That unscrupulous but brilliant adventurer, General, and afterward Field Marshal, de St. Arnaud, had charge of the military operations. But he was unwilling to assume the direct responsibility of ordering the troops to fire upon the people, being not altogether certain as to the result of Napoleon's memorable enterprise.

When the moment for action arrived and the mob began to show signs of sweeping aside the troops, the brigadier generals under his orders sent an officer to him at headquarters to ask him what they were to do, whether they were to fire on the populace or give way.

Strangely enough, St. Arnaud was seized at that moment with a violent fit of coughing which lasted for several minutes. Finally when it ceased the General just managed to gasp the words, "Ma sacrée toux !" (my cursed cough).

The officer having waited until the General had recovered his breath repeated the question. Again St. Arnaud was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which terminated, as on the previous occasion, with the parting exclamation of "Ma sacrée toux!"

The officer was no fool; he could take a hint as well as anyone else, and saluting he left St. Arnaud's presOn returning to the brigadiers and colonels who had sent him for instructions he was asked what reply St. Arnaud had made.

ence.

66 'The General's only words and commands were massacrez tous!" (massacre everybody).

These commands were obeyed to the letter, and many thousand people were shot down and bayoneted in consequence.

The word-twisters do not hesitate to invade the cemeteries and leave their mark on tombstones. Here is one

of Dr. Dibdin's epitaphs:

Reader, of these four lines take heed,

And mend your life for my sake;

For you must die, like ISAAC REED,

Though you may read till your eyes ache.

Cecil Clay, the counsellor of Lord Chesterfield, directed this whimsical pun upon his name to be put on his tombstone :

Sum quod fui. (I am what I was.)

On an Oxford organist :

Here lies one blown out of breath,

Who lived a merry life and died a Merideth.

On a Norwich celebrity:

Hic jacet Plus, plus non est hic,

Plus et non plus, quomodo sic?

Here lies More, no more is he,

More and no more, how can that be?

In All Saints' Church, Hertford, we are told "Here sleeps Mr. Wake." The inscription over the bones of Captain Jones, the famous traveller and story-teller, winds up with "He swore all's true, yet here he lies." On the slab of a cockney cook is written, "Peace to his hashes." Of a drunken cobbler, a friend to awl, who toward the close of life repented of his evil courses, it was said, "He saved his sole by mending at the last." Of John Potter, Archbishop of Canterbury, 1736, it is recorded, "Potter himself is turned to clay."

A well known anecdote of Dr. Johnson's dislike of punning is told in the following way: "Sir," said Johnson, "I hate a pun. A man who would perpetrate a pun would have little hesitation in picking a pocket." Upon this, Boswell hinted that his illustrious friend's dislike to this species of small wit might arise from his inability to play upon words. "Sir," roared Johnson, "if I were punish-ed for every pun I shed, there would not be left a puny shed of my punnish head."

Two merchants of a Scotch town were noted for many sharp bargains. One of them was named Strong and the other answered to the name of Wiley. One Sunday the good old minister greatly surprised his hearers by invoking "a blessing upon us, for our enemies are wily and strong, as Thou knowest, O Lord." Notwithstanding the solemnity of the occasion, few could resist a smile, feeling how applicable it was.

Among a party dining with W. S. Caine, M.P., was Rev. Dr. John Watson (Ian Maclaren). Mr. Caine offered to give fifty pounds to a hospital fund through the man who would make the best pun on his name within five minutes. Cogitation became active, and then, just as the time was about to expire, and Mr. Caine thought he would escape, Mr. Watson said, "Don't be in such a hurry, Caine."

Daniel Webster, when a young man in New Hamp shire, indulged in a form of pleasantry on one occasion, unusual with him even in his lightest moods. Party spirit running high in Portsmouth in the days of the

embargo, great efforts were made at an annual State election by both parties to carry the town. The Repub·licans succeeded in electing their moderator, Dr. Goddard, a position of potentiality, because he decided, in case of a challenge, the right to vote. A man's vote was offered on the part of Mr. Webster's friends which the Republican party objected to, and the moderator was appealed to for a decision. The doctor hesitated; he did not wish to decide against his own party, and still he was too conscientious to make intentionally a wrong decision. He seemed at a loss what to do. "I stand," said he to the meeting, "between two dangers; on the one side is Scylla, on the other, Charybdis, and I don't know which to do." "I fear then," said Mr. Webster, "that your Honor will take the silly side.”

In the way of oddities among the books may be noted a short man reading Longfellow; a burglar picking at Locke; a jeweller devouring Goldsmith; an artilleryman with Shelley; an omnibus driver calling for one Moore; a nice young man going to the Dickens; a laborer at his Lever; a young woman with her Lover; a Tom studying Dick's works; a lancer learning Shakspeare; a servant looking for the Butler; a miller deep in Mill; a glazier's hour with Paine; a hedger absorbed in Hawthorne; a Dutchman interested in Holland; a domestic man with Holmes; a bookseller trying to save his Bacon; a woman in Thiers; a lazy man's Dumas; a determined man with Kant; a corn-doctor with Bunyan's Progress; a philologist contemplating Wordsworth; a minstrel reading Emerson; a Catholic at Pope; a creditor pleased with Sue; a jolly fellow laughing over Sterne.

CLEVER HITS OF THE HUMORISTS

Mistaken Vanity

It is told of Père Monsabre, the famous Dominican preacher, that one day, as he was on the way to officiate in the church, a message came to him that a lady wanted to see him. She was worrying about an affair of conscience, she felt that she must see him, she feared that she was given up to vanity. That very morning, she confessed, she had looked in her looking-glass, and yielded to the temptation of thinking herself pretty.

Père Monsabre looked at her and said quietly, "Is that all?"

She confessed that it was.

"Well, my child," he replied, "you can go away in peace, for to make a mistake is not a sin."

Toast

In the days before the war, days famous for generous but unostentatious hospitality in the South, a brilliant party was assembled at dinner in a country homestead. Across the table wit flashed back and forth, and, when the merry party had adjourned to the broad veranda, the guests began to vie with one another in proposing conundrums.

Mr. Alexander H. Stephens offered one which puzzled the whole company. "What is it that we eat at

breakfast and drink at dinner?"