Newspaper Page Text
VOLUME X.
Cljoicc p.ortnj.
SCHOOLBOY’S SONG OF SPRING.
Hurra! harm! for the coming Spring,
lad our voices loudly ring,
Hurra! hurra! for the coming Spring:
When the hens shall lay their eggs;
When the ewes shall fetch their lambs ;
When the cows shall bring their calves;
And 0, the cackle aud ba’—ma’—»,
Shout, boys, shout hurra, hurra!
Hurra! hurra 1 fur the coming Spring;
Let our voices loudly ring,
Hurra! hurra! for the coming Spring;
When the maples shall yield their sap ;
When the crows shall begin to caw;
When the pee-wee shall sing in the woods;
When the adder-tongues shoot u p around
Where the snow first melts from the ground ;
When the partridge’s morning dram
Shall mingle with the brooklet’s hum ;
And the hens still lay their eggs;
And the ewes still fetch their lambs;
Aud the cows still bring their calves ;
: And 0, the murmur of the various souuds!
Let the wild hurra go gaily around!
Hurra! hurra! lor the coining Spring ;
Let our voices loudly ring,
Hurra ! hurra! for the coming Spring;
When the robin shall sing from the tall elm’s
top; l ,andi
When the mists shall rise from the fallowed
Where the oats shall be strowu with a willing
hand ;
Where the meadows shall look so sweetly green
When the cattle shall browse on all the hills;
When the lambs shall frisk o’er the boulder
rocks;
When the sun shall shine with a genial glow ;
When the lake shall lie so quiet below;
And 0, when we take the beautiful trout.
Aud the school-bcll sounds no more lor its!
And still the hens shall lay their eggs ;
And still the ewes shall fetch their lambs;
And still the cows shall bring their c.-lvcs;
And O, tho cackle and ba’-ma’-a!
Shout,boys shout,hurra! hurra!
Let our voices gaily ring,
Hurra! hurra! for the coming Spring!
I YEARN FOR THE SPRING.
I yearn f irthe Spring, when the birds shall sing,
And each morning awake fresh flowers:
i We have waited long for the lark's blithe song,
And the lengthening evening hours.
A shroud of snow had lain on the earth,
An icy hand on each stream,
The sun in the sky opened its languid eye,
A And sent but a sickly gleam!
And the frosty breeze moaned among the trees,
F And the rattling hail and rain
Qnine sweeping past, with an angry blast,
7 And dash'd 'gain it the window pane;
And never a flower, in that stormy hour,
Dared to raise up its tiny bead—
|gor the gentle things fled on Summer’s wings,
Or else in the snow lay dead !
Jtyearn for the Spring when the birds shall sing,
And each morn shall awake new flowers;
‘Wu nave listened long for the woodlark’s song,
And the thrush at tho evening hours.
,*Tis a beauteous thing when the bud first bursts,
And chi'.d-like the young leaf stands,
Aud catches the drops of the gentle shower
Tn its small and velvety hands;
When the tender grass feels the south wind pass
In its chariot all unseen,
And old mother earth, at the new Spring’s birth,
Arrays her in robes of green —
When the unbound stream as if in a dream,
Murmurs on to its unknown home,
, And tells the tall reeds, as onward it speeds,
jj That the fair Lady Spring hath come!
-Oh, I yearn for the Spring—for the balmy Spring,
Who floats like a fairy queen,
And toucheth the land with a magic wand,
Till all beauteous things arc seen.
I long to be out at the ear'y dawn,
When the eastern light is new,
’Along the odors borne from the scented thorn,
And the shadows of silver dew;
6b I cannot tell how my soul doth swell
With an inward happiness,
Jot simply to be is a bliss to me
For the which my God I bless!
From an unknown source comes a nameless force
■Which pervades my being through—
A joy, and a love, and a strength from above
And I seem to be made anew!
Ob, come, then, Spring—let woodlarks sing—
Let the’flowret open its eye;
Like the lark I’d soar to the heaven’s blue floor—
Like the flower, gaze up to the sky.
T.sMadamo du Deffand said of her cat ;
"tl love her exceedingly, because she is
tlife most amiable creature in the world,
but I trouble myself very little about
thA degree of affection she has for me.
I should be very sorry to lose her, be
cause I feel that I manage and perpetu
ate my pleasures, by employing my
cure to perpetuate her existence.”
;■;* Dr. l’arr, when a boy at Harrow, had
,*b very old a face for his age that one
tiny his contemporary, Sir William Jones,
aid, looking at him, “ Parr, if you
should have the good luck to live forty j
years, you may stand a chance of over
taking your face.”
Cl Sinttljcvn lUeehUj Cite van) ant) ißisccUmuous Scmvnai, for the Ijome Circle.
Cl Capital Sion).
THE DEVIL’S MILL.
AN IRISH TALK.
Beside the river Liffey stands the pic
turesque ruins of an old mill, overshud
otved by some noble trees that grow in
great luxurance at tho water’s edge.—
Here, one day, I was accosted by a silver
haired old man, that for somo time had
been observing me, when I was about to
leave tbe spot, approached me and said,
“I suppose it’s afther takin’ of tbe
ould mill you’d be, sir?”
I answered in the affirmative.
“Maybe your honor id let me get a
sight iv it,” said he.
“ With pleasure,” said I, as I untied
the strings of my portfolio, and drawing
the sketch from among its companions
presented it to him. Ho considered it
attentively for some time and at length
exclaimed :
“Troth, there it is to life—the broken
roof and the waterfall—aye, even to the
very spot where the gudgeon of tho wheel
was wanst, let alone the big stone at the
corner, that was laid the first by himself.
and he gave tho last word with mysteri
ous emphasis—handing the drawing
back to me with a “ thankee, Sir,” of
most respectful acknowledgment.
“And who was ‘himself,’” said L
“that laid that stone?” feigning igno
rance, and desiring to draw him out, as
tbe phrase is.
“ 0, then, maybe it’s what you’d be a
stranger here ?”
“Almost,” said I.
“And did you never hear tell of this
mill,” said he, “and how it was built?”
“ Never,” was my answer.
“Troth, then, 1 thought young and
ould, rich and poor knew that far and
near.”
“ I don’t for one,” said I; “ but per
haps,” I added, bringing forth some little
[(reparation for a lnnch that I had about
me, and producing a small flask of whis
key—“perhaps you will be so good as to
tell me, and take a slice of ham, and
drink my health,” offering him a dram
from my flask, and seating myself on the
sod beside the river.
“Thank you kindly,” says he ; and so
after “ warming his heart,” as he said
himself, he proceeded to give an account
cf the mill in question.
“You see, Sir, there was a man wanst
in times back, that owned a power of
land about here—but God keep uz, they
said he didn't come by it honestly, hut
did a crooked turn whenever ’twas to
sarve himself—and sure he sowld the
pass, (an allusion to a post/jf importance
that was betrayed in some of the battles
between William 111. and James II.) and
what luck or grace could he have afther
that?”
“How do you mean he sold the
pass ?” said I.
“ Oh, sure your honor must have heard
how the pass was sowld, and he bethray
ed the king and counthry.”
“No, indeed,” said I.
“ Och, well,” answered my old infor
mant, with a shake of the head, which
he meant, like Lord Burleigh in the
Critic, to bo very significant, “it’s no
mather now, and I don’t care talkin’
about it, and laist said is soonest mended
howsomedever he got a power o’ mo
ney for that same, and lands and what
uot; the more he got the more he craved,
and there was no ind to his sthrivin’ for
goold evermore, and thirstin' for tho
lucre of gain.
“Well, at last, the story goes, the
divil (God bless us) kem to him, and pro
mised him bapes o’ money, and all his
heart could desire, and more too, if he’d
sell his sow] in exchange.”
“ Surely he did not consent to such a
bargain as that 3” said I.
“O, no. Sir,” said the old man, with a
slight play of the muscle about the cor
ners of his mouth, which, but that the
awfuluess of the subject suppressed it,
would have amounted to a bitter smile.
“Oh no, he was too cunnin’ for that,
MADISON, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, APRIL 19, 18-56.
had as he v as—and he was bad enough.
God knows—lie had some regard for his
sinful sowl, and he would not give him
self up to the divil, all out; hut the vil
lain, he thought ho might make a bar
gain with the ould ehap and get all he
wanted, and keep himself out of harm’s
way still—for ho was mighty cute, and
throth he was able for ould Nick any
day.
“ Well, the bargain was struck, and it
was this a way : The divil was to give
him all the goold ever he’d ask for, and
was to let him alone as long as he could;
aud the timpter promised him a loug
day, and said ’twouhl boa great while
before he’d want him at all; aud when
that time kem, ho was to keep his hands
oft’ him as long as the oilier could give
him some work he couldn’t do. So,
when the bargain was made,
“Now,” says tho Colonel to the divil,
“give me all the money I want.”
“As much as you like,” says Ould
Nick, “ how much will you have ?”
“ You must fill that room,” says lie,
pointing to a numbering big room, “ up
to the cedin’ with goolden guineas.”
“ And wclkim’, says the divil.”
“ With that, Sir, ho began to shovel
in tho guineas into tho room like mad,
and the Colonel towld him that as soon
as ho was done to come to him in his
pallor, below, and that he would then go
up and see if the divil was as good as his
word, and had filled the room with the
goold guineas. So tho Colonel went
down stairs, aud the ould fellow worked
as busy as a nailer, shoveling in tho gui
neas by hundreds and thousands.
“ Well, he worked away for an hour or
more, and at last began to get tired, and
lie thought it mighty odd the room
wasn’t filling faster.
“ Well, afther resting for a while ho
began again, and he puts his shoulder to
work in airnest, but still the room was no
fuller at all, at all.”
“Och ! bad luck to me,” says the divil
•‘but the likes of this I never seen—far
and near, up and down, tho dickens a
room I ever kem across alone, I could
cram it while a cook would be crammin’
a turkey, till now, and here I am losing
my whole day, and I with such a power
o’ work on my hands yit, and this room
no fuller than if I began live minits ago.’’
“By gor, while he wasspakin’ he seen
the heap of guineas in the iniddlo of the
flure growing littler and littler every
minit, and at last wor disappearing for
all tho world like corn in the hopper of
a mill.”
“Ho! ho!” says Ould Nick, “is that
the way wid you,”—and he ran over
to the heap of goold, and what would
you think, but it was runnin’ down thro’
a great big hole in the fluro that the
Colonel made through the ceilin’ in the
room below—and that was the work he
was at afther he left the divil, though he
purtended ho was only waitin’ for him
in his parlor, and there the divil when he
looked down the hole in the flure, seen
the Colonel, not content with two rooms
full of guineas, but with a big shovel
throwin’ them into a closet at oue side
o’ him, as they fell down. So puttin’
his head through the hole he called down
to the Colonel—
“Hillo! neighbor,” says he.
“ The Colonel looked up and grew as
white as a sheet when he seen lie was
found out, and the red eyes starin’ down
at him through tho hole.
“ Musha, bad luck to your impudence,”
says Ould Nick; “is it sthrivin’ to chate
me you are ? you villian 1”
“O, forgive this wanst,” said the Co
lonel, “and upon tho honor of a gentle
man I’ll never ”
“ Whist! whist! you thieving rogue,”
says the divil, “ I’m not angry with you, I
at all, at all, but like you the kether, be- j
kase you’re so cute—lave off slaving
yourself, there—you have goold enough
for this time, and whenever you want
more you have only to say the word, and
it shall be yours at command.”
“So, with that, the divil and he parted
for that time, aud myself doesn’t know j
whether they used to meet ofthen afther
or not; hut the Colonel never wanted
money anyhow, but went on prosperous
in tbe world—aud, as the saving is, if he
took the Jil t out of the road, it did turn
to money wid him ; and so, in course o’
time, ho bought great estates, and was a
great man iutirely—nor greater in Ire
land, troth."
Fearing here a digression on landed in
terest, I interrupted him to ask how ho
and the fiend settled their accounts at
last.
“Oh, Sir, you’ll hear that in good
time. Suro enough its terrible, and
wonderful it is at tho end, and mighty
improvin’—glory be to God !”
“ Is that what you say ?” said I in sur
prise, “because a wicked aud deluded
man lost his soul to the tempter?”
“ Oh, the Lord forbid, your honor—
but don’t bo impatient and you'll hear
all. They say, at last, afther many years
of prosperity, the ould Colonel got strick
en in years, and he began to havo mis
givings in his conscience for his wicked
doings, and his heart was heavy as the
fear of death kern upon him—and sure
enough, while ho had such mournful
thoughts, the devil kem to him mid
towld him ho should go wid him.
“Well, to be sure, tho ould man was
frikened, hilt ho [ducked up his courage
and his cutencss, and towled tho divil, in
a bantharing’ way jokin’ like, that lie had
particular business thin, that he was
goin’ to a party, and hoped an ould frind
wouldn’t ineonvaynience him that a
way ”
“ Well,” said I, laughing at the put-off
of going to the party, “ tho devil, of
course, would take no excuse, and carried
him off in a flash of lire ?”
“ Oh, no, Sir,” answered the man, in
something of a reproving, or at least of
! fended tone—“that’s the finish, I know
very well, of many a story such as we’re
talking of, but that’s not tho way of this,
which is truth, every word that I tell
you ’
“ I beg your pardon for the interrup
tion,” said I.
“No offence in life, Sir,” said the ven
erable chronicler, who was now deep in
his story, and would not bo stopped.
“ Well, Sir, the divil said he’d call tho
next day, and that lie must he ready—
and sure enough in the evenin’ he kem
to him ; and when the Colonel seen him
he reminded him of his bargain that as
long as he could give him some work ho
couldn’t do, he wasn’t obleeged to go.
“ That’s thrue,” says tho divil.
“ I’m glad you’re as good as your
word, anyhow,” says the Colonel.
“I never bruk tny word yit,” says the
ould chap, cocking up his horns consait
edly—honor bright,” says he.
“ Well, then,” says the Colonel, “ build
me a mill down there by the river, and
Lave it finished by to-morrow rnornin.”
“ Your will is my pleasure,” says Ould
Nick, and the Colonel wint to bed quite
aisy iu bis mind.
“But jewel machree, sure the first
thing we heard the next mornin’ was,
that the whole counthry round was run
ning to see a fine bran new mill, that
was on the river side, where the evening
before, not a tiling at all at all but rushes
was standin’, and all, of course wonderin’
what brought it there ; and some say in’
’twas not lucky, and many more troubled
in their mind, but one and all agreeing
it was no good; and that’s tho very
mill forninst you that you w ere takin’ ass,
and the stone that I noticed is a remark
able one—a big coign stone—that they
say the Divil himself laid first and has
the mark of four fingers and a thumb on
it to Ibis day.
“But when the Colonel heerd it, he
was more troubled than any, of couase,
and began to oonthrive what else he
could think iv, to keep himself out iv the i
claws iv the ould one. Well, he often
heard tell there was one thing the divil
never covld do, and I dar say you heard
it too, Sir—that is that he couldn't make
a rope out of the sand of the sae ; and so
when the ould one kem to him the next j
day, and said his job was done, and that
now the mil! was built, he must cither j
tell him something else he wanted done,
or come wid him.
“So the Colonel said he saw it was all
over wid him, ‘hut,’ says lie, ‘ I wouldn’t
like to go wid you alive, and sure it’s all
the same to you alive or dead !”
“Oh, that won’t do,” says his friend;
“ I can’t wait no more,” says he.
“ I don’t want you to wait, ray dear
friend,” says tho Colonel; all I want is
that you’ll *l'6 pleased to kill me before
you take me away.
“ With pleasuoo,” says Ould Nick.
“But will you promise mo my choice
ofdyiu’ one particular way ?” says the
Colonel; “ and so," says he, “ I’d rather
die by bein’ hanged with a rope made out
of the sands of the sea," says he, lookin’
mighty knowin’ at tho ould fellow.
“I’ve always one about me, to obleego
my friends,” says the divil; and with
that lie pulls out a rope made of sandi
suro enough.
“Oh, it’s game you’re makin,”s«ys the
Colonel, growin’ white as a sheet.
“ The game is mine sure enough,” says
tho owld fellow grinnin’ with a terrible
laugh.
“That’s not a sand rope at all,” says
the Colonel.
“Isn’t it?” says the divil, liittin’ him
ncrosss tho face with the ind iv the rope,
and the sand (for it was made of sand,
suro enough,) went into one of his eyes,
and made the tears come with tho pain.
“That bates all I ever seen or heard,’
says the Colonel, strivin’ to rally, and
made another offer—‘is there anything
you can’t do ?’ ”
“Nothin’you can tell me,” says the
divil, “so you may as well leave off your
palaverin’ and come along at wanst."
“ Will you give me one more offer ?”
says the Colonel.
“ You don’t desarve it,” says the divili
“ but I don’t care if I do,” for you see, Sir’
lie was only playin’ wid him, and tantali
sin’ tho owld sinner.
“All fair,” says the Colonel, and with
that lie ax’d hi in -if lie could stop a wo
man’s tongue.
“Tliry me,” says Ould Nick.
“ Well, then,” says the Colonel, “ make
my lady's longue ho quiet for the next
month and I’ll take you.”
“She’ll never trouble yon agin,” says
Ould Nick; and with that tho Colonel
heerd roarin’ and cryin’, and tho door of
his room was thrown open and in ran his
daughter and fell down at his feet, tell
ing that her mother had just dropped
dead.
The minit tho door opened the di\U
runs and hides himself behind a big el
bow chair; and tho Colonel was frikened
almost out of his sivin senses, by raison
of the sudden death of his poor lady, let
alone the jeoparty he was in himself) see
ing how the divil had forestallen him
every way, and after ringing his hell and
callin’ to his sarvints and recovering his
daughter out of her Jaint, ho was goin’
away with her to her room when the
divil caught bowld of him by the coat
aud tho Colonel was obliged to let his
daughter be carried by the sarvints and
shut the door afther them.
“ Well,” says the divil, and he grunted
and wagged his tail, and all as one as a
dog when he is pleased, “ what do you
say now ?” says he.
“Oh,” says the Colonel, “only leave
me alone until I bury my poor wife, and
I’ll go with you then, you villian,” says
he.
“Don’t call names,” says the divil -
“you had betther keep a civil tongue in
your head, and it doesn’t become a gen
tleman to forget good manners.”
“ Well, Sir, to make a long story short,
the divil purtcnded to let him off, out of
kindness, for three days, until his wife
was buried; but the raison of it was
this: that when the lady, his daughter
fainted, he loosed the clothes about her
throat, and in pulling some of herdhress
away, he took off'a goold chain that was
on her neck and put it into his pocket,
and the chain had a diamond cross on it;,
(the Lord be praised !) and the divil
daru’t touch him whin ho had the sign
of the er.oss about hjm. I
“ Well, the [ioor Colonel, God forgive
him, was grieved for the loss of his lady,
and she had an illcgaut birr’iu'—and they
say that when the prayers were roadiii’
over the dead, the old Colonel took it
to heart like anything, and the word of
God kem home to his poor sinful sowl at
last.
“ Well, Sir, to make a long story
short the ind iv it was, that for the three
days o’ grace that was given to him, the
poor deluded ould sinner did nothin’ at
all but read tho Bible from mornin’ till
niglit, and bit or sup didn’t pass bis lips
all the time, he was to intent upon tho
holy book, but sat up iu an ould room
in the far end of tho house, and hid no
one disturb him on no account, and
struv to make heart liould with the
word iv life; and sure it was somethin’
strengthened him at last, though as the
time drew nigh that the ininiy was to
come he didn't feel aisy; and no wonder;
and be dad the three days grace was
past and gone in no time, and the story
goes that at the dead hour o’ tho night,
when the poor sinner was readin’ away
< 8 fast as he could, my jewel, his heart
jumped up to his mouth, and gettin’ a
tap on the shoulder—
“Oh! murtber,” says he, “who’s
there ?” for he was afeered to look up.
“It’s mo,” says the Ould One, and he
stood right forninst him, and his eyes,
like coals of lire, looking him through,
and he said, with a voice that almost
split his ould heart “ Come ! ” says ho.
“ Another day,” cried out tho poor
Colonel.
“Not another hour,”says Sat’u.
“Half an hour;”
“Not a quarther,” says the divil, grin
niu’ with a bitter laugh, “give over yer
readin,” I bid yo,” says lie, “and come
away wid me.”
“Only gi’ me a few minutes,” said ho.
“Lave atf your palaverin,’ you snakin’
ould sinner,” says Satin; “you know
you’re bought and sould to mo and
party bargin I have o’ you, you ould
haste," says he—“so come along at
wanst," and ho put out his claw to ketch
him; but the Col’nel took a fast liould
o’ the Bible, and begg’d hard that he’d
let him alono, and wouldn’t harm him
until the bit o’ candle that was just blink
in’ in the socket before him was burned
out.
“ Well, have it so, you coward,” says
Ould Nick.
“ Jhe ould Colonel didn’t loso a
minit (for he Was cunning to the ind,)
but snatched tho little taste of candle
that was forninst him o’ the candlestick,
and puttin' it on the holy book before
him, he shut down the cover of it and
quenched tho light.—With that the
divil gave a roar like a bull, and vanish
ed in a flash o’ fire and the poor Colonel
fainted away in his chair; but the sarv
antsheered the noise, (for the Divil tore
off the roof o’ the house when he left)
and run into the room and brought
their master to himself agin. And
from that day lie was an altered man,
and used to have the Bible read to him
every day, for he couldn’t read himself
any more, by reason of losin’ his eye
sight, when tho divil hit him with the
rope of sand in tho face.
“ So you see, Sir, afther all, the Colonel
undher Heaven, was too able for tbe
divil, and by readin’ the good book his
soul was saved, and glory be to God.
isn’t that mighty improving ?”
“No enjoyment,” says Sydney Smith,
“ however inconsiderable, is confined to
the present moment. A man is the hap
pier for life from having made once an
agreeable tour or lived for any length of
time with pleasnat people, or enjoyed any
considerable interval of innocent plea
sure.”
When a gentleman once remarked in
company how very liberally those per
sons talk of what tbeir neighbors should
give away, who arc least apt to give any.
thing themselves, Sydney Smith replied :
“Yes! no sooner docs A, fall into ditfi
culties than Ik begins to con idor what
C. ought to do for him.”
NUMBER 1G
VARIETIES.
Lady Huntington, when dying,said t
“ I shall go to my father this night.”
A man’s life, says South, is an appen
dix to his heart.
Champfort said of the ancient Gov
ernment of France: “It is it monarchy
tempered by songs!"
If a straw, says Dryden, can be made
the instrument of happiness, be is it
wise man who does not despise it.
Southey said to a low-spirited friend,
“Translate Tri* » i Shandy into II»
brew, and you will be a happy man."
When someone said to Horne Tookc,-
“The law is open to every one," he re
plied, “So is the London Tavern."
A chapter from “ liorrtbow’s Natural
History of Iceland ” concerning Owl* *
“There are no owls in this Island."
“ A patriot is easily made," said Wal
pole. “It is but refusing an unreasona
ble demand, and up starts a patriot."
The last words of a good old man,.
Mr. Grimshaw, oti bis death bed were
these : “ Here goes an unprofitable ser
vant 1 ”
Talleyrand, speaking of a well knowiv
lady, said emphatically, “She is insuffer
able 1 ” Then, as if relenting, bo added ,
“ But that is her only fault.”
A physician once boasted to Sir Henry
Halford, saying, “I was the first to dis
cover the Asiatic cholera, aud commu
nicate it to tho public 1 ”
Oliver Crorn well’s grace bofore din
ner :
“ Some have meat, but canDOt eat f .
And some can eat, but have not moat,.
Aud so—the Lord be praised! ’.
The observance of hospitality, even'
towards an enemy, is inculcated by »
Hindoo author, with groat tligance..
“Tho sandal, too, imparts its fragrance
even to the axe that hews it.”
Voltaire’s definition of a physician is r.
l An unfortunate gentleman, expected
‘every day to perform a miracle; name
ly, to reconcile health with intemper
ance.”
Pope, in his old ago, said : “ As much'
company as I have kept, and as much
as I have it, 1 love reading better. I'
would rather be employed in reading,
than in the most agreeable conversation.”
It is not the height to which men are
advanced that makes them giddy ; it is
the looking down with contempt upon
those beneath.— Conversations of Lord
Byron.
Voltaire was at table one day, when,
tho company were conversing on the
antiquity of the world. llUopinion be
ing asked, he said, “ The world is like
an old coquette, who disguises her age."
Sydney Smith’s definition of the Pop
ish Ritual:
Posture and imposture, flections and.
genuflections, bowing to the right,courte
sving to the left, and an immense
amount of tnan-milinery.
When the rich miser Ehves, who left
about a million of money to bo divided
between his two sons, was advised to
give them some education, his answer
was : “ Putting things into peoples heads,
is taking out of their pockets.”
A saddler at Oxford having forgotten
to which cf his customers he had sold a
saddle, desired his clerk to charge it ini
the bills of all his customers, and has
afterwards acknowledged that Uvo-and
thirty of them paid for it.
When James 11. insisted very much
on Lord 's changing his creed,.
he replied :
‘ Pionse your Majesty, I am pie en--
gaged! ■’
“ How l"
1 When last in Egy pt, I promised the
Pasha if ever l changed my religion to
become a Mahometan.
Tho Lord Chief Justice Kenyon one*
said to a rich friend asking his opinion
as to tho probable success of a son, ‘-Sir,
let your son forthwith spend his fortune-;
marry, and spend his wife’s ; and then
he may be expected to apply wi ll ener
gy to bis juofession.”