Poor Mungo! there he welters like Zounds! cried the Brewer, that's a task But where am I to find a Black And boil him down at every brewing? THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL. The following pithy fable, by Ralph Waldo Emerson, is one of the very few instances in which the most profound thinker and eminent philosopher in America has condescended to enter the ranks of light literature. THE mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter 'Little prig;' Bun replied, 'You are doubtless very big, But all sorts of things and weather To make up a year, And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. I'll not deny you make If I cannot carry forests on my back, MONEY. LORD BYRON. An Extract from the Tenth Canto of Don Juan. WHY call the miser miserable? as I said before the frugal life is his, Which in a saint or cynic ever was The theme of praise: a hermit would not miss Canonization for the self-same cause,— And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities? Because, you'll say, nought calls for such a trial;Then there's more merit in his self-denial. He is your only poet ;-passion, pure, And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays Possess'd, the ore, of which mere hopes allure Nations athwart the deep: the golden rays Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure : On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze; While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dies Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. The lands on either side are his: the ship His very cellars might be kings' abodes; Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, Even with the very ore which makes them base; But whether all, or each, or none of these May be the hoarder's principle of action, The fool will call such mania a disease : What is his own? Go-look at each transaction, Wars, revels, love-do these bring men more ease Than the mere plodding through each 'vulgar fraction?' Or do they benefit mankind? Lean Miser! Let spendthrifts' heirs inquire of yours-who's wiser! How beauteous are rouleaus! how charming chests (Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines, But) of fine unclipt gold, where dully rests Some likeness, which the glittering cirque confines, Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp !Yes? ready money is Aladdin's lamp. 'Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,—for love Is heaven, and heaven is love :' so sings the bard ; Which it were rather difficult to prove (A thing with poetry in general hard). Perhaps there may be something in 'the grove,' At least it rhymes to 'love' but I'm prepared To doubt (no less than landlords of their rental) If 'courts' and 'camps' be quite so sentimental. ON THE OXFORD CARRIER. JOHN MILTON. The following epitaphs on Hobson, the Cambridge University Carrier, 'who sickened in the time of his Vacancy, being forbid to go to London, by reason of the Plague,' were written by the author of Paradise Lost. The phrase 'Hobson's Choice' derived its origin from the worthy subject of the epitaphs. He kept an inn, and let horses on hire, but he would not allow his patrons to select the horses for themselves. He compelled each customer to take the one nearest the door. Hence 'Hobson's Choice' passed into a proverb as a choice without an alternative. HERE lies old Hobson; death hath broke his girt, But lately finding him so long at home, And thinking now his journey's end was come, And that he had ta'en up his latest inn, In the kind office of a chamberlain, Shew'd him his room where he might lodge that night, Pull'd off his boots, and took away the light: If any ask for him, it shall be said, 'Hobson has supp'd, and 's newly gone to bed.' |