Symud i'r prif gynnwys
Cuddio Rhestr Erthyglau

11 erthygl ar y dudalen hon

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A man rushed into a stamp office. "Quick a postage stamp; I stick it on But where is the letter "It isn't for any letter; I've cut my finger." They tell us that the good die young, and yet insurance sta- tistics make it out that clergymen live to an average of sixty- five years. A Connecticut preacher says that a good congregation will praise the music, the choir, the ventilation and the civilities of the usher but as to the ,erinon,- Well, I dunno." "Ah, love!" she murmured, as they wandered through the moonlight, "ah, dearest, why do the summer rosefade He happened to lie a young chemist of a practical turn of mind, and he replied that it"\vas owing to the insufficiency of oxygen in the atmosphere. The Orientals are very trusting to each other. Are you not afraid to go away from your shop without locking it ?" a travel- ler asked of an Egyptian. Ob, no," answered the man coolly; there is not a Christian within three miles." An editor says :—" Send us, from every town and county in America, poems; sad, sweet, dreamy poems on 'summer.' Write only on one side of the paper, please. We want the other side of the sheet to write editorials on." Attention has been called to the fact that, apart from Queen Anne and other royal ladies, no woman in England has ever had a public statue. Thus, we do not treat the fair sex so badly after all. Whatever wrongs women may suffer, they have not this to complain of at any rate.—Judy. A Yankee fresh from the magnificent woods and rough clear- ings of the Far West, was one day visiting the owner of a beau- tiful seat in Brooklyn and walking with him through a little grove, out of which all the underbrush had been nicely cleared, paths had been cut and gravelled, and the rocks covered with woodbine, suddenly stopped, and, admiring the beauty of the scene, lifted up his hands, and exclaimed, "This I like! This is Nature —with her hair combed." Here (says Truth) is the sentence that, in 1700, was pro- nounced upon a Scotch master who maltreated the boys placed under his control:—' That Mr. Robert Carmichael be taken from the Tolbooth of Edinburgh by the hangman, under a sure guard, to the middle of the Lawnmarket, and there lashed by seven severe stripes and then to be carried down to the Cross, and there severely lashed by six sharp stripes; and then to be carried to the Fountain-well to be severely lashed by five stripes and then to be carried back by the hangman to the Tolbooth. Likewise, the Lords banish the said Mr. Robert Carniichael from this kingdom, never to return thereto under all the highest pains.' iiadcliue used to threaten his brethren of the faculty that lie would leave the whole mystery of physic behind him, written on a half-sheet of paper." Dr. Radcliffe, by the way, had an ex- tremely objectionable habit—namely, that of leaving his bills unsettled. In his days, each Londoner had to pave the street in front of his own door-at all events the parish would not pave it for him. A certain pavior, who had been employed by the doctor, after long and fruitless attempts to get paid, caught him just getting out of his carriage at his own door in Bloomsbury Square, and set upon him. Why, you rascal," said Radcliffe, "do vou nretend to be naid for such a piece of work? Why, you have spoiled my pavement and then covered it over with earth to hide your had work." Doctor," quoth the pavior, "mine is not the only bad work that the earth hides." "You dog, you," said the doctor, are you a wit 1 You must then be poor," so come in," and he paid him. -Cornhill Maijaziae. Tiie following is from the Athenannn :-If there is one thing that, above all others, Nature hates, it is certainly English res- pectability. Perhaps, indeed, the very reason why the best beloved of Nature aje in Europe to be found among a few of the English upper classes and the English ipsy is that they are equally above respectability, and equally ignorant of literature. This is all we mean there has been a greal deal of writing upon the" cultivation of the taste for Nature," about the "modern sentiment of Nature," the "interpretation of Nature by the poets," and so on, as though Nature were not her own best in- terpreter. This is a fallacy. Art is art," says Goethe, "be- cause it is not Nature," and he is right. The enjoyment of Nature, and the enjoyment of an artistic rendering of Nature, are quite distinct, it seems. We had a striking instance of this some years ago, when crossing Snowdon from Capel Curig, one morning, with a friend. She was not what is technically called a lady, yet she was both tall, and, in her way, handsome, and was far more clever than many of those who might look down upon her for her speculative and her practical abilities were equally re- markable besides being the first palmist of her time, she had the reputation of being able to make more clothes-pegs in an hour, and sell morethanany otherwoman in England. The splen- dour of that Snowdon sunrise" was such as we can say, from much experience, can only be seen about once in a lifetime, and could never be given by any pen or pencil. You don't seem to enjoy it a bit," was the irritated remark we could not help making to our friend, who stood quite silent and apparently deaf to the rhapsodies in which we had been indulging as we both stood looking at the peaks, or rather at the vast masses of billowy vapours enveloping them, as they sometimes boiled and sometimes blazed, shaking, whenever the sun struck one and then another, from amethyst to vermillion, shot" now and then with gold. "Don't injiy it, don't I! ".said she, removing her pipe. "rOI injiy talking about it. I injiy lettin' it soak in."


-----------TiPYiT 0 BOB PETR.^


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