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She lets the stranger in. Who can it be? A suitor? Ask the maid; already she ls listening at the key-hole; but her ear Only Dorinda's plaintive tone can hear. The afternoon slips by. What can it mean 7 The stranger goes not yet, has not been seen To leave the house. Perhaps he makes request— Unheard-of boldness —to remain, a guest? Dorinda comes at length, and, sooth to say, alone.— Where is the image, her dear, sad delight?— “Maid,” she begins, “say, what shall now be done? The gentleman will be my guest to-night. Go, instantly, and boil the pot of fish.” “Yes, madam, yes, with pleasure, as you wish.” Dorinda goes back to her room again. The maid ransacks the house to find a stick Of wood to make a fire beneath the pot, in Waln. She cannot find a single one, then quick She calls Dorinda out ; in agony. “Ah, madam, hear the solemn truth,” says
she . “There's not a stick of fish-wood in the house. Suppose I take that image down and split it 2 That Is good, hard wood, and to our purpose at.” “The image? No, indeed —But—well— yes, dol What need you have been making all this touse?”
“But, ma'am, the image is too much for me;
“WHAT is this?” said a traveller, who entertained reasonable doubts as to the genuineness of certain so-called relics of antiquity, while visiting an old cathedral in the Netherlands: “What is contained in this phial 2 ”
“Sir,” replied the sacristan, “that phial contains one of the frogs picked up when
Pharaoh was visited with the plague of frogs.” “I am sure, then,” rejoined the traveller, “there could have been no epicures in those days.” “Why so?” said the sacristan. “Because they would have eaten him, he is so large and fat.” The traveller took up another phial which was near. “This contains?” sai he— “That is a most precious relic of the church, which we value very highly.” “It looks very dark.” “There is good reason for that.” “I am somewhat curious. Tell me why.” “You perceive it is very dark.” “I own it.” “That, sir, is some of the darkness which Moses spread over the land of Egypt.” “Indeed! I presume, what the moderns call darkness made visible.”
A MAN WHO DIDN'T OVERESTIMATE HIMSELF.
A HEBREW merchant from a Western city went into one of our large wholesale houses the other day, and said he wished to buy about $1,500 worth of goods. He was willing to pay $1,200 cash, and give his note for ninety days for the rest of the bill. The firm looked up the house which the customer represented and came to the conclusion that his note wouldn't be of much value. They concluded, however, to sell him the goods he desired, making a sufficient advance in the usual price to cover the amount of the note. The sale was made, and the bill amounted to $1,450. The purchaser paid the $1,200 and drew his note for the remainder.
“Now mine vriends,” said he, “I wants you to gif me von, present, I always has a present after so big a bill.”
“Well,” replied the merchant, “we can't give you much of a present, but
ou can pick out a necktie for yourself,
if you wish.”
“No, no. I wants no neckties. I wants a silk dress for mine wife.” r
“O, we can’t do that l” said the merchant, “but I’ll tell you what we will do. We will give you your note.”
“My notes. No, py my gracious, I takes ze necktiel”
THE COLLEGIAN AND THE PORTER.
[JAMrs AND HoRACE SMITH, authors of The Rejected Addresses, were sons of an eminent London Solicitor; Jarnes was born Feb. 10, 1775, died Dec. 24, 1839. Horace was born Dec. 31, 1779, died July 12, 1849. James followed his father's profession and succeeded him as Folicitor to the board of ordnance. Horace adopted the profession of a stock broker, and realized a handsome fortune, on which he retired with his family to Brighton. Both were popular and accomplished men—James remarkable for his conversational powers and gayety, and Horace (the wealthier of the two) distinguished for true liberality and benevolence. The work by which they are best known is a small volume of poetical parodies or imitations, perhaps the best in the language. On the opening of the new Drury Lane theater, in October, 1812, the committee of management advertised for an address to be spoken on the occasion, and the brothers Smith adopted a suggestion made to them, that they should write a series of supposed “Rejected Addresses.” They accomplished their task in the course of a few weeks— James furnishing imitations of Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Crabbe, Cobbett, etc.; while Horace contributed imitations of Scott, Byron (all but the first stanza,) Moore, and others. In point of talent, the authors were about equally matched, for though James had the greater number of successful imitations, the one by Horace of Scott is the most felicitous of the whole. It is a curious fact in literary history that a work so exceedingly popular should have had great difficulty in finding a publisher; and that the copyright, which had been originally offered to Murray for £20 and refused, was purchased by him in 1819, after the book had run through sixteen editions, for £131. The authors received above £1000 from the sale of the work.]
At Trin. Coll. Cam.—which means, in proper
One need not be a necromancer
The next offence occurr'd next night;
When our Incurable came rolling
Home, as the midnight chimes were tolling, And rang the College Bell. No answer.
The second peal was vain—the third
when old MILEs STANDIsh took the bowl, and fill d it to the brim;
The little Captain stood and stirr'd the posset with his sword,
And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board.
He poured the fiery Hollands in—the man that never fear'd—
He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard;
And one by one the musketeers—the men that fought and pray'd
All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.
That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew— He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo ; And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin, • Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin ''
A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows,
A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose,
When once again the bowl was fill'd, but not in mirth or joy,
‘Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.
* Drink, John,' she said, “’twill do you good, poor child, you'll never bear This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air; And if–God bless me !—you were hurt, 'twould drive away the chill; So John did drink—and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!
I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer; 1 tell you 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here; 'Tis but the fool that loves excess; hast thou a drunken soul ? Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl |
I love the memory of the past—its press'd yet fragrant flowers—
The moss that clothes its broken walls—the ivy on its towers;
Nay, this poor bauble it bequeath'd, my eyes grow moist and dim,
To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.
Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me; The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be: And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin That dooms one to those dreadful words; ‘My dear, where have you been o' OLIVER WENDELL Holmes.
The Emperor Nicholas of Russia was thus “sold,” a few years ago. During an interview which M.; the comedian and mimic, had succeeded in obtaining with the Prince (Volkhonsky, high steward), the emperor walked into the room unexpectedly, yet with a design, as was soon made evident. Telling the actor that he had heard of his talents, and should like to see a specimen of them, he bade him mimic the old minister. This feat was performed with so much gusto that the emperor laughed immoderately, and then, to the great horror of the poor actor, desired to have himself “taken off.” “'Tis physically impossible,” pleaded Martinës. "Nonsenso said Nicholas. “I insist on its being done.” Finding himself on the horns of a dilemma, the mimic took heart of grace, and, with a promptitude and presence of mind that probably saved his credit, buttoned his coat over his breast, expanded his chest, threw up his head, and, assuming the imperial port to the best of his power, strode, across the room and back; then, stopping opposite the minister, he cried, in the exact tone and manner of the Czar, “Volkhonsky! pay Monsieur, Martineff one thousand silver roubles.” The emperor for a moment was disconcerted; but, recovering himself with a faint smile, he ordered his enemy to be paid.
EQUALITY.--When Dr. Johnson courted Mrs. Porter, he told her he was of mean extraction; had no money; and had an uncle hanged . The lady, by wa of reducing herself to an equality wit him, replied that she had no more money than himself; and that, although she had not a relation hanged, she had fifty who deserved hanging. And thus was accomplished this singular union.
A SHOOTING EXPLOIT OF TOM
ToM SHERIDAN used to tell a story for and against himself, which we shall take leave to relate. He was staying at Lord Craven's, at Benham (or rather Hempstead), and one day proceeded on a shooting excursion, like Hawthorn, with only “his dog and his gun,” on foot, and unattended by comanion or keeper; the sport was bad—the É. few and shy—and he walked and walked in search of game, until unconsciously he entered the domain of some neighbouring squire. A very short time after, he perceived advancing toward him, at the top of his speed, a jolly, comfortable-looking gentleman, followed by a servant, armed, as it appeared, for conflict. Tom took up a position, and waited the approach of the enemy. “Halloa you sir,” said the squire, when within half ear-shot, “what are you doing here, sir, eh?” “I’m shooting, sir,” said Tom. “Do you know where you are, sir?” said the squire. “I’m here, sir,” said Tom. “Here, sir!” said the squire, growing angry, “and do you know where here is, sir?—these, sir, are my manors; what d'ye think of that, sir, eh?” “Why, sir, as to your manners,” said Tom, “I can't say they seem over-agreeable.” “I don't want any jokes, sir,” said the squire; “I hate jokes. Who are you, sir —what are you?” “Why, sir,” said Tom, “my name is Sheridan—I am staying at Lord Craven's —I have come out for some sport—I have not had any, and am not aware that I am trespassing.” “Sheridan l’” said the squire, cooling a little; “oh, from Lord Craven's, eh? Well, sir, I could not know that, sir—I—” “No, sir,” said Tom, “but you need not have been in a passion.” “Not in a passion, Mr. Sheridan 1" said the squire; “you don't know what these preserves have cost me, and the pains and trouble I have been at with them ; it's all very well for you to talk, but if you were in my place, I should like
to know what you would say upon such