whiffing the wind, and sniffing the briny out of one of the bow-window balconies--that's it--Brighton's the place, against the world.

_Murder_.

A gentleman criminal is too rich a treat to be overlooked; and a murder in good society forms a tale of middling life, much too interesting to be passed over in a hurry.

_A Love Errand_.

He went to look for something which he had not left there, and whither she followed him, to assist in a pursuit which she knew went for nothing.

* * * * *

MOORE'S LIFE OF BYRON, VOL. II.

The publication of this work, _bonâ fide_, has not yet taken place; but we are enabled by the aid of the _Athenæum_ to quote a page.

The volume commences with the following powerful review of Lord Byron's mind and fortune at the time he left England:--

"The circumstances under which Lord Byron now took leave of
England were such as, in the case of any ordinary person,
could not be considered otherwise than disastrous and
humiliating. He had, in the course of one short year, gone
through every variety of domestic misery;--had seen his hearth
ten times profaned by the visitations of the law, and been
only saved from a prison by the privileges of his rank. He had
alienated (if, indeed, they had ever been his) the affections
of his wife; and now, rejected by her, and condemned by the
world, was betaking himself to an exile which had not even the
dignity of appearing voluntary, as the excommunicating voice
of society seemed to leave him no other resource. Had he been
of that class of unfeeling and self-satisfied natures from
whose hard surface the reproaches of others fall pointless, he
might have found in insensibility a sure refuge against
reproach; but, on the contrary, the same sensitiveness that
kept him so awake to the applauses of mankind rendered him, in
a still more intense degree, alive to their censure. Even the
strange, perverse pleasures which he felt in painting himself
unamiably to the world did not prevent him from being both
startled and pained when the world took him at his word; and,
like a child in a mask before a looking-glass, the dark
semblance which he had half in sport, put on, when reflected
back upon him from the mirror of public opinion, shocked even
himself.

"Thus surrounded by vexations, and thus deeply feeling them,
it is not too much to say, that any other spirit but his own
would have sunk under the struggle, and lost, perhaps,
irrecoverably, that level of self-esteem which alone affords a
stand against the shocks of fortune. But in him,--furnished as
his mind was with reserves of strength, waiting to be called
out,--the very intensity of the pressure brought relief by the
proportionate reaction which it produced. Had his
transgressions and frailties been visited with no more than
their due portion of punishment, there can be little doubt
that a very different result would have ensued. Not only would
such an excitement have been insufficient to waken up the new
energies still dormant in him, but that consciousness of his
own errors, which was for ever livelily present in his mind,
would, under such circumstances, have been left, undisturbed
by any unjust provocation, to work its usual softening and,
perhaps, humbling influences on his spirit. But,--luckily, as
it proved, for the further triumphs of his genius,--no such
moderation was exercised. The storm of invective raised around
him, so utterly out of proportion with his offences, and the
base calumnies that were everywhere heaped upon his name, left
to his wounded pride no other resource than in the same
summoning up of strength, the same instinct of resistance to
injustice, which had first forced out the energies of his
youthful genius, and was now destined to give him a still
bolder and loftier range of its powers.

* * * * *

"But the greatest of his trials, as well as triumphs, was yet
to come. The last stage of this painful, though glorious,
course, in which fresh power was, at every step, wrung from
out of his soul, was that at which we are now arrived, his
marriage and its results,--without which, dear as was the
price paid by him in peace and character, his career would
have been incomplete, and the world still left in ignorance of
the full compass of his genius. It is indeed worthy of remark,
that it was not till his domestic circumstances began to
darken around him that his fancy, which had long been idle,
again arose upon the wing,--both the Siege of Corinth and
Parisina having been produced but a short time before the
separation. How conscious he was, too, that the turmoil which
followed was the true element of his restless spirit may be
collected from several passages of his letters, at that
period, in one of which he even mentions that his health had
become all the better for the conflict:--'It is odd,' he says,
'but agitation or contest of any kind gives a rebound to my
spirits, and sets me up for the time.'

"This buoyancy it was--this irrepressible spring of
mind,--that now enabled him to bear up not only against the
assaults of others, but what was still more difficult, against
his own thoughts and feelings. The muster of all his mental
resources to which, in self-defence, he had been driven, but
opened to him the yet undreamed extent and capacity of his
powers, and inspired him with a proud confidence, that he
should yet shine down these calumnious mists, convert censure
to wonder, and compel even those who could not approve to
admire.

"The route which he now took, through Flanders and by the
Rhine, is best traced in his own matchless verses, which leave
a portion of their glory on all that they touch, and lend to
scenes, already clothed with immortality by nature and by
history, the no less durable associations of undying song."

* * * * *

THE GATHERER.

A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.
SHAKSPEARE.

SELDEN,

Towards the close of his life, was so thoroughly convinced of the superior value of the Holy Scriptures, as to declare that the 11th, 12th, 13th, and 14th verses of the second chapter of St. Paul's Epistle to Titus, afforded him more solid satisfaction than all he had ever read.

H.B.A.

* * * * *

FULL-BOTTOMED WIGS.

The full-bottomed wigs which unfortunately envelope and cloud some of the most distinguished portraits of former days, were in fashion during the reigns of our William and Mary. Lord Bolingbroke was one of the first that tied them up, with which the queen was much offended, and said to a by-stander, "he would soon come to court in his night-cap." Soon after, tie wigs, instead of being an undress, became the high court dress.

H.B.A.

* * * * *

A WINDOW THE CAUSE OF A WAR.

When the Palace of Trianon was building for Louis XIV. at the end of Versailles' Park, that monarch went to inspect it, accompanied by Louvois, secretary of war, and superintendent of the building. Whilst walking arm in arm with him, he remarked that one of the windows was out of shape, and smaller than the rest--this Louvois denied, and asserted that he could not perceive the least difference. Louis XIV. having had it measured, and finding that he had judged rightly, treated Louvois in a contumelious manner before his whole court. This conduct so incensed the minister, that when he arrived home he was heard to say, that he would find better employment for a monarch than that of insulting his favourites: he was as good as his word, for by his insolence and haughtiness he insulted the other powers, and occasioned the bloody war of 1688.

* * * * *

In 1306, Bruce having taken shelter in the Isle of Arran, sent a trusty person into Carrick, to learn how his vassals stood affected to his cause; with instructions, that, if he found them disposed to assist him he should make a signal at a time appointed, by lighting a fire on an eminence near the Castle of Turnbury. The messenger found the English in possession of Carrick, the people dispirited, and none ready to take arms; he therefore did not make the signal. But a fire being made about noon on the appointed spot, (possibly by accident) both Bruce and the messenger saw it. The former with his associates put to sea to join his supposed party; the latter to prevent his coming. They met before Bruce reached the shore, when the messenger acquainted Bruce with the unpromising state of his affairs, and advised him to go back; but he obeying the dictates of despair and valour, resolved to persevere; and attacking the English, carelessly cantoned in the neighbourhood of Turnbury, put a number of them to the sword, and pillaged their quarters. Percy, from the castle, heard the uproar, yet did not sally forth against them, not knowing their strength. Bruce with his followers not exceeding three hundred in number, remained for some days near Turnbury; but succours having arrived from the neighbouring garrisons, he was obliged to seek safety in the mountainous parts of Carrick.

C.D.

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"WILLIE WASTLE."

When Oliver Cromwell was at Haddington, he sent a summons to the governor of Hume Castle, ordering him to surrender. The governor answered,

"That he, Willie Wastle, stood firm in his castle,
That all the dogs of his town should not drive Willie Wastle down."

This anecdote gave rise to the amusement of Willie Wastle among children.

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When the Irish Union was effected in 1801, the Ex-Chancellor of the Exchequer, Sir John Parnell, was the reigning _toast_. Being one evening in a convivial party, he jocularly said that by the Union he had lost his _bread and butter_. "Ah, my dear sir," replied a friend, "never mind, for it is amply made up to you in _toasts_."

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CURIOUS LEGACY.

_By Samuel Hawkins, Esq. to White Chapel Parish, 1804, bequeathing £300. for performing Divine Service for ever, in the said parish church_.

Two guineas to be paid to Curate or Rector, for preaching a sermon on New Year's Day, from a text mentioned in his will. To Parish Clerk 10s. 6d. to sing 100th Psalm, old version, same day. To organist 10s. 6d. for playing tune to same. To Sexton 10s. 6d. if he attend the same; and to master and mistress of the free-school, each 10s. 6d. for attending the charity children at the same time and place; and to the Trustees of the school three guineas for refreshments, and to supply as many quartern loaves to be distributed to such poor as shall attend divine service on that day. The overplus, if any, to be given in bread to the poor of the parish that the trustees may consider proper objects of relief.

JAC-CO.

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WIT AND JOKES.

Selden says, "Nature must be the ground work of wit and art, otherwise whatever is done will prove but Jack-pudding's work.

"Wit must grow like fingers; if it be taken from others, 'tis like plums stuck upon black thorns; they are there for awhile, but they come to nothing.

"Women ought not to know their own wit, because they will be showing it, and so spoil it; like a child that will constantly be showing its fine new coat, till at length it all bedaubs it with its pah hands.

"Fine wits destroy themselves with their own plots in meddling with great affairs of state. They commonly do as the ape, that saw the gunner put bullets in the cannon, and was pleased with it, and he would be doing so too; at last he puts himself into the piece, and so both ape and bullet were shot away together."

"The jokes, bon-mots, the little adventures, which may do very well (says Chesterfield) in one company will seem flat and tedious when related in another--they are often ill-timed, and prefaced thus: 'I will tell you an excellent thing.' This raises expectations, which when absolutely disappointed, make the relator of this excellent thing look, very deservedly, like a fool."

P.T.W.

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FAT FOLKS.

Prince Harry and Falstaff, in Shakspeare, have carried the ridicule upon fat and lean as far as it will go. Falstaff is humorously called _Wool-Sack_, _Bed Presser_, and _Hill of Flesh_; Harry, a _Starveling_, an _Eel's-skin_, a _Sheath_, a _Bow-case_, and a _Tuck_.

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_Printed and published by J. LIMBIRD, 143, Strand, (near Somerset House,) London; sold by ERNEST FLEISCHER, 626, New Market, Leipsic; and by all Newsmen and Booksellers_.