ties, but dost thou know the nature of the thing itself?" "Not I, truly," answered the Cartesian. Upon which the other told him he did not know what matter was, then addressing himself to another sage who stood upon his thumb, he asked "what is the soul? and what are her functions ?” “Nothing at all" (replied this disciple of Malebranche), "God hath made everything for my convenience; in Him I see everything; by Him I act; He is the Universal Agent, and I never meddle in His work." "That is being a non-entity, indeed," said the Sirian sage; who, turning to a follower of Leibnitz, “Hark ye, friend, what is thy opinion of the soul?" "In my opinion (answered this metaphysician), the soul is the hand that points at the hour, while my body does the office of a clock; or, if you please, the soul is the clock, and the body is the pointer; or again, my soul is the mirror of the universe, and my body the frame. All this is clear and uncon- | trovertible." travellers let themselves tumble topsy M. DE VOLTAIRE, b. 1694-d. 1778. THE THREE BLACK CROWS. Two honest tradesmen, meeting in the Strand, One took the other briskly by the hand: it is," A little partisan of Locke, who chanced to be present, being asked his opinion on the same subject, "I do not know (said he) by what power I think: but well I know, that I should never have thought without the assistance of my senses; that [JOHN BYRON, an English poet and essayist, of much these are immaterial and intelligent sub-wit and vivacity, born 1691, died 1763. His Colin and stances, I do not at all doubt: but that | Phabe, a poem, appeared in the Spectator, and he wrote it is impossible for God to communicate a treatise on shorthand and two volumes of poems, and the faculty of thinking to matter, I doubt was elected to the Royal Society.] very much. I revere the eternal Power, to which it would ill become me to prescribe bounds; I affirm nothing, and am contented to believe that many more things are possible than are usually thought so." The Sirian smiled at this declaration, and did not look upon the author as the least sagacious of the company; and, as for the dwarf of Saturn, he would have embraced the adherent of Locke, had it not been for the extreme disproportion in their different sizes. But unfortunately there was another animalcule in a square cap, who, taking the word from all his philosophical brethren, affirmed that he knew the whole secret which was contained in the abridgment of St. Thomas: he surveyed the two celestial strangers from top to toe, and maintained to their faces, that their persons, their fashions, their suns and their stars, were created solely for the use of man. At this wild assertion, the two Replied his friend. "No? I'm surprised at Where I come from it is the common chat; "Impossible!" true; "Nay, but 'tis really I had it from good hands, and so may you." "From whose, I pray?" So, having named the man, Straight to enquire, his curious comrade | on the east coast of Scotland, to his pre σε 29 66 Away he goes, and having found him out, Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt." Then to his last informant he referr'd, And begg'd to know, if true what he had heard; "Did you, sir, throw up a black crow ?"" ""Not I." "Bless me! how people propagate a lie! Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one; And here, I find, all comes at last to none! Did you say nothing of a crow at all ?” "Crow-crow-perhaps I might-now I recall The matter over." "And pray, sir, what was't?" "Why, I was horrid sick, and at the last I did throw up, and told my neighbors so, Something that was-as black, sir, as a crow." JOHN BYRON. A SCOTCH READING. THE FOXES' TAILS. [EDWARD BANNERMAN RAMSEY, LL. D., 1793-1882; born in Scotland; graduated at St. John's College, Cambridge, in 1815; ordained in the Church of England; was curate in Somersetshire for seven years; in 1830 was minister of St. John's Church, Edinburgh; in 1841 dean of the Reformed Church of Scotland. Among his productions, besides lectures and sermons, are Reminiscences of Scottish Life and Character, from which we select the following.] "WEEL, Sandy," said the minister of a parish church, in a small fishing village centor as he entered the vestry, after having preached what he thought a very learned and well-constructed sermon. Weel, Sandy, man, and how did you like the sermon the day?" 66 "Eh? "I say, how did you like the sermon?" The "Oh, the sermon; weel-a—a. sermon; od-a-I maist forget how I likit it'.' "D'ye no mind the sermon, Sandy?" "Weel, I wadna jist like tae say I didna mind it, but, ye see 66 D'ye no mind the text, then ?" "Oh, ay, I mind the text weel eneuch -I aye mind the text." Weel, d'ye no mind the sermon?" "Bide a meenit-bide a meenit; I'm thinkin'. Hoots, ay, I mind the sermon noo: ay, I mind it fine." "What d'ye mind aboot it?" "A-a-ye-a-said the warl' was lyin' in wickedness." Tuts, man, ony fule kens that. What did you think o' the discourse as a whole ?" "I thocht it was owre lang." "Tut, tut. Weel, what did ye think o't in the abstract?" "The abstract? Weel, I thocht the abstract was raither drumlie now an' then as a whole, like." "Man, d'ye understand yer ain language? I ask ye what was your opeenion o' the nature-the gist-pith-marrow o' the discourse?" "Ay, jist that. Weel, it was-it was evangelical." "Evangelical! of course it was evangelical. Was't no more than that?" "Ou, ay, it was gey an' conneckit." "You thickhead! was the sermon good, bad, or indifferent? There, can you fathom that? "Oh, that's what you've been speirin' a' the time, is't? What for did you no speak plain afore? Weel, it was a guid 'Deed it was sermon; a grand sermon. the best I ever heard ye preach." "Hoot, toot, Sandy, now you're gaun owre far." "Aweel, aweel, I never saw sae few folk sleepin' afore." "So you think it was a good sermon? Ay, it was a hantle better than the lave." "I'm much obleeged to you for your opeenion, Sandy." "You're perfeckly welcome; but at the same time, if you'll excuse, I wad jist like tae mak' an observation aboot the discoorse the day, an', in fack, aboot a' yer discoorses." "6 Ay, what's that?" "Weel, it's raither a venturesome pint tae handle, but if ye'll forgie the freedom, I was jist gaun tae say that in your discoorse the day-we'll no gang ony farther than the yin the day in the midst o't like, when ye was on the tap o' an illystration, it struck me that every noo and thenbut ye'll no feel offended at what I'm gaun tae say?" "Say awa', man, an' I'll tell ye after." "Aweel, it struck me every noo an' then, when ye were explainin' some kittle pint oot o' the Scriptures, or when ye were in the heat o' an argument or that, it struck me that every noo an' then, jist occasionally, that there was maybe, frae time tae time, jist a wee bit o' exaggeration!" "Exagger-what, sir?" "Weel maybe that's owre strong a word. I dinna want tae offend ye. I mean jist amplification like.” 61 Exaggeration! amplification! what the mischief d'ye mean, sir? Where got ye haud o' sic lang nebbit words as these?" "There, there, there! I'll no say anither word. I didna mean tae rouse ye like that. A' I meant tae say was, that ye jist streetcht the pint a wee bit!" "Streecht the pint! D'ye mean tae say, sir, that I tell lees? Answer me this are ye sayin' this oot o' yer ain heid, or did somebody else put ye up till't? Did ye ever hear the laird say I was in the habit o' exaggeratin'?" "I wadna say but what I hae." "Did ye ever hear the elders say that I amplified or streetcht the pint? "I wadna say but what they hae tae." "Oh! so the laird, and the elders, and the whole o' ye call me a leear, do ye? Weel, Sandy, it's maybe jist possible that being obleeged Sawbbath after Sawbbath to expound the Word to sic a doited set o' naturals for if I dinna mak' ilk thing as big as a barn door, ye wadna see't ava-I say it's jist possible that I may hae slippit into a kind o' habit o' magnifying things, and, therefore, Sandy, I'll call upon you, if ever ye should hear me say another Aye; I never thocht o' that afore. Yes, the wind whustles.” "Weel, jist gie a wee bit soughing whustle like the wind, so that naebody can hear it but ourselves." "Weel, if there's nae hairm in't I'll dae my best." So it was ultimately agreed between minister and precentor that the first word of exaggeration from the pulpit was to elicit the signal from the desk below. Next Sunday came. The sermon had been rigorously trimmed, and the parson seated himself in the pulpit with a radiant smile, as he thought of the prospective discomfiture of Sandy. Sandy sat down as imperturbable as usual, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left. Had the minister only stuck to his sermon that day he would have done very well, and had the laugh against Sandy which he had anticipated at the end of the sermon. But it was his habit, before sermon, to read a chapter from the Bible, adding such remarks and explanations of his own as he thought necessary. He generally selected such passages as contained a number of "kittle pints," so that his marvellous powers of "eloocidation" might be called into play. On the present occasion he had chosen one that bristled with difficulties. It was that chapter which describes Samson as catching 300 foxes, tying them tail to tail, setting firebrands in their midst, starting them among the standing corn of the Philistines, and burning it down. As he closed the description he shut the book and commenced the "eloocidation" as follows: "My dear friends, I daresay you have been wondering in your minds how it was possible Samson could catch three hundred foxes. You or me couldna catch one fox, let alone three hundred-the beasties run so fast. It takes a great number of dogs, and horses, and men to catch a fox -and they do not always catch it thenthe cratur whiles gets away. "But lo and behold! here we have one single man all by himself catching 300 of them. Now, how did he do it?-that's the pint, and at first sight it looks a gey and kittle pint. But it's no sae kittle as it looks, my freens. We are told in the Scriptures that Samson was the strongest man that ever lived, but although we are told this, we are not told that he was a great runner. But if he catches these 300 foxes he must have been a great runner, an awfu' runner, in fact the greatest runner that ever was born. But, my freens -and here's the eloocidation o' the maitter-you'll please bear this in mind, that although we are not told he was the greatest runner that ever lived, still we're not told that he wasna; and, therefore, I contend that we have a perfect right to assume, by all the laws of logic and scientific discovery, that he was the fastest runner that ever was born, and that was how he catched the 300 foxes. But after we get rid of this difficulty, my freens, another crops up-after he catched the 300 foxes, how did he manage to keep them all together? This looks almost as kittle a pint as the other; to some it might look even kittler. Now, in the first place, bear in mind it was foxes that Samson catched. We do not catch foxes as a general rule in the streets o' a toon; therefore, it's m air than probable he catched them in the country, an that he bided at a farmhouse where there was a barn, and as he catched his foxes one by one he stapped them into the barn and steekit the door, and locked it. Here we overcome the second stumbling-block; but no sooner have we done that than a third rock of offence loups up to tickle us. After he had catched his foxes-after he had got them all snug in the barn under lock and key-how in the world did he tie their tails together? There's a tickler. You or me couldna tie two of their tails together, let alone 300 of them, for not to speak about the beasties girnin' an' bitin' us all the time we were tyin' them, the tails themselves are not long enough. How then was Samson able to tie them all? Ah! that's the question, and it's aboot the kittlest pint you or me have ever had to eloocidate. Now, my freens, I maun tell ye that there are learned men who have written books o' foreign travel, and we can read their books. Among other places, some of these learned men have travelled into Canaan, and some into Palestine, and some few into the Holy Land, and these last mentioned travellers tell us that in these Eastern and Oriental climes the foxes there are a totally different breed o' cattle altogether from our foxes-that they're great big beasts; and what's the most astonishing thing about them, and what helps to explain this wonderful feat of Samson's is, that they've all got extraordinary long tails; in fact, these Eastern travellers tell us that these foxes' tails are forty feet long." (Sandy whistles.) (Minister pulls up)-" At the same time I ought to mention that there are other travellers, and later ones than the ones I have just been speaking about, and they say this statement is on the whole rather an exaggeration, and that the foxes' tails are never more than twenty feet long." (Sandy whistles.) (Minister annoyed)—" Before I leave the subject altogether, my freens, I may just add that there has been a considerable diversity o' opinion about the length o' these animals tails, so the question has come to be regarded as a moot pint. One man, ye see, says one thing, and another another, and I've spent a good lot o' learned research, in the matter mysel', and after examinin' one authority and another authority, and putting one against the other, I have come to the conclusion that these foxes' tails on an average are seldom more than ten feet long." (Sandy whistles.) (Minister, losing all patience)-"Sandy M'Donald! I'll no tak' anither inch aff thae beasts' tails gin ye whustle to the day o' judgment." THE HAUNCH OF VENISON. At Number One dwelt Captain Drew, George Benson dwelt at Number Two (The street we'll not now mention) The latter stunned the King's Bench bar, The former being lamed in war, Lived snug upon a pension. Tom Blewit knew them both-than he A haunch." Oh! true, it is not mine: "Hey! zounds! what's this? a haunch at My neighbour has some friends to dine." Drew's? "Your neighbour! who?" "George Benson." "His chimney smoked; the scene to change, I let him have my kitchen range, While his was newly polished: The venison you observed below "Tom, why that look of doubtful dread? ANONYMOUS. END OF VOL. I. FEB 2 5 1916 |