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want of staidness and sobriety about it, that interferes wofully with the business details of courting for marriage. Its possessor becomes frequently un homme de société-a liver from home, an habitual lounger, and there is an end of wiving; or, if he be forced to drudge for his subsistence, no sooner is the galling chain of daily servitude unloosed, but he hunts after some stimulus, mental or physical, to ease his pent-up fancies. And again, many literary men, of a sentimental turn of mind, are, as far as women are concerned, dreamers: they have conjured up some fair spirit, and fondly hope to meet with its counterpart. The search is hopeless: there are thousands of beautiful beings, indeed, fairer and better, perhaps, than the tenants of a poet's dream; but they are creatures of the earth, and, as such, must be wooed, won, and cherished. Still more than this, mind is often selfish-that is, pertinacious of its own worldly ways, and jealous and suspicious of close companionship; nor are there a few who carry this so far, that they would fain have us believe that intellect has triumphed over feeling-that they are become the teres atque rotundus of the stoic-that they are people to

"Whose smooth-rubb'd soul can cling

Nor form nor feeling, great or small,

But reasoning self-sufficing things,

And intellectuals all in all;"

and in the spirit of cold philosophy travel onward through life, unblessed and unblessing.

Men of a poetic temperament, especially where that temperament has been chastened and sublimed by abstract reasoning, are, to a great extent, unqualified for association with women as they are. Milton-whose genius was most profound,-whose intellect was most grand and imposing,-whose form, figure, and disposition seemed to have been elaborately finished, as a model for grace and manliness-was, nevertheless, by the peculiar bent of his studies, made a harsh and wrong-judging man as to the sex. He was unhappy in his domestic relations; and yet what can be more beautiful or more touching than many of his observations on home felicity? Warton, a man who entered deeply into the genius of Milton, acutely remarks" By studying the reveries of the Platonic writers, he contracted a theory concerning the chastity and the purity of love, in the contemplation of which, like other visionaries, he indulged his imagination with ideal refinements, and with pleasing and unmeaning notions of excellence and perfection. Plato's sentimental or metaphysical love, he seems to have applied to the natural love between the sexes: and though no man of later times has approximated to Milton, yet many men have either become Bachelors through this temperament, or have taken wives from abstract notions, and been unhappy.

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SPECIMENS OF WIT AND WISDOM ELOQUENCE AND LEARNING,

FROM THE OLD WRITERS.

BY E. H. BARKER, ESQ.

OF TRIN. COLL., CAMB.

A

"AN ALDERMAN.-He is venerable in his gown, more in his beard, wherewith he sets not forth so much his own, as the face of a city. You must look on him as one of the town-gates, and consider him not as a body, but a corporation. His eminency above others hath made him a man of worship; for he had never been preferred, but that he was worth thousands. He oversees the commonwealth as his shop, and it is an argument of his policy, that he has thriven by his craft. He is a rigorous magistrate in his ward; yet his scale of justice is suspected, lest it be like the balances in his warehouse. ponderous man he is, and substantial; for his weight is commonly extraordinary, and in his preferment nothing rises so much as his belly. His head is of no great depth, yet well furnished; and when it is in conjunction with his brethren, may bring forth a city apophthegm, or some such sage matter. He is one that will not hastily run into error; for he treads with great deliberation, and his judgment consists much in his pace. His discourse is commonly the annals of his mayoralty, and what good government there was in his gold chain, though the door-posts were the only things that suffered reformation. He seems most sincerely religious, especially on solemn days; for he comes often to church to make a show, and is a part of the quire-hangings. He is the highest stair of his profession, and an example to his trade, what in time they may come to. He makes very much of his authority, but more of his satin doublet, which,. though of good years, bears its age very well, and looks fresh every Sunday; but his scarlet gown is a monument, and lasts from generation to generation." (DR. J. EARLE'S Microcosmography, or a Piece of the World Discovered: London, 1628-1811. p. 18.)

"AN ANTIQUARY.-He is a man strangely thrifty of time past, and an enemy indeed to his maw, whence he fetches out many things, when they are now all rotten and stinking. He is one that hath that unnatural disease to be enamoured of old age and wrinkles, and loves all things, as Dutchmen do cheese, the better for being mouldy and worm-eaten. He is of our religion, because we say it is most ancient, and yet a broken statue would almost make him an idolater. A great admirer he is of the rust of old monuments, and reads only those characters where time hath eaten out the letters. He will go you forty miles to see a saint's well or a ruined abbey; and there be but a cross or stone footstool in the way, he will be considering it so long, till he forget his journey. His estate consists much in shekels and Roman coins; and he hath more pictures of Cæsar than James or Elizabeth. Beggars cozen him with musty

things, which they have raked from dunghills, and he preserves their rags for precious relics. He loves no library but where there are more spiders' volumes than authors, and looks with great admiration on the antique work of cobwebs. Printed books he contemns as a novelty of this latter age, but a manuscript he pores on everlastingly, especially if the cover be all moth-eaten, and the dust make a parenthesis between every syllable. He would give all the books in his study (which are rarities all) for one of the old Roman binding, or six lines of Tully in his own hand. His chamber is hung commonly with strange beasts' skins, and is a kind of charnel-house of bones extraordinary; and his discourse upon them, if you will hear him, shall last longer. His very attire is that which is the oldest out of fashion, [and you may pick a criticism out of his breeches*]. He never looks upon himself till he is grey-haired, and then he is pleased with his own antiquity. His grave does not frighten him; for he has been used to sepulchres, and he likes death the better, because it gathers him to his fathers." (From the Same, p. 22.)

"Short Sermon.-On the festival of St. Stephen many had assembled for public worship at a town in Italy. A religious person was, according to custom, on the point of addressing the people. The time was moving slowly on; the priests were impatient for their dinner, and, fearing a long and dull discourse, one or two of them suggested in a whisper to the preacher, as he ascended the pulpit, that he should dispatch his sermon quickly. He was easily persuaded to lend himself to their views, and, after the usual preamble, gravely said: My brethren, in the past year, when you were present in this place, I spoke to you about the holy life, and the signal miracles of this our saint,-I omitted nothing of what I had either heard about him, or found written in sacred books; all which I do not doubt that you bear in your memory. And as he did nothing new afterwards, I have found nothing more written about him. Make, then, the sign of the cross, and say the Confession.' He then closed his address, and departed." (Poggii Facetiæ.)

"Minacius's Counsel to the Rustic.-A rustic ascended a tree to collect some of its fruit, fell, and hurt himself. One Minacius, a man of pleasantry, came up to console him, and in the course of conversation said that he could furnish him with a rule, by the observance of which he would never again experience the like catastrophe. I wish,' said the wounded peasant, you had beforehand given your counsel, but it may be useful for the future.' Well, then,' replied the man of wit, always take care to avoid descending with more quickness than you ascend, and thus you will never fall headlong.' "" (From the Same.)

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"The Plough and Pierus.-One Pierus, an unlettered rustic, had fatigued himself and his oxen with ploughing, and, wishing to return to his home, puts the plough on the ass, and mounts it, driving the

*

"First Edition: And his hat is as ancient as the Tower of Babel.""

oxen before him. Pierus at length perceived that the ass, unaccustomed to so heavy a load, could not proceed; he therefore descends, takes the plough on his shoulder, and, mounting the ass again, says,Now you can surely walk, for it is not you, but I, who carry the plough.' (From the Same: see the Additamenta Philippi Hermotimi ad Facetias Bebelianas, 1660. p. 294.)

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"Drowned Woman.--A man, whose wife had perished in a river, proceeded, in search of her, against the stream. One, who saw the operation, recommended him to follow the course of the stream: 'No,' replied the husband, 'she will never be found by that method; for, while she lived, she was so morose and perverse and contrary to the manners of others, that she would never have walked even after death except against the stream.'" (From the Same.) There are various poetic versions of the story: our readers may be amused with the two which we will quote :

"Flumine demersam sociam crescente maritus

Quærit, et inverso tramite carpit iter.

Quo fluit unda, virum quidam jubet ire; sinistrum
Fluminis accedis cur, malesane, caput?

Uxor in æternum non invenietur, amice,
Alter ait, recto si pede forsan eam.

Moribus illa meis semper contraria vixit;

Quis neget adversus quin modo serpat aquas

?"

(SEBASTIAN SCHEFFER, Delicia Germ. Poet.)

"Perdidit uxorem Lincus; dum quæreret illam,
Ostensum est Linco, qua instituisset iter.

Ibo ex adverso, inquit; nam contraria semper
Conjux et facere et dicere cuncta solet."

(NIC. BARTHOLOMEUS LOCHIENSIS Epigrammata, 1532.)

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"There were two men going up Holborn in a cart to be hanged: one of them, being very merry and jocund, gave offence unto the other, who was as sad and dejected, insomuch as that the downcast man said unto the other, I wonder, brother, that you can be so frolic, considering the business that we are going about.' 'Tush!' answered the other, thou art a fool; thou wentest a thieving, and never thought what would become of thee; wherefore being on a sudden surprised, thou fallest into such a shaking fit, that I am ashamed to see thee in that condition, whereas I was resolved to be hanged before ever I fell to stealing, which is the reason, nothing happening strange or unexpected, I go so composed unto my death."" (Witty Apophthegms, 1658, 12mo.)

"The Drunkard.-A well-known toper fell into a fever, which greatly increased his thirst: when the physicians were deliberating on the means of removing both, the patient gravely begged that they would confine themselves to the office and task of removing the fever, leaving to himself the cure of the thirst." (Poggii Facetiæ.)

THE WRECK.

ON SEEING A PORTION OF A VESSEL FAST IN THE SAND.

I WALK along-the wind is roaring high,
And sounds amid the pauses of the waves:
Rare music this-rare songs for poetry

To hear the tempest's trumpet how it raves-
To hear the thundering sea among its rocky caves!

Unto what ship did this frail spar belong?
What shore resounded to its fearless prow?
What people echoed forth the farewell song,

As they beheld her through the billows plough,
With streamers red and white upon her queenly brow?

What gorgeous hues have paved this vessel's way!
What songs
from coral caverns breathed around!
Morn, noon, and night have lent their brightest ray,
That clothed her like a fairy vision round,

Whilst scarce her footsteps stirr'd the echo of a sound!

There is no masquerading on the sea

No careless voice, nor stir of winged feet:

There roams the undaunted, and the bold and free
To daring enterprise for ever meet—

Fearless of winter tempests or the summer heat.

And fleshless spectres haunt this solitude-
Pale phantoms shrouded in the ocean deep-
Unearthly forms that in wild caverns brood-

Fierce, restless wanderers that never sleep,
But 'mid the gusty night-winds ever sigh and weep!

And here loud wailings long ago were heard,

When the fair sails that clad thee rustled down-
When all thy many human hearts were stirr'd

To hideous fears, whilst from deep fields unknown
The vast battalion'd waves rush'd on 'mid shriek and groan!

Now clings the tangled weed where bright hues shone-
Now sound drear winds where joyous voices sung:

The life and gladness evermore is gone,

That circling at thy heart embracing hung

All sunk away-their knell by pitiless ocean rung!

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