THE GATHERER.
Reading edition
A snapper up of unconsidered trifles.
SHAKSPEARE.
THE COACHMAN.
The moment he has got his seat and made his start, you are struck at once with the perfect mastership of his art. The hand just over his left thigh, the arm without constraint, steady, and with a holding command that keeps his horses like clock-work; yet to a superficial observer quite with loose reins; so firm and compact he is, that you seldom observe any shifting, only to take a shorter purchase for a run down hill; his right hand and whip are beautifully in unison; the crop, if not in a direct line with the box, over the near wheel, raised gracefully up as it were to reward the near side horse; the thong—the thong after three twists, which appears in his hand to have been placed by the maker never to be altered or improved ...... and if the off-side horse becomes slack, to see the turn of his arm to reduce a twist, or to reverse, if necessary, is exquisite: after being placed under the rib, or upon the shoulder point, up comes the arm, and with it the thong returns to the elegant position upon the crop! I say elegant! the stick, highly polished yew—rather light—not too taper—yet elastic; a thong in clean order, pliable. All done without effort—merely a turn of the wrist!
At twelve o'clock at noon, on the day before Easter, the resurrection service begins at the Quirinal Chapel at Rome; when a curtain is drawn back, which conceals a picture of our Lord: bells ring, drums are beaten, guns are fired, and joy succeeds to mourning.
ACROSTIC ON "THE MIRROR."
MIRROR! methinks your name indeed is true In every other point, except that you, Resplendent with the wisdom of mankind, Reflect not to the sight, but to the mind. Oh! may success then to your pains accrue, Rewarding all your merit with its due.
D.
LOVE.
Love reigns the lord of every mortal heart; He wounds the beggar, wounds the king, And is the fairest, falsest thing, That e'er excited joy, or bade a bosom smart. Light as the wind, rough as the wave, He's both a tyrant and a slave; A fire that freezes, and a frost that's hot, A bitter sweet, a luscious sour, Wretched is he who knows his pow'r, But far more wretched still is he who knows it not.
TRUTH, A FABLE.
At the gates of Sorbonne, Truth one day showed her face. The syndic met her. "What," said he, "do you want?" "Alas! hospitality." "Your name?" "My name is Truth." "Flee," said he, in anger, "flee, or I seek vengeance on your profaneness." "You chase me away," answered Truth; "but I live in hope to have my turn, being the spoiled child of Time, and gaining every thing by the means of my father."
The initial letters of the Latin names of the kings of Bonaparte's family form the Latin word Nihil, (nothing;) and this used to be called the genealogical acrostic:
L udovicus. I osephus. H ieronymus. I oachim. N apoleo.
T.B.
THE SUBTERFUGE.
"I vow, my dear Strephon," said Chloe one day, While Damon lay hid in the bower, "Yon sun that now gazes shall see a kiss given To no one but thee from this hour." Now Strephon is gone—and with mournful eye Poor Damon upbraided the fair. "Hush! blockhead," said Chloe, "the sun's now on high, But d'ye think it will always be there?"
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THE ARCANA OF SCIENCE, AND ANNUAL REGISTER OF THE USEFUL ARTS, FOR 1829.
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