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began to disagree with the almanac, and the religious festivals to fall somewhat out of place. The error was estimated to amount to eleven days; the correction of which was assumed by the Roman Pontifex. but with the aid of a science far more accurate than had been possessed by the Pontifices of the older time. The modes now adopted, for preserving accuracy in future, are known to most well-informed readers, so hat we shall not dwell upon them farther than to say, that they consist generally in such omissions of the leap year, from time to time, as will correct the very small excess by which a quarter of a day exceeds the actual fraction of the tropical year.

"And God said-Let there be lights in the firmament of Heaven, and let them be for days, and for years, and for times, and for seasons." It requires some thought before we can fully realize how much we are indebted, morally and mentally, as well as physically, to these time-measuring arrangements. We must place ourselves in the condition of the savage before we can know how much of our civilization comes from the almanac, or, in other words, our exact divisions of time aiding the idea and the memory-thus shaping our knowledge, or thinking, and even our emotions, so as to make them very different from what they might have been, had we not possessed these regulators of our inner as well as our outer man. How unlike, in all this, must be the life of the untaught children of the forest! Let us endeavor to fancy men living from age to age without any known length or divisions of the year-no lesser or greater periods to serve as landmarks, or, rather, sky-marks, in their history-and, therefore, without any possibility of really having any history. Summer and winter come and go, but to the savage all the future is a chaos, and all the past is

With the years beyond the flood, unmarked by any intervals which may give it a hold upon the thoughts or the memory. The heavenly bodies make their monthly, and annual, and cyclical revolutions, but their eternal order finds no correspondence in his chaotic experience. The stars roll nightly over his head, but only to direct his steps in the wilderness, without shedding a ray of light upon the denser wilderness of his dark and sensual mind. The old man knows not how many years he has lived. He knows not the ages of his children. He has heard, indeed, of the acts of his fathers; but all are equally remote. They belong to the past, and the past is all alike-a dark back-ground of tradition, without any of that chronological perspective through which former ages look down upon us with an aspect as life-like and as truthful as the present. The phenomena of the physical world have been ever flitting like shadows before his sense, but the understanding has never connected them with their causes, never followed them to their sources, never seen in them any ground of coherence or relation, simply because time, the great connective medium of all inductive comparison, has been to him an undivided, unarranged, and, therefore, unremembered vacancy. Hence it is, he never truly earns to think, and, on this account, never makes progress-never rises of himself from that low animal state to which he may once have fallen, in his ever downward course from the primitive light and truth. Eschylus, in the Prometheus, makes such to have Deen the first condition of mankind. But, however false his theory in this respect-opposed as it is to the sure teachings of revelation-nothing can be truer to the life than the fancy picture he has given usNo sure foreknowing sign had they of winter, Nor of flowery spring, or summer with its fruits. Unmarked the years rolled ever on; and hence

Seeing, they saw not; hearing, they heard in vain.
Like one wild dream their waste unmeasured life.
Until I taught them how to note the year
By signal stars, and gave them Memory,
The active mother of all human science.

THE PULPIT and the PRESS-the past and the present, the rising and the waning power, would be to some minds the first idea suggested by such a collocation of terms. But we trust the time has no yet come for the actual verification of any such con trast. Far be it from us to underrate the value of the very instrument through which we seek to instruct and reform the public mind; but woe to the land and to the age in which such an antagonism shall ever be realized. The Press is man's boasted means for en. lightening the world. The Pulpit is Heaven's ordi nance; and sad will it be for the Church, and sadde. still for the State, when any other power on earth challenges a superiority, either in rank or influence The clergy can safely occupy no inferior place; and such is their position, unless they are ever in advance of the age, not in the common cant of a superficial doctrine of progress, but as champions of the eternal and immovable truths, while they are, at the same time, contending in all the fields, whether of theology, or science, or literature, or philosophy, in which there may be an enemy to be subdued, or a victory won for Christ. Such rank, we believe, may still be claimed for the Church. In former centuries she had neither antagonist nor rival. Now has she hosts of both Yet are her servants still in the "fore-front of the hottest battle." Philosophy and science are swelling loud and long the note of triumph, and yet it is still true, even in a period the most thoroughly secular the world has ever known since the days of the Apostles, that the highest efforts of mind are connected, as ever, with the domain of theology. Sci ence, literature, and even politics, find their most profound interest for the human soul when the ques tions they raise lie nearest to her sacred confines, and connect themselves with that "faith which is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen." What true worth in any problem in philosophy, in any discovery in science, the moment it is once conclusively settled, beyond a peradventure, that man has no hereafter? What becomes of art, and poetry? What meaning in "progress," and "ideas," and the "rights of man?" But it is this dread though all-conservative idea of a hereafter, which it is the office of the Pulpit ever to keep before the human soul, not as a lifeless dogma for the understanding, but in all those stern relations to a higher positive law, which shall ever prevent its coalescing with a frivolous creed in theology, or any boasting philosophy of mere secular reform. In doing this, there is needed for the Pulpit, first of all, and above all, the most intense seriousness of spirit, secondly the most thorough knowledge of the Scriptures, and thirdly, learning, science, and philosophy, fully equal to any thing that may be brought to cope with it in its unyielding strife for the dominion of the world.

In urging this, however, we should never forget, that while the power of the periodical Press is often unduly enhanced by a falsely coloring medium of estimation, the glory and influence of the Pulpit are diminished by a similar cause. Apparent variety of topic, an apparent freshness in the mode of treatment, a skillful adaptation to the ever varying excitements of the hour, all aided by the ceaseless craving in the human soul for mere intellectual novelty, give to the one an appearance of superiority it does not really possess, while, in respect to the other, the necessary

repetition of the same great truths, from age to age, has produced just the contrary effect.

There is no way, therefore, in which we can better employ the imagination than in helping us to get away from such a false and blinding influence. How would the mightiest minds of the ancient world now estimate the two prime powers of which we are speaking. Let us imagine Cicero, or Aristotle, to be permitted to revisit the earth, and study its new modes of thought as they would strike them from their old and, therefore, unbiased point of observa

with its celestial origin. Here, indeea is progress But we must close our sketch. Is the picture over drawn? Or have we truthfully presented the highest although, in spirit, the least acknowledged aspect of the real superiority of the modern mind-even the humblest modern mind-over the proudest intellects of the ancient world?

Editor's Easy Chair.

tion. Lay before them all the wonders of the modern BETWEEN CONGRESS, KOSSUTH, and CHRIST

newspaper press. They would doubtless be startled with many things it would reveal to them in the discoveries of modern physical seience. But take them in those wide fields of thought in which mere physical discovery avails not to give superiority, and we may well doubt whether they would yield to us that triumph we so loudly claim. There is nothing in any modern declamation on the rights of men, or rights of women, that would make Aristotle ashamed of his Politica. Cicero might hear discussed our closest questions of social casuistry, yet think as proudly of his Offices, and his Republic, as he ever did while a resident upon earth. No modern political correspondence would make him blush for his Letters to Brutus and to Atticus. The ablest leader in any of our daily journals, would not strike them as very superior, either in thought or style, to what might have been expected from a Pericles, a Cleon, an Isocrates, or a Sallust. Our profoundest arguments for and against foreign intervention might, perhaps, only remind him of the times when democratic Athens was so disinterestedly striving to extend her "liberal institutions," and aristocratic Sparta, with just about equal honesty, was gathering the other Hellenic cities to a rusade in favor of a sound conservatism. Modern Europe, with its politics, would be only Greece on larger scale; and our own boasts of universal annexation might only call up some sad reminiscences of the olden time, when "the masses” did their thinking through the sophist and the rhetorician, instead of the lecturer and the press.

But now let fancy change the scene from the reading room to the ministrations of the Christian temple. To present the contrast in its strongest light, let it be the humblest church, with the humblest worshipers, and the humblest preacher of our great city-some obscure corner which the literary and editorial lights of the age might regard as the last place in which there could be expected any thing original or profound. Yes the poorest sermon of the poorest preacher in New York could hardly fail to strike the great Roman, and the greater Greek, with an awe which nothing of any other kind in the modern world could ever inspire. What wondrous truths are these, and whence came they! Whence this doctrine of eternal life, so far beyond what we ever dared to think-this preaching of "righteousness, temperance, and a judgment to come," so far transcending all the ancient moralists had ever taught! Whence these new and startling words, these superhuman ideas of grace, of prayer, of redemption, of a new and heavenly birth! And then again, the sublimity of that invocation-the heavenly thought, and heavenly harmony, of that song of praise and love! All is redolent of a philosophy to which our most rapt contemplations never ventured to ascend. Even the despised hymn-book may be soberly supposed to fill their souls with an admiration that Dryden and Shakspeare might fail to inspire. How transcendent the conceptions on every page! How far beyond all ancient or modern poetry that is alien to its spirit, or claims no kindred VOL. IV.-No. 20.-S

MAS-an alliterative trio of topic-we hardly know where to find the handle of a single other mov ing hammer of gossip. The hunt for chit-chat is after all a very philosophical employ; and we do not know another colaborateur, in the whole editorial fraternity, who has smacked the turbulence of congressional debaters, the enthusiasm of the Hungarian Patrick Henry, and the cadeaux of our Noel, with more equa nimity and composure than ourselves.

Our chair, as we have hinted, is an easy one; and throwing ourselves back into its luxurious embrace, we have raced through the swift paragraphs of morning journalism, or lingered, as is our wont, upon the piquancy of occasional romance, with all the gravity of a stoic, and all the glow of Epicurus. We are writing now, while the street and the salon are lighted up with the full flush of the Hungarian enthusiasm. It amounts to a frenzy; and may well give to the quiet observer a text on which to preach of our national characteristics.

And firstly, we are prone to enthusiastic outbursts, we love to admire with an ecstasy; and when we do admire, we have a pride to eclipse all rivals in our admiration. We doubt if ever at Pesth, in the best days that are gone, or that are to come, of Hun garian nationality, the chief of the nation could re ceive more hearty and zealous plaudits than have welcomed him upon our sunny Bay of New York. A fine person, an honest eye, and an eloquent tongue

pleading for liberty and against oppression-stir our street-folk-and we hope in Heaven may always stir them-to such enthusiasm as no Paris mob can match.

But, secondly-since we are speaking sermonwise -our enthusiasm is only too apt to fall away into reaction. We do not so much grow into a steady and healthful consciousness of what we count worthy, as we leap to the embrace of what wears the air ot worthiness; and the very excess of our emotion is only too often followed by a lethargy, which is not so much the result of a changed opinion, as of a fatigue of sentiment. Whether this counter-action is to follow upon the enthusiasm that greets the great Guest, we dare not say. We hope for the sake of Hungary, for the sake of Liberty, and for the sake of all that ennobles manhood—that it may not!

Thirdly, and finally, as sermonizers are wont to say, we are, at bottom, with all our exciting moments, and all our fevers of admiration, a very matter-of-fact people. We could honor Mr. Dickens with such adulation, and such attention as he never found at home; but when it came to the point of any definite action for the protection of his rights as an author, we said to Mr. Dickens, wth our heart in his books, but with our hands away from our pockets, "we are our own law-makers, and must pay you only inhonor!"

How will our matter-of-fact tendencies answer to the calls of Kossuth? We are not advocates or partisans-least of all-in our EASY CHAIR: we only seek to chisel out of the rough block of every day

talk, that image of thought which gives it soul and intent.

That the enlarged ideas of Kossuth-independent of their eloquent exposition from his lips-will meet with the largest and profoundest sympathy from the whole American people, we can not have a doubt. Nor can we doubt that that sympathy will lend such material aid, as was never before lent to any cause, not our own. But the question arises, how far such sympathy and individual aid will help forward a poor, down-trodden, and distant nation, toward the vigor of health and power. Sympathies and favoring opinion may do much toward alleviating the pains of wounded hearts and pride; they may, by urgency of expression, spread, and new leaven the whole thought of the world; but he is a fast thinker who does not know that this must be the action of time.

We can not but believe that the strongest sympathy, and the most generous proffers of individual aid will, after all, help very little toward practical issues, in any new endeavor of Hungary to be itself again. Poor Poland is a mournful monument of the truth of what we say. How then is our great Guest to derive really tangible aid in the furtherance of what lies so near his heart?

We pose the question, not for political discussion. but as the question which is giving a slant to all the talk of the town. To break peace with Austria and with Russia, and openly to take ground, as a government, with the subdued Hungarians, is what very few presume to hint-much less to think soberly of. The great Hungarian, himself, would hardly seem to have entertained such a possibility. We suppose his efforts rather to be directed toward the enkindling of such a large love of liberty, and such international sympathy among all people who are really free, as shall make a giant league of opinion, whose thunders shall mutter their anathemas against oppression, in every parliament and every congress; and by congruity of action, as well as congruity of impulse, fix the bounds to oppression, and fright every tyrant from advance-if not from security.

SPEAKING of the French Republic, we can no: forbear putting in record a little episode of its nice care for itself. M. DUMAS, the favorite dramatist, publishes a letter in one of the Paris journals, in way of consolation for the imprisoned editor of the Avenement.

"My dear Vacquerie," he says, "while I am on the lookout for sundry notices of what may touch the honorable institution of our Press censorship, I send you this fact, which is worthy to stand beside the official condemnation of the verses of VICTOR HUGO. M. GUIZARD, the director in such matters, has refused me, personally, the request to reproduce my Chevalier de la Maison Rouge; and the reason is, that my poor play has contributed to the accession of the Republic! Ever yours,

"A. DUMAS." We are only surprised at the audacity of M. DUMAS, in giving publicity to such a note.

As a curious and not unnatural issue, growing out of the free appropriation of Italian treasure, by the French Republicans of the last century, we notice the fact, that a certain Signor BRASCHI, whose father, or grandfather, was a near connection of Pope Pius VI., has recently laid claim to some of the most valuable pictures in the Louvre. It appears from his representations-supported by voluminous documentary evidence-that these objects pertained to a certain villa near Rome, occupied at the time of the French invasion by the Braschi family.

Signor BRASCHI, in quality of heir, now claims the spoils, including some of the most brilliant works of the Paris gallery. He avows his willingness, however, to waive his rights, in consideration of a few millions of francs, to be paid within the year. We have a fear that the only reparation the Republic will bestow, will be the offer of an airy apartment in the Maison des Fous.

KEEPING to Paris gossip, for want of any thing special in that way belonging to our own capital, we In all this we only sketch the color of the Hun- find this little half-incident chronicled in the French garian talk.

WINTER gayeties, meantime, have taken up their march toward the fatigues of spring. Furs, and velvet mantillas float along the streets, as so many pleasant decoys to graver thought. The opera, they say, has held its old predominance, with a stronger lift than ever, in the fashion of the town. Poor Lola Montes, shadowed under the folds of the Hungarian banner, has hardly pointed the talk of an hour. We can not learn that any triumphal arch graced the entry of the Spanish Aspasia, or that her coming is celebrated in any more signal way, than by the uncorking of a few extra bottles of Bavarian beer. That many will see her if she dances, there can hardly be a doubt; but that many will boast the seeing her, is far more doubtful. We can wink at occasional lewdness at home, but when Europe sends us the queen of its lewdness to worship, we fors wear the issue, and like Agamemnon at the sacrifice of Iphigenia hide our faces in our mantles.

We observe that our usually staid friend M. GAILLARDET, of the Courrier, records in one of his later letters, an interview with the witching LOLA; and it would seem that he had been wrought upon to speak for her an apologetic word. With all respect, however, for the French Republican, we think it will need far more than his casual encouragement, to lift the Bavarian countess into the range of American

esteem.

papers.

Ladies, it is known (or if not known may hence forth be known) traffic in the funds at the Paris Ex change, in a way that would utterly amaze our prin cesses of the salon. You do not indeed see them upon the marble floor of the stately Bourse itself, but at the hour of "the board," you are very sure to see a great many luxurious-looking little carriages. drawn up in the neighborhood, and a great many la dies, at that special hour, are particularly zealous in their admiration of the old paintings which the dealers behind the Exchange, offer" at a bargain." Very quick-running footmen are also stirring, and report sales and offers to their mistresses with most com. mendable activity.

Among these outsiders, some Paris romancist has remarked lately a very elegantly-dressed lady, who, three times a week, drew up her phaeton opposite the doors of the Vaudeville Theatre (which all habitués will remember, is just opposite the Boise). Chance passers imagined her to be some actress of the boards, and gazed at her accordingly. But it was observed that an "agent de change" made repeated visits to her little phaeton, and at the closing of the board our lady disappeared down the Rue Vivienne.

Upon a certain day-no matter when-the by. standers were startled by piercing shrieks issuing from the phaeton of "my lady," and all ran, to pre vent, as they supposed, some terrible crime. Sym pathy proved vain; ard to the inquiries of the police

the "man of business" only made phlegmatic reply, that the funds had fallen some ten per cent., and "my lady" was ruined.

Three days after, and the phaeton was a voiture de remise in the Rue Lepelletier. The coachman had negotiated the sale, but all tidings of "my lady" were lost.

GUINOT, to whom we have been indebted again and again, has twisted out of his brain (we can not doubt it) this little happening of Paris life, which, if not true, is yet as characteristic of France as a revolution. Two funerals, he says, on a certain day wended their course toward the cemetery of Père la Chaise. One bier bore the body of a man; the other, the body of a woman. The day was a sour November day-with the half-mist and half-frostiness that sometimes ushers in the Paris winter. The mourners were few-as mourners at Paris are generally few. Arrived within the gates, one cortège took the path leading to the right; the other turned to the left. The ceremonies being over, a single mourner only remained at each tomb.

At the grave of the lady lingered a man, apparently overcome with grief; at the grave of the man-a lady, who seemed equally overcome. Their adieus were lengthened at the graves until all the attendants had disappeared. By chance, the grief of the two parties seemed to show the same amount of persistent sorrow, and of lingering regard: thus it happened that in retracing their slow and saddened steps toward the main entrance, they met in the grand alley face to face. They exchanged a look of sorrow, and an exclamation of surprise. "You, madame?"

Vous, monsieur?”

"But this is very strange," continued the gentleman, "is it not? We have met so rarely, since we broke our marriage contract ten years ago!"

"The chance which has led me here is a very sad ne, monsieur," and madame says it in very dolorous

tones.

"It is as much for me; I have followed to the grave a person very dear to me."

YET another story is swimming in our ink-stand; and with a gracious lift of the pen, we shall stretch it upon our sheet.

At Viterbo, which, as every one ought to know, lies within the Italian confines, lived once a poor peasant, with a poor, but pretty daughter, whose name was MARIANNE. She had not the silks of our ladies, or the refinements, so called, of fashion. She wore a rough peasant robe, and watched her father's kids as they wandered upon the olive-shaded slopes of Viterbo. At Viterbo lived a youth whose name was CARLO. Carlo was prone to ramble; and albeit of higher family than the peasant's daughter, he saw and loved, and wooed and won the pretty Marianne. They were betrothed in the hearing only of the drowsy tinkle of the bells that hung upon the necks of the kids, over which Marianne was shepherdess. To marry they were afraid. He feared the anger of his father; and she feared to desert the cottage of her mother.

Carlo, swearing devotion, went away to Rome and became an advocate. The revolution stirred the stolid Romans, and Carlo enlisted under Garibaldi. After a series of fights and of escapes, Carlo found himself in five years from his parting with the pretty peasantess of Viterbo, a refugee, in the Café de France, which stands behind the Palais Royal at Paris. Lamenting over his broken fortunes, and mourning for his poor Italy, he sauntered, upon a certain day, into the Garden of Plants, upon the further side of the Seine. It is a place where the neighboring world go to breathe the air of woods, and to relieve the stifling atmosphere of the city, with the openness and freedom of Nature. (In parenthesis, let us ask, when shall New York civilization reach such a kind provision for life?)

Carlo wandered, dejected, sad, musing of bitter ness, when his eye fell upon a face that seemed familiar. It was the face of a lady-in Parisian costume, with a Parisian air-but very like to the pretty peasantess of Viterbo. He followed her-met heraccosted her; there was no mistaking her frighted look of recognition. She was distant and cool-for

"Ah," returns madame, "she is dead! I, too, the fates had bound her fortunes to those of a Pariaave lost my dearest friend," and she sobs.

"I beg you would accept, madame, my sincerest sympathy."

“And you too, sir; believe me, my heart bleeds for you."

Upon thus much of mournful interchange of grief, supervenes a silence-only broken by the low steps of the parties, and by occasional sobs of lament.

GUINOT opens their conversation again thus: Gentleman.-"Alas, existence seems to me very worthless-all is dark!"

Lady.-"Ah, what must it be for me, then?" Gentleman." How can I ever replace her fond

ness?"

Lady. "To whom can I confide my griefs?" Gentleman.-"What home will now receive me?" Lady.-"Upon whose arm can I lean?"

In such humor our racy feuilletonist traces their walk and conversation along the parterres of that Paris garden of death; at the gate he dismisses one of the two carriages which attend them; he crowns their mutual offices of consolation with a happy reunion-never to be broken-till one shall be again a mourner, and the other a tenant of the tomb.

Thus, says he, grief moralizes; and wise resolutions ride at an easy gallop, into broken hearts!

And thus, we say, French ingenuity makes every hearse the carrier of a romance; and seasons the deepest woe with the piquancy of an intrigue!

sian bourgeois, and she was the wife of the very respectable Monsieur Bovin. Carlo was neither cool nor distant for grief had cast him down, and now first, hope blessed him with a shadow of the joys that were gone. Madame Bovin's distance wore off under the impassioned addresses of the poor refugee. and again and again Carlo found his way to the Jardin des Plantes.

Finally (alas for Paris virtue!) the household of the respectable Monsieur Bovin, was, upon a certain morning, deserted; only a little note of poor French told the disconsolate husband, that the pretty Mari anne could no longer subdue her new kindled love for her Italian home, and had gone back to the hills of Viterbo.

The sorrowing husband, though he could not purchase content, could yet purchase the services of the police. Through them, he tracked the runaway lovers to the borders of France. Thereafter the search was vain.

But, alas, for poor Carlo, he was recognized by the myrmidons of the powers that be, thrown into a dungeon, and report tells a story of his death.

As for the pretty peasant, Marianne, she wan dered forlorn to her father's home; but the father's home was gone; and now, for menial hire-in her peasant dress (in place of the Paris robes) and with a saddened heart-she watches the kids, upon the olive-shaded slopes of Viterbo

Editor's Drawer.

WE are at the beginning of another year; a season in which all pause, and "take note of time"time, the vehicle that carries every thing into nothing. "We talk," says a quaint English author, "of spending our time, as if it were so much interest of a perpetual annuity; whereas, we are all living upon our capital; and he who wastes a single day, throws away that which can never be recalled or recovered:

'Our moments fly apace,

Nor will our minutes stay;
Just like a flood our hasty days
Are sweeping us away!"

at is well to think of these things, standing upon the verge of a new year. But let us not trouble the reader with a prolonged homily.

EVERY body will remember the missionary at one of the Cannibal Islands, who asked one of the natives if he had ever known a certain predecessor of his upon the island, who had labored in the moral vine, yard there? "Yes, we know him well-we ate a part of him." Now, the "piece of a cold missionary on the sideboard for a morning lunch," of which the witty Sydney Smith made mention, is scarcely a less objectionable dish, on the score of the material, than the chief feature of a repast, held, according to a French journal, not a thousand miles from the Ascot race-course, in England:

"At the recent races at Ascot the famous horse Tiberius broke his leg, by bounding against one of the posts of the barrier, while preparing for the race. His owner, the Lord Millbank, lost ten thousand pounds in betting upon his noble steed, besides his value, and others also lost very heavily: the law, of course, being that all bets should be paid whether the failure to win came from the less speed or from accident.

"Three day afterward, Lord Millbank gave a very sumptuous dinner. The most distinguished of the English peerage were present, and the conviviality ran exceedingly high. Toward the close, the noble host rose in his place, and proposed an oblation to the health of the departed Tiberius.

"The toast was clamorously received, but the speaker remained standing with his glass in his cand.

"We drink to Tiberius,' said Milord Millbank, when the shouts had subsided; 'to Tiberius the nost beautiful, the most admirable, the most spirited ourser whose hoofs ever trod upon our glorious British turf!'

"Shouts again resounded to the roof in vehement peals.

"You know,' continued his lordship, 'the achievements of this horse. His deeds belong to history. Fame has taken charge of his glory. But it belongs to me, and to you, my lords and gentlemen, to do honor to his mortal remains! I wished that this lofty courser should have a burial worthy of his great, his immortal deservings. He has had it, my lords and gentlemen, he has HAD it! My cook has fitly prepared him, and you have feasted upon him to-day! Yes, my lords and gentlemen, this repast which you have relished so keenly-these dishes which awakened the so frequent inquiry, 'What animal could be so delicious?'-that animal, my lords and gentlemen, was Tiberius! It is that noble courser whose mortal remains now repose in your stomachs! May your digestions be light!'

a moment-possibly with some vague thought of an immediate resurrection-but with a sudden outburst

of 'Hurrahs !' the sentiment took the turn of sub

limity, and another glowing bumper was sent to join the departed courser in his metempsychosis."

The English papers sometimes get off telling jokes against their neighbors across the Channel, but sel dom any thing better than this. Besides, how thor oughly French it is, both in the conception and ex ecution! Its origin could never be mistaken.

We put on record, in these holiday-times of imbi bition, these warning stanzas, to guard the reade! alike against cause and effect:

"My head with ceaseless pain is torn,
Fast flow the tear-drops from my eye

I curse the day I e'er was born,
And wish to lay me down and die;
Bursts from my heart the frequent sigh,
It checks the utterance of my tongue;
But why complain of silence?-why,
When all I speak is rash and wrong?
"The untasted cup before me lies-

What care I for its sparkle now?
Before me other objects rise,

I know not why-I know not how.
My weary limbs beneath me bow.

All useless is my unstrung hand:
Why does this weight o'ershade my brow?
Why doth my every vein expand?
"What rends my head with racking pain?

Why through my heart do sorrows pass!
Why flow my tears like scalding rain?

Why look my eyes like molten brass 1
And why from yonder brimming glass
Of wine untasted have I shrunk?
'Cause I can't lift it-for, alas!

I'm so pre-pos-ter-ous-ly drunk!"

THE vagaries of the insane are sometimes amusing to witness; and not unfrequently there is a "method in their madness" that would not be amiss in those who are on the outside of lunatic asylums. Many years ago in Philadelphia, a patient in the insane asylum of that city fancied himself to be the REDEEMER of the world; and his talk and actions were always in keeping with the character, save that he exacted a rigid deference to his person and his divinely-derived power. But one day another patient arrived, whose idiosyncrasy it was, that he was the SUPREME BEING. A little while after his en trance into the institution, he met in one of the halls, as he was passing, the imagined representative of the SON; who, not liking his bearing, reminded him who he was: "Yes, you are the Sox, but know from this time henceforth, that you have seen the FATHER, and must obey him!" "And strange enough," said the keeper of the institution to the friend who gives us the particulars, "from that day forward, all power was given unto the latter; and at length the fancied Sox's air-drawn' vision melted away, and he left the establishment a perfectly sane man."

Some twelve or fifteen years ago there was in the lunatic asylum at Worcester, Massachusetts, a kind of crazy DAVID CROCKETT, who fancied that he could do any thing that could be done, and a little

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"At these words the enthusiasm concentrated for lately?"

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