Volume 1 — CHAPTER VII.

Now it had come to pass years before, and was on record,

That Mason, having been asked to visit Boston,

Replied, 'Verily, verily, I say unto you that I will not set foot therein again save as an ambassador to that land.'

Now these things were remembered against him, and printed in all the papers, even in the Boston papers printed they them.

And they bare him into prison, with Slidell, and poor Eustis was he borne of them.

And they seemed extremely wamble-cropt and chop-fallen; their feathers shone not, even their sickle-feathers drooped in the dust, and their combs were white.

And they seemed as unclean men caught in their unrighteousness, who had been sold uncommonly cheap, with nary buyer.

And they took from them the gold which they had stolen afore-time from Uncle Sam, even the bills upon the Hebrews did they yield up. Howbeit, they received a receipt for them.

And they asked much, 'How shall we feed, and may we have servants?' and wished to live pleasantly; yet, when at Richmond, Slidell had reviled the Yankee prisoners sorely, and counseled harsh treatment.

Then went they into the jug, and were allotted each man his bunk in the prison-house.

And the word went forth to hang all pirates and robbers on the sea, even as it had been spoken sternly by Old Abe, of Washington;

Saying, string them up in short order.

And if they of Secessia hang the brave Corcoran and his friends,

Then, as the Lord liveth, Slidell and Mason shall pull hemp; even on the gallows shall they hang like thieves and murderers—the land hath sworn it. Selah!

'Sound on the Goose Question.'

Who is there among our readers who has not heard that phrase? It has now for some years been transferred from one political topic to another, until its flavor of novelty is well-nigh gone. But whence the expression? An antiquarian would probably hint at the geese whose sound saved Rome. The great goose question of the Reformation was the burning of one Huss, whose name in English signifyeth Goose, for which reason he is said to have exclaimed to his tormentors 'Now ye indeed roast a goose, but, lo! after me there will come a swan whom ye can not roast;' which was strangely fulfilled in Luther, whose name—slightly varied—signifies in Bohemian a swan. But, reader, 'an it please you,' here is the original and 'Simon Pure' explanation, as furnished by a correspondent:—

'Are you right on the goose question?' But do you know the origin of the phrase? It was told to me, at Harrisburg, in Pennsylvania, when I was there in "Fremont's time," anno 1856. Alas! the fates deal hardly with Fremont. C. and F., now a satellite of C., helped to slaughter him once before in Pennsylvania—sold him out to Know-Nothings. Hope they haven't now in Missouri pitched him over to be succeeded by Do-Nothings. But to the story. Harrisburg has wide, clean, brick sidewalks. Many of the poorer sort there kept geese years ago, and sold or ate their progeny in the days of November and December—the "embers of the dying year." Jenkins was up for constable. The question whether geese should run at large was started. The Harrisburg geese made at times bad work on the clean sidewalks, as do their examplars, spitting on the pave of Broadway. A delegation of the geese-owners waited on Jenkins. Seeing that they had many votes, he declared himself in favor of the geese running at large. The better sort of people, who were in favor of clean sidewalks, hearing of this, set up an opposition candidate, who avowed himself opposed to having the sidewalks fouled by these errant fowls. The canvass waxed warm; a third candidate took the field; he put himself in the hands of an astute "trainer" for the political fray. We don't know whether or not this was before the day when Mr. Cameron counseled in politics at Harrisburg, but his Mentor bid this new candidate, when the delegations applied for his views on the all-absorbing issues, to say nothing himself, but to refer to him, the Mentor aforesaid. And when the delegations accordingly came to Mentor to find the position of the third candidate, he said to each, with unction, "You will find my friend sound on the goose question." Third candidate was elected. His story got wind, and from that day till Bull Run all the politicians of the land have striven likewise to be 'sound on the goose question.'

Therefore let us be duly thankful that the time hath come when it shall no longer advantage a man to say, 'Lo! I am sound,' or—as Prince Albert was reported to reply constantly to his royal consort during the early years of their marriage—'I dinks joost as you dinks,'—since in these—days vigorous acts and not quibbling words are the only coin which shall pass current in politics.

Never was there an institution which required such constant repairing as 'the great Southern system.' One of the latest and most terrible leaks discovered is that of the danger to be apprehended from an influx of vile Yankee immigrants after the North shall have been conquered. Unless this is prevented, say the Charleston papers, who dictate pretty independently to the whole of Dixie, we shall have sacrificed in vain our blood and treasure, since nothing is more evident than that at no distant day the Northern men among us will be fully able to control our elections. Therefore it is proposed that no Northern man ever be allowed the right of naturalization in the South.

But as even Southern injustice has not as yet the insolence to restrict this precious prohibition to 'Yankees,' it is sequentially proposed that with the exception of those foreigners now in the South, no person, not a (white) native, shall ever, after this war, be allowed the rights of citizenship in the C. S. A. There has not been, that we are aware, any opposition to this hospitable proposition, but, on the contrary, it has been most largely circulated and approved of.

It must be admitted that the South is in one thing at least praiseworthy. It is consistent—to say nothing of being thoroughly in earnest. To exclude all poor white immigrants from civil, and consequently social privileges, is perfectly in keeping with its long expressed contempt for mudsills. It legislates for F. F.'s, and for them alone. It wants no Irish, no Germans, no foreign element of any description between itself and the negro. It will make unto itself a China within a wall of cotton-bales, and be sublimely magnificent within itself.

But what of the Border, or, as Geo. Saunders aptly called them, the Tobacco States? (By the by, where is now that eminent rejected of the C. S. A.?) The Patent Office Report for 1852 spoke as follows of Fairfax County, Virginia, where thousands of acres of land have become exhausted through slave labor, abandoned as worthless, and reduced to a wilderness:—

'These lands have been purchased by Northern emigrants, the large tracts divided and subdivided and cleared of pines, and neat farm-houses and barns, with smiling fields of grain and grass in the season, salute the delighted gaze of the beholder. Ten years ago it was a mooted question whether Fairfax lands could be made productive, and if so, would they pay the cost? This problem has been satisfactorily solved by many, and in consequence of the above altered state of things, school-houses and churches have doubled in number.'

But school-houses and churches are not what the C. S. A. want. 'Let us alone with your Yankee contrivances. "Smiling fields indeed!"—we want no smiling among us save the "smiles" of old Monongahela or Bourbon. The fiery Southern heart does not condescend to smile. "Neat farm-houses!" They may do for your Northern serfs—we'll none of them.' Verily the C. S. A. is a stupendous power, which, according to the development of its own avowed principles, must necessarily become greater as it is more and more limited to fewer persons. In due time these will be reduced to hundreds, those in time to scores, until, finally, all Southerndom shall be merged in one individual quintessentially concentrated exponent of Cottondom, who must needs be, perforce, so intensely respectable and so sublimely aristocratic that Northern eye may not see nor Northern heart feel the magnitude of his superiority, or pierce the gloom wherein he shall sit, 'a sceptred hermit, wrapped in the solitude of his own originality.'

Five of the present Cabinet, with Secretary Cameron at their head, have expressed themselves fairly and fully in favor of Emancipation,—foreseeing its inevitable realization, and, we presume, the necessity of 'managing' it betimes. Only Messrs. Seward and Bates hang timidly behind, waiting for stronger manifestations, ere they hang out their flags. Meanwhile, from the rural districts of the East and West come thousand-fold indications that the great 'working majority' of Northern freemen—the same who elected Lincoln and urged on the war in thunder-tones and lightning acts—are sternly determined to press the great measure, and purify this country for once and forever of its great bitterness. It is a foregone conclusion.

'If you would know what your neighbors think of you,' says an old proverb, 'quarrel with them.' It has not been necessary of late to quarrel with England to ascertain her opinion of us, as expressed by her editors, writers, and men of the highest standing. Our war with the South has brought it out abundantly, and the result is a great dislike of everything American, save cotton! We are not of those who would at this time say too much on the subject,—every expression of Anglophobia is just now nuts to the C. S. A., who would dearly relish a war between us and the mother country,—but we may point to the significant fact recently laid in a laconic letter by 'Railway Train,' that while everything is done in England to preserve a 'strict neutrality,' as regards the North, and while the most vexatious hinderances are placed in the way of exporting aught which may aid us,—much gratuitous pains being taken to prevent any material aid to the Federal government,—vessels are allowed to load openly with all contraband of war, even to arms and ammunition, for the avowed purpose of supplying the South. This is not mere rumor—it has been amply confirmed for months.

Very well, gentlemen; very well, indeed. We may remember all your kindness and the depth of your zealous abolition philanthropy. 'Haud immemor.' But you are reasoning on false grounds. You forget that it is almost as important for you to self your manufactures to America as to get cotton from it. And articles in the Times, and speeches from your first statesmen, show that you really believe the enormous fib so generally current, that the South consumes the very great majority of all our imports. 'The South is where the North makes all its money—the South does everything.'

Do not believe it. The entire South consumes only about one sixth or seventh of all Imports, and contributes no greater proportion to the wealth of the North. But the North, with a very little sacrifice, can free itself almost entirely from dependence on your manufactures, and if, in homely parlance, you 'give us any more of your impudence,' she will—will most decidedly. There is even a stronger king than Cotton here; we may call him King Market. Let King Market once lay hands on you, and whereas you were before only broken, then you will be ground to powder.

Over many a home since the last New Year, Death has cast the shadow, which may grow dimmer with time, or change to other hues, but which never entirely departs. But now he comes with strange, unwonted form, for he comes from the battle-field as well as the far-off home of fever, or the icy lair of consumption, and those left behind know only of the departed that he died for honor.

'My brother! oh, my brother!' Such a cry arose not long ago in a family, for one of the best and bravest whom this country has ever known. And more than one has brought back from the war a sorrowful narrative of a long farewell inclosed in as brief and touching words as those of the following lyric:—

LINES.

I.

My brother, take my hand; The darkness covers me, And now I fly to thee; O, hear my call! II. My brother, take my hand; Weary, and sick, and faint, To thee I make complaint, Who art my all. III. My brother, take my hand; Though pale it is and thin, The same blood flows within That is in thine. IV. My brother, take my hand; It's all I have to give; O, let me, while I live, Press it to thine. V. My brother, take my hand; And with the hand receive The blessing which I leave, Before I die. VI. My brother, take my hand; And when at last you come, I will receive you home,— The home on high.

A correspondent in Ohio sends us the following:—

'It is a good thing for a weak brother to have faith; and some one to rely on is to such an especial blessing. Squire Bullard was wont to find such a prop in his friend Deacon Parrish, who, he firmly believed, "knew everything."

'Near by the Squire lived a graceless old infidel named Myers, who was wont to entangle his simple neighbors in arguments sadly vexing to their orthodoxy. On one occasion he devoted an hour to prove to Bullard that there was no future after death.

'"Well," exclaimed Squire B——, "you kin talk jest as much as ye please. Free speech is permitted; but I don't believe ye. I tell you what, Myers, the soul is immortal; I'll bet five dollars on it, and leave it to Deacon Parrish!"'

This is indeed believing in human power; and yet who would laugh through his heart at it? For it is this same belief in other men, mere mortals like ourselves, in hero-worship, which led man through the stormy ages of old on to the lighter and brighter time, when we see afar the promised time when great ideas shall rule instead of great men, and heroism yield to sincere, unselfish ministry. Great was the final lesson of Friar Bacon's head—'Time will be.'

The failure of the great Southern Confederacy to secure recognition in Europe will doubtless provoke sad strains from the bards of that unfortunate 'empire.' Nor less to be pitied are those who have put their trust in contracts and become the 'victims of misplaced confidence.' The following brace of parodies sets forth the sorrows of either side with touching pathos.

THE UNIVERSAL COTTON GIN.

He journeyed all creation through, A peddler's wagon, trotting in; A haggard man, of sallow hue, Upon his nose the goggles blue, And in his cart a model U- niversal nigger-cotton-gin- niversal nigger-cotton-gin. His seedy garb was sad to view— Hard seemed the strait he'd gotten in; He plainly couldn't boast a sou, And meanly fared on water-gru- el, or had swallowed whole a U- niversal nigger-cotton gin- niversal nigger-cotton-gin. To all he met—Turk, Christian, Jew— He meekly said, 'I'm not in tin; In fact I'm in a serious stew, And therefore offer unto you, At half its worth, my model U- niversal nigger-cotton-gin- niversal nigger-cotton-gin. 'As sure as four is two and two, It rules the world we're plotting in; It made and ruined Yankee Doo- dle, stuck to him like Cooper's glue, And so to you would stick this U- niversal nigger-cotton-gin- niversal nigger-cotton-gin.' Now Johnny Bull the peddler knew, And thus replied with not a grin: 'Hi loves your 'gin' like London brew- ed ale, but loathes the hinstitu- tion vitch propels your model U- niversal nigger-cotton-gin- niversal nigger-cotton-gin. 'Hi knows such coves as you a few, And, zur, just now, hi'm not in tin; Hi tells you vot, great Yankee Doo- dle might hincline to put me through Hif hi should buy your model U- niversal nigger-cotton-gin- niversal nigger-cotton-gin.' Then spake smooth Monsieur Parlez-vous, Whose gilded throne was got in sin,— (As was he too, if tales are true): 'I does not vant your modal U-' (He sounds a V for W) 'niversal nigger-cotton-gin- niversal nigger-cotton-gin. A negar in de fence I view— Your grand machine he's rotting in; I smells him now, he stinketh! w-h-e-w— Give me a good tobacco chew, And you may keeps your modal U- niversal nigger-cotton-gin- niversal nigger-cotton-gin.' The peddler then sloped quickly to The land he was begotten in; With woeful visage, feelings blue, He sadly questioned what to do, When none would buy his model U- niversal nigger-cotton-gin- niversal nigger-cotton-gin. From out his pocket then he drew A rag that blood was clotting in; It had a field of heavenly blue, Was flecked with stars—the very few That glimmered on his model U- niversal nigger-cotton-gin- niversal nigger-cotton-gin. He gazed long on its tarnished hue, And mourned the fix he'd gotten in; Then filled his eyes with contrite dew, As in its folds his nose he blew, And thus addressed his model U- niversal nigger-cotton-gin- niversal nigger-cotton-gin. 'Thou crownless king, thy days are few; The world thou art forgotten in; Ere thou dost die, thy life review, Repent thy crimes, thy wrongs undo, Give freedom to the dusky crew Whose blood now stains the model U- niversal nigger-cotton-gin- niversal nigger-cotton-gin!'

A SORROWFUL DIALOGUE.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

Needy axe-grinder! whither are you going? Sad is your visage, sadder far your raiment, Rimless your hat, your coat has got a hole in't, So have your trowsers! Seedy axe-grinder! little know the great ones, Who buy fat jobs, and steal the public lucre, What times befall the poverty-stricken devils Who grind their axes! Tell me, axe-grinder, how you came so seedy? Did some great man ungratefully entreat you? Was it Fernando, first king of our Gotham, Or the Collector? Or did some evil Weed set you to burning The Cataline, and pocket all the plunder; Or did the patriot Ben engulf your little All in a lottery? Tell me, axe-grinder! 'tell me how you cum so:' 'Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, Ready to fall the moment you have told your Pitiful story.'

AXE-GRINDER.

Story! God bless you! mine is sad to tell, sir; The gratitude of great men drove me downward, Reduced me to these shoddy coat and trowsers So sad and seedy! Listen! while I disclose the secrets of the Mansion which standeth on Broadway, where strangers Are taken in and done for at two dollars And a half per diem. There congregate Lord Thurlow, Alexander The Wonder of the World, and they who pull the Wool o'er the eyelids of the veteran Com- Missary-general. And there, while they within did manufacture The ways and means to 'work' this foul rebellion, I kept the door without, and turned the grindstone Which ground their axes. And daily to their private closet came one Called Orsamus, of fame in all the churches, Whose savory name smells sweetly to all lovers Of public plunder. 'Twas queer the ex-(tra) congress man resorted There; strange they were to all invisible when His oily visage, like a magic lantern, Lit the apartment. It were a Matter-son or father might take A note of; so I questioned of the key-hole, And, lo! they would bestow warm raiment on our Suffering soldiers. I deemed the subject worthy of attention, The more so as a very fat commission Would be gained by it, so as almoner I Tendered my service. I looked for thanks; when, lo! they gave me none, sir, But, calling eavesdroppers ungodly sinners, Applied their patent-leathers to my tender Unmentionables.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

They served you right; take wholesome warning by it, Leave state affairs to those who live upon 'em; Should not the ox that treadeth in the corn-crib Eat of the hoe-cakes? How noble such care for our shivering heroes! Who would not gladly perish for his country When, for his sake, her great men stoop so low as The shoddy business!

The Germans have a fine Spinn-lied, or song of spinning; so, too, have the jolly Flemish dames. And a poetical correspondent of ours seems determined that few and far between as the old-fashioned spinners are in this country, the race shall not entirely disappear without taking a song with them, and a quaint, pleasant lesson. Dear reader, to the Continental's way of thinking, there is something very winning in the thought of that 'great holiday,' when, free from all task, we shall play merrily evermore 'out-of-doors,' in eternal light, over infinite realms of beauty.

SPINNING.

Dearest mother, let me go; I am tired of this spinning, yet the whizzing wheel goes round, Till my brain is dull and dizzy with its ceaseless, humming sound. I can hear a little blue-bird, chirping sweetly in yon tree; And he would not stay there, mother, if he were not calling me. Oh! in pity, let me go: I have spun the flaxen thread, until my aching fingers drop; And my weary feet will falter, though the whizzing wheel should stop. I can see the sunny meadow where the gayest flowers grow; And I long to weave a garland;—dearest mother, let me go. Nay, be patient, eager child; Summer smiles beyond the door-way, but stern poverty is here; We must give her faithful service, if her frown we would not fear. Spin on cheerly, little daughter, till your needful task is done, Then go forth with bird and blossom, at the setting of the sun. Wait thou, also, troubled soul; Thou may'st look beyond the river, where the white-robed angels stand; Hear the faint, celestial music, wafted from the summer land; But thou cans't not leave thy labor;—when thy thread is duly spun, Thou shalt flee on flashing pinions, at the setting of the sun.

The times have been hard, reader, our friend, yet all merriment has not entirely died out, and there is still the sweet voice of music to be heard in the land. In New York, Boston, Philadelphia, and many minor cities, the Benedictine Ullmann hath been ubiquitously about, operating most vigorously, while the philosophic and courteous Gosche hath not been far distant. And they heralded Hinkley, and Borchard, and Kellogg, and all the other sweet swans of song; they drew after them the gems of the opera; there was selling of Libretti, (and in Boston, 'los-an-gers'); there was the donning of scarlet and blue striped cloaks, gay coiffures and butterflying fans; there was flirting, and fun, and gentle gayety in the New York Academy, and with the Boston Academies it was not otherwise, only that among the latter the Saxon predominateth, and the dark-eyed, music-loving children of Israel, who so abound in most opera audiences, are very rare.

What we intended to do, O reader, was to give the biography of Benedict Ullmann. Lo! here it cometh:—

Vita Sancti Benedicti.

Ullmann is about three thousand years old.

The New York Herald once called him Mephistopheles. He is not Mephistopheles, however, but the same thing, which is Ullmann. He is a spirit bearing human form. Don't forget.

King Solomon sat beneath the golden pavilion one afternoon, playing silver melodies on a gold harp. Up went the notes—the spirits of the Sephiroth bore them—even up to a premium, and the very angels stopped sewing on their white robes to hear the ravishing melody.

By his side sat the Queen of Sheba, counting out her money.

Suddenly, there was a strange vibration, a marvelous tone. The queen paused. The king smiled. The angels went on with their sewing. (According to Rabbi Abarbanel, they were knitting. This created a schism between the schools of Cracow and Cordova, which lasted four centuries.)

'Why smilest thou, Oh Solomon?'

'I smiled, my dear queen, because you and I became, just now, unwittingly, the parents of a strange being.'

'Why, Solomon—how you talk!' exclaimed the Q. of S.

'Yea, for the ring of thy gold, oh my Queen, and the last chord-tone from my harp mingled in mystical unity and made a sound unheard before on earth. And the spirit of that sound, which is of money and of music, is the spirit whereof I spoke.'

Then the queen marveled greatly at the wisdom of Solomon, and gave him a shekel. The king rung it on the table and touched his harp. Again the strange tone thrilled out loud.

'There he goes!' quoth Solomon. 'My blessing on him. And therefore the sprite is called Blessed to this day, which in Latin is Benedict.

Thus was Ullmann born, who was the first who ever sold music; and, whereas before his time music was only iron or silvern, after he took it up it became golden—very fine, and ra-ther ex-pen-sive. Howbeit, he loved music as well as money, and gave the people their money's worth, and many a jolly opera and fine tenor did he bring out: yea, had it been possible he would have engaged Don Juan Tenorio himself, so that Don Giovanni might have been produced as perfectly as possible—the Don Giovanity of vanities.

Apropos of music, there is among the novelties of the season a French 'operetta,' entitled 'Les Noces de Jeannette,' in which a very peculiar bridegroom distinguishes himself, like Christopher Strap in 'Pleasant Neighbors,' by smashing the furniture. This recalls something which we heard narrated in the opera foyer the other evening.

Some years ago, in Paris, there was a very good comedian who prided himself on being perfectly 'classic.' To be classic in France is to be elegantly conventional. No actress can be really kissed according to classic rules; the lips must be faintly smacked about three feet from her shoulder. Wills are classically written by a flourish of the pen, and classical banqueters never pretend to eat.

Now there was a humorous scene which greatly depended on much breakage of furniture; and to this scene our actor, in the opinion of the manager, did not do justice. Rolling over one tea-cup did not, according to the latter, constitute a grand smash.

The actor became irritated. 'Pa'r'r-bleu!' he exclaimed, 'you shall have a grand smash then, if you must, and no mistake.'

The scene begun. There was a tea-table, and the irate performer gave one kick, and sent the whole concern crashing into the pit. There was a roar of applause.

('Ah! this is something like,' said the manager, rubbing his hands.)

The chairs were next attacked and broken into the completest kindling-wood, as by a madman. The manager began to look grave.

There were two tables left, a piano, and a closet. The actor stepped behind the scenes and reappeared with an axe. Bang! went the timber—crack—splinter—

'Stop!' roared the manager.

'Go on!' 'bravo!' 'go on!' roared the audience.

The stage was cleared, but the scenery still remained. And into the scenery went the actor 'like mad.' Planks and canvas came tumbling down; the manager called his assistants; the house was delirious with joy. The manager rushed on the stage; the actor kicked him over into the orchestra, and seizing the prompter's box, hurled it crashing after.

We do not know how matters were arranged, but we believe that the manager never tried afterwards to convert a classic actor to the romantic school.

The shade of Bishop Berkley would rejoice, could it read at this late date such a tribute to the merit of the once famed tar water, which he invented. But a solemn feeling steals over our heart when we remember that the hand which penned these lines now lies cold in death, and that the shades of the idealist and the poet may ere this have joined in the spirit land.

TAR WATER.

BY GEORGE W. DEWEY.

From the granite of the North, Leapt this pure libation forth, Cold as the rocks that restrained it; From the glowing Southern pine, Oozed this dark napthalian wine, Warm as the hearts that contained it; In a beaker they combine In a nectar as divine As the vintage of the Rhine, While I pledge those friends of mine Who are nearest, who are dearest in affection. I have filled it to the brim; Not a tear could ride its rim; Not a fleck of sorrow dim The flashing-smiles that swim In the crystal which restores their recollection. Floating on the pitchy wine, Comes an odor of the brine, Half suggesting solemn surges of the sea; A sailor in the shrouds, Furling sail amid the clouds; Noisy breakers singing dirges on the lee, To those friends upon the main, Who have ventured once again, In the realm which cleaves in twain Loving hearts, that fill with pain When the storm proclaims the terrors of December. I will clink the beaded edge Of the beaker, while I pledge Safety over surf and sedge, Foaming round the sunken ledge, In the track of all the loved ones we remember. And through Carolinian woods, Ever muffled in the hoods Of their fir-trees' aromatic evergreen, I can hear the mellow stops, Ever swaying in their tops, To the playing of an organist unseen. And the breezes bring the balm Of the solitude and psalm, From that indolence of calm, In the land of pine and palm, Over hills, and over rivers and savannas, Till my feelings undergo All their mortal overthrow, In celestial strains which flow, In a song of peace below, From those regions where archangels sing hosannas.

A friend who has roamed in his time over the deserts and slept in Bedawee tents; one to whom the East is as a second mother, and in whose faith the Koran is necessary to really put the finishing touch to a true gentleman, sends us the following eccentric proverbs from the Arabic.

Words of Wisdom. 'A well is not to be filled with dew.'

There speaks the Arab, choice of water as of wine.

'May a deadly disease love you and Allah hate you!'

Uncle Toby, who would not have had the heart to curse a dog so, would have found the Excommunication of Ernulphus quite outdone in the desert, where cursing is perfected.

'He lays goose eggs, and expects young turkeys.' 'The dream of the cat is about mice.'

Meaning, as we say, that what is bred in the bone will not come out of the flesh. Æsop has dramatized this proverb in a pretty fable.

'The people went away; the baboons remained.' 'A rose fell to the lot of a monkey.'

Or, as the Latins said, 'Asinus ad Lyram'—'A gold ring in a sow's ear.'

'God bless him who pays visits, and short ones at that.'

'The husband of two parrots—a neck between two sticks.'

'I asked him about his father. "My uncle's name is Shayb," he replied.'

'They wanted a keeper for the pigeon-house, and gave the keys to the cat.'

'Filth fell upon dirt. "Welcome! my friend," said he.'

'Scarcer than fly-brains.'

'Gain upon dirt rather than loss upon musk.'

Musk plays a great part in the East. Even the porters in Cairo bear bags of it and are scented by it.

'When the monkey reigns, dance before him.'

This slavish proverb is thoroughly Oriental.

'They met a monkey defiling the mosque. "Dost thou not fear," quoth they, "lest God may metamorphose thee?" "I should," quoth he, "if I thought he would change me into a gazelle."'

'He fled from the rain and sat down under the water-spout.'

Or, as we say, out of the frying-pan into the fire.

Divers and sundry 'screeds' which we had hoped to lay on this present 'Editor's Table,' are unavoidably postponed until the February number, when they will make their 'positively first and last appearance.' Hoping that our own first appearance may not be without your approbation, we conclude, wishing you, reader, once more—very sincerely—the happiest of 'happy New Years.'

THE