several classes, and as a proof of this we seldom or ever hear two persons tell the same jeu d'esprit alike. Let us take a few as examples.

Mr. Smith is so scrupulously exact about names and dates, that his auditors are absolutely sick of his story and himself before he has got half through it.

"I say, Brown, I'll tell your such a capital story. Tom Jenkins, you know, the other day, whilst we were mounting_the Dover stage, met-you know Tom Jenkins, I think; yes, I introduced him to you; you met him at my house last week. Well, we were going together to Dover last Wednesday I think it was last Wed-nes-day week-eh? no! now I recollect, it was Thursday -- yes, Thursday week;—well, just as he was on the top, who should he see but his friend Martin on the other side of the street- 'Martin,' said he-no, stay; in the coach office, I think-yes, he was in the coach office, because I recollect thatbut never mind. You know Martin, I suppose-oh, yes; you met him at Jenkins'swell, Tom, you know, wanted to play him a trick-you know Tom well enough when he is ripe for a lark-witness his tricks when we were all quartered at Gibraltar in seventeen hundred and-bless my soulwas it as long ago as that-1782!-forty years ago!-dear, dear! how the time does pass!"

And then Mr. Smith apostrophises upon the time which has elapsed since his youthful days, until his audience begins to wish that he had been comfortably laid under the sod during his residence in Gibraltar, or had been drowned in coming across the straits.

Mr. Tomlins is a gentleman who laughs so immoderately during the whole recital of his story that his words are perfectly inarticulate.

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'Ha, ha, ha! I heard such a capital story the other day-he, he! I can't help laughing when I think of it. Fred Jones was going along Bond-street-he, he, he!-ha, ha, ha! just as he got to-he, he, he!-toha, ha, ha! ho, ho, ho!-I can't tell it! Just as he got to Brookes's, Miss Marsden -ha, ha, ha! it's capital, upon my wordMiss Marsden came-he, he, he!-cameha, ha, ha!-ho, ho, ho, ho, ho!"

And Mr. Tomlins sinks back in his chair in a positive state of exhaustion, leaving his audience to imagine the rest, and to take his word for it that it is capital if they could hear it.

Mr. Freeman is a gentleman who is so thoroughly convinced that nobody will believe him, that he takes the greatest pains to impress upon his auditors the truth of his story at about every third word.

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Now, what I am going to relate to you, gentlemen, is a positive fact. You'll scarcely believe it, I know; but I was myself pre

sent, and will vouch for the truth of every word. It occurred when I was in Paris last summer. A young English officer had quarrelled with a Frenchman about some lady. I'm sure it is true, gentlemen, for I knew both the parties intimately. The Frenchman challenged the officer-it's quite a romance of real life, I assure you, and would make an excellent nucleus for a drama, more especially as it may be relied on as having really occurred. The officer accepted the challenge, and the night before the duel, as he was quietly reposing upon a sofa-now, gentlemen, this is no traveller's tale, nor am I exaggerating one iota from the real fact. The night before the duel, as he was sleeping, or attempting to sleepI pledge you my honour I am speaking the truth, for I had it from his own lips. It caused a great sensation in Paris at the time, and I really think to this day scarcely a person believes it."

And so Mr. Freeman goes on, alternately proceeding with his story, and vouching for the truth of it, until his audience break off one by one and join the ladies in the drawing-room, leaving the gentleman to continue his story to the empty decanters and dessert service.

two

Messrs. Stevenson and Fogg are gentlemen (intimate friends) who invariably commence the same story at the same moment, and, each supposing that he is most familiar with it, they aim at the company with detached sentences of it until not an individual present can make either head or tail of the matter.

"Oh, I say, Clark, did I ever tell you the story of the tinker and the countryman? no, I don't think I did. Oh, it's capital. A travelling tinker was going along the high road to Barnet with his barrow, when

"No, no," cries Mr. Fogg, from the other end of the table; "he hadn't his barrow, that's the fun of it.. He was going along, gentlemen, without his barrow, when a country-looking fellow came up to him—" "Ha, ha, ha!" roars Mr. Stevenson. "It is capital, upon my word. But you don't tell it right, Fogg; the countryman was sowing barley in the field. Hallo!' says the tinker. Now go on, Fogg."

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No, no," says Mr. Fogg; better tell it. You know it best."

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"you'd

'I," says Mr. Stevenson. "Well, if you wish it, I'll go on. 'Hallo!' says the tinker. Hallo, there!' says the countryman." "Hallo!" interrupts Mr.Fogg; and help me.'

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and get the story from one or the other; but vain, alas! the hope. After a little longer display of the interesting game of battledore and shuttlecock, the company give it up in despair, and find that they know just as much of the story of the “ tinker and the countryman" as they did when they sat down to table.

And so it is at all dinner-tables. From some defect in the storyteller we seldom hear a story produce its intended effect; and until it is possible to meet with a pupil of the late Mr. C. Mathews, I fear we shall still be in the same predicament.

C. R. C.

THE STRANGER'S FUNERAL.

FAR from his home beyond the wave,
The stranger sicken'd, and he died;
No tears were shed around his grave,
And there no friend with sorrow sigh'd.
They plac'd him in the lowly tomb;

They laid the mould upon his breast; But never thought an hour would come To wring an absent parent's breast. Though now the mournful task is done, And o'er his bed the night winds sigh; Afar, a mother hails her son,

With life's bright sparkle in his eye! She thinks, and Hope believes the tale, (For who could say it was untrue?) When some auspicious fav'ring gale, Would waft him from his long adieu. Oh! could that sun which saw his shroud Afar, the mournful tale declare, Then Hope would sink behind a cloud, A dreary cloud of dark Despair. They've laid him in the lonely grave, Unnoticed there he softly sleeps; Nor will he hear from o'er the wave,

That sorrow-while a mother weeps. But why, oh, why should sorrow's tear E'er wring a weeping mother's breast? For he who died a stranger here,

Is happy, and for aye at rest. And though no parent saw him die,

Nor friendly hand his eyelid closed; One friend beheld him from the sky, And on his bosom he reposed.

It matters not, what distant clime

Receives the body's mouldering clay; For it shall rise when Death and Time, No more shall triumph o'er decay.

ALPHA.

THE LITERATURE OF THE AGE. If we look at the various movements of our age, we shall see in them this tendency to universality and diffusion. Look, first, at science and literature. Where is science now? Locked up in a few colleges, or royal societies, or inaccessible volumes? Are its experiments mysteries for a few privileged eyes? Are its portals guarded by a dark phraseology, which, to the multitude, is a foreign tongue? No; science has now left her retreats, her shades, her selected company of votaries, and, with familiar tone,

begun the work of instructing the race. Through the press, discoveries and theories, once the monopoly of philosophers, have become the property of the multitude. Its professors, heard not long ago in the university or some narrow school, now speak in the mechanic institute. The doctrine, that the labourer should understand the principles of his art, should be able to explain the laws and processes which he turns to account-that, instead of working as a machine, he should join intelligence to his toil, is no longer listened to as a dream. Science, once the greatest of distinctions, is becoming popular. A lady gives us conversations on chemistry, revealing to the minds of our youth vast laws of the universe, which, fifty years ago, had not dawned on the greatest minds. The school-books of our children contain grand views of the creation. There are parts of our country in which lyceums spring up in almost every village, for the purpose of mutual aid in the study of natural science. The characteristic of our age, then, is not the improvement of science, rapid as this is, so much as its extension to all

men.

The same characteristic will appear, if we inquire into the use now made of science. Is it simply a matter of speculation? a topic of discourse? an employment of the intellect? In this case, the multitude, with all their means of instruction, would find in it only a hurried gratification. But one of the distinctions of our time is, that science has passed from speculation into life. Indeed, it is not pursued enough for its intellectual and contemplative uses. It is sought as a mighty power, by which nature is not only to be opened to thought, but to be subjected to our needs. It is conferring on us that dominion over earth, sea, and air, which was prophesied in the first command given to man by his Maker; and this dominion is now employed, not to exalt a few, but to multiply the comforts and ornaments of life for the multitude of men. Science has become an inexhaustible mechanician; and by her forges, and mills, and steam cars, and printers' presses, is bestowing on millions, not only comforts, but luxuries, which were once the distinction of a few.

Another illustration of the tendency of science to expansion and universality may be found in its aims and objects. Science has burst all bounds, and is aiming to comprehend the universe, and thus it multiplies fields of inquiry for all orders of minds. There is no province of nature which it does not invade. Not content with exploring the darkest periods of human history, it goes behind the birth of the human race, and studies the stupendous changes which our globe experienced for hundreds of centuries, to become prepared for man's abode. Not content with researches into visible nature,

it is putting forth all its energies to detect the laws of invisible and imponderable matter. Difficulties only provoke it to new efforts. It would lay open the secrets of the polar ocean, and of untrodden barbarous lands. Above all, it investigates the laws of social progress, of arts, and institutions of government, and political economy, proposing as its great end the alleviation of all human burthens, the weal of all the members of the human race; in truth, nothing is more characteristic of our age than the vast range of inquiry which is opening more and more to the multitude of men. Thought frees the old bounds to which men used to confine themselves; it holds nothing too sacred for investigation; it calls the past to account, and treats hoary opinions as if they were of yesterday's growth; no reverence drives it back; no great name terrifies it; the foundations of what seems most settled must be explored. Undoubtedly, this is a perilous tendency; men forget the limits of their powers; they question the infinite, the unsearchable, with an audacious selfreliance; they shock pious and revering minds, and rush into an extravagance of doubt, more unphilosophical and foolish than the weakest credulity. Still, in this dangerous wildness we see what I am stating, the tendency to expansion in the movements of thought.

I have hitherto spoken of science; and what is true of science is still more true of literature; books are now placed within reach of all; works, once too costly except for the opulent, are now to be found on the labourer's shelf; genius sends its light into cottages; the great names of literature are become household words among the crowd; every party, religious or political, scatters its sheets on all the winds. We may lament, and too justly, the small comparative benefit as yet accomplished by this agency; but this ought not to surprise or discourage us. In our present stage of improvement, books of little worth, deficient in taste and judgment, and ministering to men's prejudices and passions, will almost certainly be circulated too freely. Men are never very wise and select in the exercise of a new power; mistake, error, is the discipline through which we advance. It is an undoubted fact, that silently books of a higher order are taking place of the worthless. Happily, the instability of the human mind works sometimes for good as well as evil. Men grow tired at length even of amusements. Works of fiction cease to interest them; and they turn from novels to books which, having their origin in deep principles of our nature, retain their hold of the human mind for ages. At any rate, we see in the present diffusion of literature the tendency to universality of which I have spoken.

The same tendency will appear if we con

sider the kind of literature which is obtaining the widest favour. The works of genius of our age breathe a spirit of universal sympathy. The great poet of our times, Wordsworth, one of the few who are to live, has gone to common life, to the feelings of our universal nature, to the obscure and neglected portions of society, for beautiful and touching themes. Nor ought it to be said that he has shed over these the charms of his genius, as if in themselves they had nothing grand or lovely. Genius is not a creator, in the sense of fancying or feigning what does not exist; its distinction is to discern more of truth than common minds; it sees, under disguises and humble forms, everlasting beauty. This it is the prerogative of Wordsworth to discern and reveal in the ordinary walks of life, in the common human heart; he has revealed the loveliness of the primitive feelings, of the universal affections of the human soul. The grand truth which pervades his poetry is, that the beautiful is not confined to the rare, the new, the distant, to scenery and modes of life open only to the few; but that it is poured forth profusely on the common earth and sky, that it gleams from the loneliest flower, that it lights up the humblest sphere, that the sweetest affections lodge in lowly hearts, that there is sacredness, dignity, and loveliness, in lives which few eyes rest on, that, even in the absence of all intellectual culture, the domestic relations can quietly nourish that disinterestedness which is the element of all greatness, and without which intellectual power is a splendid deformity. Wordsworth is the poet of humanity; he teaches reverence for our universal nature; he breaks down the factitious barriers between human hearts.

The same is true, in an inferior degree, of Scott, whose tastes, however, were more aristocratic. Scott had a childish love of rank, titles, show, pageants, and in general looked with keener eye on the outward life than into the soul; still he had a human heart, and sympathized with his race. With few exceptions, he was just to all his human brethren. A reconciling spirit breathes through his writings. He seizes on the interesting and beautiful features in all conditions of life; gives us bursts of tender and noble feelings even from ruder natures; and continually knits some new tie between the reader and the vast varieties of human nature which start up under his teeming pen. He delighted, indeed, in Highland chiefs, in border thieves and murderers, in fierce men and fierce encounters; but he had an eye to catch the stream of sweet affections, as it wound its way through humble life. What light has Jeanie Deans shed on the path of the obscure! He was, too, wanting in the religious sentiment to comprehend the solemn bearing, the stern