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One day this winter I went out to dine.
All was first-rate-the style, the food, the
wine.

A concert afterward-en règle-just so.
The hour arrived. I entered, bowing low,
My heels together. Then I placed my hat
On something near, and joined the general
chat.

The console where I laid it down, alas!
Was now surrounded (not a mouse could
pass)

By triple rows of ladies gayly dressed,
Who fanned and listened calmly, undistressed.
No man through that fair crowd could work
his way,

Rank behind rank rose heads in bright array.

At half-past eight we dined. All went off Diamonds were there, and flowers, and, lower

well.

Trust me for being competent to tell!

I sat between two ladies-mute as fishes-
With nothing else to do but count the dishes.
I learned each item in each course by heart.
I hate tobacco, but as smoke might part
Me from those ladies, with a sober face
I took a strong cigar, and kept my place.
The concert was announced for half-past ten,
And at that hour I joined a crowd of men.
The ladies, arm to arm, sweet, white, we
found,

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They raised in me. My thoughts were of my
hat.

It lay beyond where all those ladies sat,
Under a candelabrum, shiny, bright,
Smooth as when last I brushed it, full in sight,
Whilst I, far off, with yearning glances tried
Whether I could not lure it to my side.

"Why may my hand not put thee on my
head,

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And quit this stifling room ?" I fondly said.
Respond, dear hat, to a magnetic throb.
Come, little darling; cleave this female mob.
Fly over heads; creep under.

Come, oh,

Like rows of sugared almonds, seated round.
I leaned against the door-there was no chair.
A stout, fierce gentleman, got up with care
(A cuirassier I set him down to be),
Leaned on the other door-post, hard by me,
Whilst far off in the distance some poor girl
Sang, with her love-lorn ringlets out of curl, Escape. We'll find no poetry at home."
Some trashy stuff of love and love's distress.
I could see nothing, and could hear still less.
Still I applauded, for politeness' sake.

Next a dress-coat of fashionable make
Came forward and began. It clad a poet.
That's the last mode in Paris. Did you know
it?

Your host or hostess, after dinner, chooses
To serve you up some effort of the Muses
Recited with vim, gestures, and by-play
By some one borrowed from the great Fran-
çais.

I blush to write it-poems, you must know,
All make me sleepy; and it was so now.
For as I listened to the distant drone

Of the smooth lines, I felt my lids droop
down,

And a strange torpor I could not ignore
Came creeping o'er me.

"Heavens! suppose I snore! Let me out," I cried, "or else—”

With that

I cast my eyes around to find my hat.

come!

And all the while did that dull poem creep
Drearily on, till sick at last with sleep,
My eyes fixed straight before me with a stare,
I groaned within me:

"Come, my hat-fresh air!
My darling, let us both get out together.
Here all is hot and close; outside, the weather
Is simply perfect, and the pavement's dry.
Come, come, my hat-one effort! Do but try.
Sweet thoughts the silence and soft moon will
still
Beneath thy shelter."

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Pink ribbons, sir. Don't tell me you're un- | A general move toward ice and lemonade.

able

To understand."

"But, sir-"

You mean to tell me-"

"Really-"

The coast was clear; my way was open

now;

My hat was mine. I made my foe a bow, "I don't suppose And hastened, fast as lover could have moved, Through trailing trains, toward the dear thing I loved. "Who but knows I tried to reach it. Your way of dealing with young ladies, sir?

I'll have no trifling, if you please with her." "Trifling?"

"Yes, sir. You know you've jilted five. Every one knows it-every man alive." "Allow me-"

"Here's the hat, I think,

You are in search of."

Shapely, soft, and pink,
A lovely arm, a perfect arm, held out
My precious hat. Impelled by sudden doubt,
I raised my eyes.
Pink ribbons trimmed her
dress.

"No, sir. Every father knows "Here, monsieur, take it. 'Twas not hard to Your reputation, damaging to those Who-"

"Sir, indeed”

"How dare you in this place Stare half an hour in my daughter's face?"

66

Sapristi, Monsieur! I protest—I swearI never looked at her."

guess
What made you look this way.

to go.

You longed

You were so sleepy, nodding-see!-just so. Ah, how I wished to help you, if I could! I might have passed it possibly. I would Have tried by ladies' chain, from hand to hand, "Indeed! What were To send it to you, but, you understand, I felt a little timid-don't you see?"Sir, I'll tell you that- For fear they might suppose-Ah! pardon

You looking at, then?"

me;

My hat, sir."
"Morbleu! looking at your hat!" I am too prone to talk. I'm keeping you.
"Yes, sir, it was my hat."
Take it. Good-night."

My color rose:
He angered me, this man who would suppose
I thought of nothing but his girl.

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The black coat maundered on in dreary rhyme.
Papa and I, getting more angry ever,
Oh, simple trust, pure from debasing wiles!
Exchanged fierce glances, speaking both to- I took my hat from her fair hand with smiles,
And hurrying back, sought out my whilɔm
foe,
Exclaiming:

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"You'll give account for this, sir. Do you Forgive me. pardon me, I entreat, dear sir. I love your daughter, and I gazed at her." 66 'You sir ?"

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Add, she's an angel, and my home is-heaven.
Her father, mild in spite of mien severe,
Holds a high office-is no cuirassier.

HER REASONS.

An old lady walked into a lawyer's office the other day, when the following

Besides-a boon few bridegrooms can com- conversation took place: "Squire, I called

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He

to see if you would like to take this boy and make a lawyer of him." "The boy appears rather young, madam. How old is he?" "Seven years, sir." "He is too young-decidedly too young. Have you no boys older? " "Oh yes, sir, I have several; but we have concluded to make farmers of the others. I told my man I thought this little fellow would make a good lawyer, so I called to see if you would take him." "No, madam, he is too young yet to commence the study of the profession. But why do you think this boy so much better calculated for a lawyer than any of your other sons?" "Why, do you see, sir, he is just seven years old to-day; when he was only five he'd lie like all nature; when he got to be six he was sassy and impudent as any critter could be, and now he will steal anything he can lay his hands on."

HOPELESS.

Mr. Arthur Matthison relates that on one occasion when Sydney Smith was taking a walk around the purlieus of themselves with a tortoise. Lambeth, he saw two little girls amusing Among shelled democrat, they adopted that of other methods of amusing that hardThe natural gently scraping the shell. pulpit humorist was aroused, and he said, common-sense, or intelligence, of the

The

There is a young gentleman of the age of fourteen years and named Samuel, who resides in the state of Michigan, and to whom the compound word "fly-poison" is exceedingly unpleasant. This Samuel being some time ago called upon by his judicious mother to help with the churning, felt that that exercise could not compete with the charms of fishing, and that, in short, he'd rather not. announced this candid decision, which, so far from being appreciated by his mother, was received with an affectionate but reformatory slipper-which is a patent argument almost without rival. The churn accordingly claimed him for its the shell of that tortoise for?" My children, what are you tickling own, until during a brief absence of the little idiots looked up and said, "To good woman he happened to perceive a please it, sir." Sydney Smith heaved a casual plate of fly-poison and an idea. sigh at the simplicity of innocence, and As she entered the room she saw Samuel then said, "My dears, you might as well putting the dreadful dish from his lips hope to please the conclave of cardinals and heard his tragic cry, "There, mother, by scratching the dome of St. Peter's, as I guess you won't whip me no more!" There were no shrieks, no tears, no faint- to please the soul of that tortoise' by scratching its shell.” ings on the part of that noble woman. She promptly swept Samuel into the pantry, and with the aid of the domestic, and in spite of his prayers and vain confessions, administered to him (1.) the whites of six eggs, (2.) a mustard emetic, (3.) a dose of pain-killer, (4.) seven Ayer's pills, (5.) two spoonfuls of castor oil, (6.) a tea spoonful of salts, and (7.) a blue pill. Samuel is an altered boy.

A DANGEROUS PUPPY.

In a recent dog show in San Francisco there was exhibited a small skye-terrier to whose cage was attached a card on which was written: "Ladies and gentlemen will please not handle this puppy: he leaks."

THE TRUE HISTORY.

(Translated by W. Tooke.)

[LUCIAN, a classic satirist and humorist of the first merit, was born at Samosata, in Syria, in the early period of the second century, though the exact year is matter of conjecture. He himself tells us, in a piece called The Dream, that his parents were poor, and could not afford him a learned education. He was, in consequence, apprenticed to an uncle, who was a statuary, in

order that he might learn that trade; but he soon

abandoned it, and betook himself to the study of letters.

For a long time he led a somewhat vagrant and unsettled

life, visiting the most of Greece, Italy and Gaul, in the last of which countries he practiced with great success

as a teacher of rhetoric. He is thought to have returned

to his native country when about forty years of age,

after which time all his masterpieces were composed. The last thing we know about him is that he was made a procurator of part of Egypt by the Emperor Commodus. He died probably about the end of the second century. Lucian was one of that class of men who do not readily embrace any form of religion-men whose sharp critical eyes see too many flaws to make it easy for them to acquire a pious or reverential spirit. In philosophy, as well as in religion, he called no man master. Philosophers are, indeed, the constant subjects of his humorous ridicule and pungent wit, aided by all the resources of a richly inventive fancy. His writings have been classified under seven heads: 1. The Rhetorical; 2. The Critical; 3. The Biographical; 4. Romances; 5. Dialogues; 6. Miscellaneous; 7. Poems. Of these, the most celebrated are his Dialogues, the principal of

"The

which are: "The Sale of Lires;" "Dialogues of the Gods;" "The Fisherman, or the Revivified;" Banquet, or the Lapithe;"" Timor the Misanthrope;" "Dialogues of the Dead;" and "Icaro-Menippus, or above the Clouds." The best of his romances, and a work of Rabelaisian humor, is his "True History." Lucian has always been a great favorite with scholars, and has been

translated into most of the European languages.]

TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.

[The author himself having so definitely explained in his preface the nature and aim of this little romance, the prototype of all the "Voyages imaginaires," the Bergeracs, the Gullivers, the Munchausens, &c., I have nothing to add. I am not of opinion that the luxuriant play of the imagination and humor of Lucian has lost much by our knowing either not at all, or but very imperfectly the authors

to whom he here and there alludes, for the purpose of rendering them ridiculous for their rhodomontades and lies. The satire in this tract has no need of a particular key, but is everywhere intelligible, because it is everywhere applicable. It was probably Lucian's

design to divert himself with the inclination of most men to believe miraculous stories, as well as with the cap and bells of those travel. lers who are fond of relating wonderful adventures. Thus much is certain, that he has left no hope remaining for even the most fertile and exuberant imagination to reach, not to say surpass him in the sublime of this department, that is, in the witty absurdity of the combinations.]

BOOK I.

As those who make profession of the athletic art, and in general all such health and vigor to the body, are careful, as study as much as possible to give together with the gymnastic exercises, that it have the requisite hours of recreation; deeming this rest after exertion a main point in the due ordering of their lives: so I think it is proper for the studious to allow their mind to rest, after having busily employed it for a length of time in serious and fatiguing studies, and by a seasonable relaxation to render it more vigorous and alert for future application.

In this view nothing is more convenient than a lecture, which, under the semblance of merely amusing the mind with free effusions of wit and humor, conveys some useful instruction, and, as it were, joins the Muses in play with the Graces. Something of this sort will, I hope, be found in the present Essays. The charms they will have, as I flatter myself, for the reader lie not only in the marvellousness of the subject, or in the droll conceits, or in that familiar style of veracity with which I produce such a variety of lies, but also in this, that each of the incredible events, which I relate as matter of fact, contains a comic allusion to one or other of our ancient poets, historiographers and philosophers, who have fabricated similar tales and miracles; and whose names I omit to mention, only be cause they will naturally occur to the

reader.

To name, however, at least a pair of them. Ctesias the son of Ctesiochus, wrote an account of India, in which he records matters which he neither saw

himself nor heard from the mouth of any creature in the world. So, likewise, a cerwonders of the Great Sea, that are too tain Jambulus wrote many incredible

1 He wrote also thirty books of the Persian History. "Suidas." He lived in the time of Artaxerxes.

more convenient to think of or do, and had a certain restless curiosity to see novelties of whatever kind, and a desire to ascertain where the Western Ocean terminated, and what sort of men dwelt beyond it. In this view, my first care was to get on board the necessary stock of provision for so long a voyage and plenty of fresh water, taking along with me fifty companions of the same mind as myself, and, moreover, I provided myself with a good store of arms, and one of the most experienced pilots, whom I took into my service on an allowance of considerable wages. My vessel was a sort of yacht, but built as large and stout as was necessary for a long and dangerous voyage.

palpably untrue for any one to suppose wind to the Hesperian Ocean. The occaaught but that they are his own inven- sion and the object of my voyage were, tion, though they are very entertaining to speak honestly, that I had nothing to read. Many others have, in the same spirit, wrote pretended voyages and occasional peregrinations in unknown regions, wherein they give us incredible accounts of prodigiously huge animals, wild men, and strange and uncouth manners and habits of life. Their great leader and master in this fantastical way of imposing upon people was the famous Homerican Ulysses, who tells a long tale to Alcinous and his silly Phæacians' about King Eolus and the winds, who are his slaves, and about one-eyed men-eaters and other the like savages; talks of manyheaded beasts, of the transformation of his companions into swine and a number of other fooleries of a like nature. For my part, I was the less displeased at all the falsehoods, great and numerous as they were, of these honest folks, when I saw that even men who pretend that they only philosophise act not a hair better; but this has always excited my wonder, how they could imagine their readers could fail of perceiving that there was not a word of truth in all their narratives. Now, as I cannot resist the vanity of transmitting to posterity a little work of my own composing, and though I have nothing true to relate (for nothing memorable has happened to me in all my life), I see not why I have not as good a right to deal in fiction as another. I resolved, however, to adopt an honester mode of lying than the generality of my compeers; for I tell at least one truth, by saying that I lie; and the more confidently hope therefore to escape the general censure, since my own voluntary confession is a sufficient proof, that I desire to impose upon no one. Accordingly, I hereby declare that I sit down to relate what never befel me, what I neither saw myself, nor heard by report from others; aye, what is more, about matters that not only are not, but never will be, because, in one word, they are absolutely impossible, and to which, therefore, I warn my readers (if by-the-by I should have any), not to give even the smallest degree of credit.

Once on a time, then, I set sail from Cadiz, and stecred my course with a fair

1 Tam vacui capites populum Phæaca putavit. "Juve

nal."

We sailed a day and a night with favorable gales, and while still within sight of land were not violently carried on; on the following day, however, at sunrise, the wind blew fresher, the sea ran high, the sky lowered, and it was even impossible to take in the sails. We were therefore forced to resign, ourselves to the wind, and were nine and seventy days driven about by the storm. On the eightieth, however, at daybreak, we descried a high and woody island, not far off, against which, the gale having greatly abated, the breakers were not uncommonly furious. We landed therefore, got out, and happy, after sustaining so many troubles, to feel the solid earth under us, we stretched ourselves at ease upon the ground. At length, after having rested for some time, we arose, and selected thirty of our company to stay by the ship, while the remaining thirty accompanied me in penetrating further inland, to examine into the quality of the island.

When we had proceeded about two thousand paces from the shore through the forest, we came up to a pillar of brass, on which in Greek letters, half effaced and consumed by rust, this inscription was legible; "Thus far came Bacchus and Hercules." We also discovered, at no great distance from it, two footmarks in the rock, one of which measured a whole acre, but the other apparently was somewhat smaller. I conjectured the lesser one to be that of Bacchus, and the other that of Hercules. We bowed the knee and went on, but had not proceeded far when we came to a river, that instead of water ran

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