cannot call to mind half his pleasant wonders; but I perfectly remember that in the course of his travels he had seen a phoenix, and he obligingly undeceived us of the vulgar error that there is but one of that species at a time, assuring us that they are by no means uncommon in some parts of Upper Egypt,' &c., &c. One story more, and I have done, and we will dismiss these cheery liars, for whom, I confess, I have a considerable weakness. My friend S was one of the kindest beings I ever knew. Alas! he has gone over to the majority. Now for 'Mr. Joseph Addison.' Two gentlemenI believe, Mr. George Augustus Sala, and the late Mr. James Hannay-happened to be in a coffee-house where, for privacy, the seats were divided into separate boxes. They were extolling the character and writings of Addison, with all the enthusiasm which the subject deserved. In the middle of their discourse a hungry, shabby-looking fellow suddenly popped his head round the corner from the next box, and said, with a very broad Irish accent, 'Your pardon, gentlemen, but my name's Joseph Addison, I am lineally descended from that great gentleman himself, and just now I have certain temporary embarrassments of a pecuniary nature, &c., &c., &c. Then Mr. Hannay or Mr. Sala, I do not know which, and anyhow I beg Mr. Sala's pardon, with perfect presence of mind and remarkable readiness of resource, at once replied to him thus: "You have intruded yourself on our privacy, but, having heard what you have just said, I will merely remark that when Addison died he left an only daughter, and she was an idiot, and therefore, so far, there would seem to be some colour for the truth of your assertion, but seeing that this idiot daughter died in childhood, I am bound to say you are a thorough-paced impostor and liar.' A DILEMMA. St. Paul writes to Titus (ch. i. ver. 12): 'One of themselves, even a prophet of their own, said, The Cretans are alway liars.' If the prophet (Epimenides) was a liar (which, being a Cretan, he ought to have been), then this sentiment was false of the Cretans. If he was a truthful man, it was still untrue, because it proved that there was one Cretan (namely himself) who was not a liar. CAPITAL IN THE WRONG PLACE. A very High Church clergyman, in Norfolk, undertook to do duty for a neighbour, who, as it turned out, did not carry on the ceremonial of his Church in altogether a sympathetic manner. He was about to ascend the pulpit stairs when the Clerk plucked him by the sleeve, and whispered his hopes that he would not mind delivering his sermon from the reading desk, for, 'Your pardon, sir, but there's a hen tukkey a-settin' in the pul-pit!' HIGH OR LOW CHURCH. A clergyman, of Brownwich, called at the Inn to order dinner for a clerical meeting. "igh Church or Low Church, sir?' said the waiter. 'What can that matter?' said the clergyman. 'Oh, werry important, sir,' says the waiter; "igh Church-better wine, sir'; Low Church-more wittles.' THOMAS Fuller. (1608-1661.) FOOLS. There are fools with little heads, and there are fools with big heads for so much wit, and for so much room. : in the one case there is no room in the other case there is no wit THE GOOD YEOMAN. The good yeoman is a gentleman in ore, whom the next age may see refined. THE WOUNDED SOLDIER. Halting is the stateliest march of a soldier. WILLIAM COWPER. I have lately seen some of Cowper's little poems, especially those to Mary Unwin, described as the lovesongs of old age. Mr. F. T. Palgrave says of one of these I know no sonnet more remarkable than this which records Cowper's gratitude to the lady whose affectionate care for many years gave what sweetness he could enjoy to a life radically wretched. Petrarch's sonnets have a more ethereal grace, and a more perfect finish; Shakespeare's more passion; Milton's stand supreme in stateliness; Wordsworth's in depth and delicacy. But Cowper's unites with an exquisiteness in the turn of thought which the ancients would have called Irony, an intensity of pathetic tenderness peculiar to his loving and ingenuous nature. There is much mannerism, much that is unimportant or of now exhausted interest in his poems, but where he is great it is with that elementary greatness which rests on the most universal human feelings. Cowper is our highest master in simple pathos. Cowper's 'Poplar Field' is a very skilful effort of versification. Byron, Moore, Campbell, and others, have written in this metre; but I think Cowper is the most successful of all. It is the easiest metre in which to write badly, but one of the most difficult in which to write exceedingly well. TO HIS COY MISTRESS. 'Had we but world enough, and time— would Love you ten years before the flood; But thirty thousand to the rest. An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, Lady, you deserve this state; Nor would I love at lower rate. 'But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near : |