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FALSTAFF IN HADES.

[NOT content with his knowledge of Falstaff in the

prosent life, one illustrious writer has, in imagination, followed him to the spirit world. For the following

hint touching the Fat Knight's behaviour in Hades, we

are indebted to OLIVER GOLDSMITH's Reverie at the

Boar's Head Tavern, Eastcheap.]

THE character of old Falstaff, even with all his faults, gives me more consolation than the most studied efforts of wisdom: I here behold an agreeable old fellow, forgetting age, and shewing me the way to be young at sixty-five. Sure I am well able to be as merry, though not so comical as he Is it not in my power to have, though not so much wit, at least as much vivacity?-Age, care, wisdom, reflection, be gone-I give you to the winds. Let's have t' other bottle: here's to the memory of Shakspeare, Falstaff, and all the merry men of Eastcheap.

Such were the reflections that naturally arose while I sat at the Boar's Head tavern, still kept at Eastcheap. Here, by a pleasant fire, in the very room where old Sir John Falstaff cracked his jokes, in the very chair which was sometimes honored by Prince Henry, and sometimes polluted by his immoral, merry companions, I sat and ruminated on the follies of youth; wished to be young again; but was resolved to make the best of life while it lasted, and now and then compared past and present times together. I considered myself as the only living representative of the old knight, and transported my imagination back to the time when the prince and he gave life to the revel, and made even debauchery not disgusting. The room also conspired to throw my reflections back into antiquity: the oak floor, the gothic windows, and the ponderous chimneypiece, had long withstood the tooth of time; the watchman had gone at twelve; my companions had all stolen off; and none now remained with me but the landlord. From him I could have wished to know the history of a tavern, that had such a long succession of customers; I could not help thinking that an account of this kind would be a

pleasing contrast of the manners of the different ages; but my landlord could give me no information. He continued to doze and sot, and tell a tedious story, as most other landlords usually do; and, though he said nothing, yet was never silent: one good joke followed another good joke; and the

best joke of all was generally begun towards the end of a bottle. I found at last, however, his wine and his conversation operate by degrees: he insensibly began to alter his appearance. His cravat seemed quilled into a ruff, and his breeches swelled out into a fardingale. I now fancied him close in slumber, I imagined my fat landchanging sexes; and, as my eyes began to lord actually converted into as fat a landlady. However, sleep made but few changes in my situation: the tavern, the apartment, and the table, continued as before; nothing suffered mutation but my host, who was fairly altered into a gentlewoman, whom I knew to be dame Quickly, mistress of this tavern in the days of Sir John; and the liquor we were drinking, which seemed converted into sack and sugar.

"My dear Mrs. Quickly," cried I, (for I knew her perfectly well at first sight) "I am heartily glad to see you. How have you left Falstaff, Pistol, and the rest of our friends below stairs! Brave and hearty, I hope?" "In good sooth," replied she, he did deserve to live for ever; but he maketh foul work on 't where he hath flitted. Queen Proserpine and he have quarrelled for his attempting a rape upon her divinity; and were it not that she still had bowels of compassion, it more than seems probable he might have been now sprawling in Tartarus."

CONCLUSION OF FALSTAFF.

A FAMOUS judge came late to court,
One day in busy session,
Whereat his clerk, in great surprise,
Inquired of him the reason.
"A child was born," his honor said,
"And I'm the happy sire."
"An infant judge?" "Oh, no," said he,
"As yet he's but a crier."

REGULAR AND STEADY.-"How many regular boarders have you, madam ?" asked a census-taker of a lady. “ Well, really, I can't say as any of 'em is any too regular. They stop out." "I mean, madam, how many steady boarders have you?" "Well, really, out of nineteen, there's not more 'n two that I'd call steady."

A NEGRO Once gave the following toast: "De Gubernor ob our State.-He come in wid berry little opposition; he goes out wid none at all."

CAPTAIN PATON.

TOUCH once more a sober measure, and let punch and tears be shed,

For a prince of good old fellows that alacka-day is dead;

For a prince of worthy fellows, and a pretty man also,

That has left the Salt-market in sorrow,

grief, and wo;

Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

His waistcoat, coat, and breeches, were all cut off the same web,

Of a beautiful snuff-colour, or a modest genty drab,

The blue stripe in his stocking round his neat slim leg did go,

And his ruffles, of the cambric fine, they were whiter than the snow;

Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

His hair was curl'd in order at the rising of the sun,

In comely rows and buckles smart that about his ears did run,

And before there was a toupée, that some inches up did grow,

And behind there was a long queue that did o'er his shoulders flow;

Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

And whenever we foregather'd he took off his wee three cockit,

And he proffer'd his snuff-box, which he drew from his side-pocket,

And on Burdett or Buonaparte he would make a remark or so,

And then along the plainstones like a provost he would go;

Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

In dirty days he picked well his footsteps with his rattan,

Oh! you ne'er could see the least speck on the shoes of Captain Paton;

And on entering the coffee-room about two, all men did know,

They would see him with his Courier in the middle of the row;

Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!

On a herring and a mutton chop, which his maid dress'd very fine,

There was also a little Malmsey, and a bottle of Bourdeaux,

Which between me and the Captain pass'd nimbly to and fro;

Oh! I ne'er shall take pot-luck with Captain Paton no mo!

Or, if a bowl was mention'd, the Captain he would ring,

And bid Nelly run to the West Port, and a stoup of water bring;

Then would he mix the genuine stuff, as they made it long ago,

With limes, that on his property in Trinidad did grow;

Oh! we ne'er shall taste the like of Captain Paton's punch no mo!

And then all the time he would discourse, so sensible and courteous,

Perhaps talking of last sermon he had heard from Dr. Porteous,

Or some little bit of scandal about Mrs. Soand-So,

Which he scarce could credit, having heard the con but not the pro;

| Oh!

we ne'er shall hear the like of Captain Paton no mo!

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And in spite of all that Cleghorn and Corkindale could do,

It was plain, from twenty symptoms, that death was in his view;

So the Captain made his test'ment, and submitted to his foe,

Now and then upon a Sunday he invited me to And we laid him by the Ram's-horn kirk,

dine

'tis the way we all must go ;

Paton no mo!

Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain | William a surprise, she ran over to see him early in the afternoon. Of course he got a cup of coffee for her, and they were hav Join all in chorus, jolly boys, and let punch ing a pleasant chat in his sitting-room, when

and tears be shed,

the scout comes in with a card, ́ Mr. Ed

For this prince of good old fellows that alack-ward Mandelay.' a-day! is dead;

For this prince of worthy fellows, and a pretty

man also,

That has left the Salt-market in sorrow, grief, and wo;

For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain

Paton no mo!

JOHN GIBSON Lockhart, 1794-1854.

"SAME OLD LIE." FOUR or five of us (says a writer in "The Whitehall Review") were enjoying our last pipe for the night in the smoking-room at Craigfalloch. We had had a long day's tramp over the moors, and the conversation lay chiefly between Jack Winstanley and Charley Vane. These two had been at Oxbridge about the same time, and discovered that, though they had never met there, they had a lot of friends in common. Of course they began telling each other who had gone into the church, who into the civil service, who was dragging out life at an up-country station in India, who had got shot in South Africa, and who had made a fortune in colored yarns.

"Did you know Merton ?" asked Winstanley.

"I think I've met him. Wasn't he a St. Bridget's man?"

"Yes; a tall, pale fellow, if you remember, with a straw-colored hat and a delicate gossamer beard that he never would shave off." "Rather good family, eh?"

66 Daresay. He was a very decent fellow, if he was a little strait-laced. A parson of course. Did you ever hear of a visit he once got from a fine old English gentleman, all of the olden time?""

now,

"No. Tell us the story."

"The gen'man sends his compliments, sir, and hopes it would be convenient for he says, sir, when he was up here fifty years you to see his rooms. He had these rooms, ago, and he has a great fancy to see them again.'

"Very natural, very natural, I'm sure. I shall be delighted, Thomas. But wait a moment. Agatha

"Will it look odd for me to be here, dear?"

“Oh, no; but, you see, if the old gentleman sees you he will be tempted to sit down and talk, and we shall lose all the afternoon. Here's the scout's closet. Run in, and I'll get rid of him as soon as I can.'

"The fact is that Merton was so awfully afraid of being chaffed that he wouldn't have had it come to our ears on any account that a stranger had found him entertaining a lady in his rooms. Agatha was rather shy, and very glad to take refuge in the scout's closet.

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Presently in comes Squire Mandelay. A fine bluff old fellow, something over seventy, a little shaky on his pins, red face, white mutton-chop whiskers, white hat, check tie-you know the style?

"Happy to make your acquaintance, sir. Hope I'm not in your way. The scout told you, perhaps, that I used to have these rooms-ah! a good fifty-three years ago— before your father was born, I daresay? Dear me! How time flies! It all looks like yesterday-like yesterday! The same old view into the master's garden. Yes, the same old view. The same old pictures, too'; and the old boy got up and tapped the frames; and I declare! the same old sofa. Dear me!' Next, he walked round the room, stop. ping at the fireplace. Same old mantelpiece!' Then he got to the door of the scout's room, and turned the handle.

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"Same old- He had just opened the door, when he caught the flutter of a petti coat, and suddenly closed it.

"Ah!' says he, shaking his head, 'same old games! same old games!'

Well, Merton was really a good fellow, but he had been brought up at homecoached at the family rectory; you understand? He never got into scrapes like the rest of us, and in fact was the most irreproachable soul you ever saw. One term, Merton's eldest sister, a mature lady of "Sir!' gasps Merton, in an awful funk; some thirty summers, came down to stay'sir! that's my sister! She-that is—.' with some friends near Oxbridge, and the "Well, I declare! Same old lie! Same day after her arrival, wishing to give dear old lie!'"'

HOW THE MONEY WAS BURIED.

Two young men of the race and lineage of Abraham, formed a partnership, each investing $750 in the business.-Their business prospered and so did their friendship, which passing years cemented more and more closely. As neither of them married, they lived chiefly for each other, and it was agreed between them that whichever died first should make the other his heir. Finally one of them was smitten with a mortal illness; and not unmindful of the compact, he made a will bequeathing all his fortune to his friend and partner. He made, however, one singular reservation. He had,— he assured his sorrowing comrade,-a singular but strong desire that the original capital of $750 that he had put into the business, should be buried with him. It was, in truth, a strange whim; yet the friend made haste to assure the dying man that his last wish would be respected. So the sick man departed in peace. But the survivor, with the thriftiness which characterizes his race, had no sooner closed his friend's eyes than he began to reflect on the unreasonableness of his request and to think of the utter wastefulness of burying $750 where it could do no manner of good. As the upshot of his cogitation he decided that, while he did right to make the promise in order to satisfy his friend, he would do equally right to break the promise in order to prevent so grievous a waste. Accordingly the man was buried without the

money.

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"Indeed, then," says Kathleen, " don't think of the like,

For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike; The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound".

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than the ground."

'Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go : Sure I dream ev'ry night that I'm hating you

so!"

"Och!" says Rory, "that same I'm delighted For dhrames always go by conthraries, my to hear,

As the promise had been a matter strictly between the two friends, the violation of it remained a secret with the survivor. It preyed upon him. He grew restless, sleep-"Faith !" says Rory, "I'd rather love you less, lost his appetite, and became pale and haggard. Finally, a friend inquired the cause of his unhappiness, and the conscience-stricken sufferer unbosomed himself. "Your remedy is simple," said the friend; "I advise you to fulfil your promise to your dying partner, without further delay. And why should you not? You are rich, and will never miss the money." "You are right," said the other, "I will do it." When the gentleman who gave this advice, met his friend some days later, he observed a marked change in his appearance; "Ah!" said he, "you are looking quite yourself again-I need not ask whether you per

dear.

Och! jewel, keep dhraming that same till you

die,

And bright morning will give dirty night the

black lie!

And 't is plazed that I am, and why not, to

be sure?

Since 't is all for good luck," says bold Rory

O' More.

"Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teazed | ation; an old dressing-gown wrapped around

me enough;

Sure, I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff;

And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste,

So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest."

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck,

So soft and so white, without freckle or speck;

him, slippers on his feet, his face grim as granite (just as it appears in Woodman's bust), and his eyes with that sad, prophetic gaze which is reproduced in all the photographs. On the book-shelves close around him were well-thumbed volumes, nearly all of them presentation copies, with the autographs of their mighty authors; chief among them a set of Goethe, with notes in the poet's own handwriting. On the wall, over the

And he looked in her eyes, that were beam-mantel-piece, was a scroll in vellum, given

ing with light,

And he kissed her sweet lips-Don't you think he was right?

"Now, Rory, leave off, sir-you'll hug me

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man.

O' More.

SAMUEL LOVER, 1794-1868.

SANDIE MACPHERSON.

A VIGNETTE IN PROSE.

Ir was my privilege, during the last days of his strangely prosperous career, to see a good deal of the late Mr. Thomas Ercildoune True Thomas,' as he was affectionately called by the generation to whom he told so many grim truths. I had gone to him as a literary aspirant-one of the many who, coming up from Scotland to fight for fortune, carried letters of introduction to the great The nation delighted to honor him, and despite his dislike of the literary class generally, he never failed to say a kind word to any young brother Scot who sought his advice. For some reason or other, he took to me, and though so many years his junior, I became a frequent visitor to his house, and received a great deal of his confidence. It was one winter evening, as we sat alone together in his study-that study which was a very Mecca to literary pilgrims of all nations -that he made the singular confession which I am about to place on record.

There he sat, aged, honored, famous, the leading man of letters, perhaps, of his gener

1The real hero of this narrative, as the reader will easily perceive, is Thomas Carlyle.

to Ercildoune by the savants of Germany on the occasion of his sixtieth birthday, and his reception of the Grand Cross of the Legion of Sauerkraut, from the hands of the king of Thuringia. In the desk at his elbow was a precious correspondence-signed by such names as Heine, Thiers, Balzac, Hartmann, Darwin, Macaulay, Coleridge, Dickens. Only the day before, Ercildoune had been sent for by the Queen of England, as one of the two or three great men it behooved her to know and honor; and having spent several hours of conversation with her, he had pronounced her a nice homely body, just like scores of farmers' wives he had met in Allandale." Certainly, he was one to whom the world did homage-kings might have envied his authoritative position. It was therefore, with some surprise that I discovered, listening to his confession, that the great man was not altogether contented with success; that it had one serious qualification, which had (as he himself expressed it) cost him many a sleepless night.

Let me explain the matter, as far as possible, in his own words. I despair of reproducing the peculiar accent and the deep pathetic "burr" of his voice-which he preserved to the last, as well as certain eccentricities of pronunciation, which I shall not

imitate.

"You think me a successful man, and such I allow, is the popular opinion. Well, maybe I have been successful beyond my merits, which are small enough, Lord knows; but lest I should grow daft with my own self-conceit, the Lord sent Sandie Macpherson to keep me humble!

"It is a humiliating confession to make, but almost at any point of my long career, from the very beginning, the thought of having converted Sandie would have been more precious to me than the admiration of all the rest of the world. Sandie, however, never believed in me from the first. When I published my first book, my chief thought was,

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