Be assured, 'tis she, or none
That I love, and love alone.

'Nature did her so much right,
As she scorns the help of art,
In as many virtues dight

As ere yet imbraced a hart. So much good so truly tride, Some for lesse were deified.

'Wit she hath without desire

To make knowne how much she hath ;

And her anger flames no higher

Than may fitly sweeten wrath.

Full of pity as may be,—

Tho' perhaps not so to me!

Reason masters every sense,

And her virtues grace her birth;

Lovely as all excellence,

Modest in her most of mirth :

Likelihood enough to prove

Onely worth could kindle love.

‘Such she is ;—and if you know

Such a one as I have sung, Be she browne, or faire, or so,

That she be but somewhile young;

Be assured, 'tis she, or none

That I love, and love alone.'

William Browne (1590-1645).

WHAT IS A MIRACLE?

Clergyman. What is a miracle?

Boy. Dunno.

Clergyman. Well, if the sun were to shine in the middle of the night, what should you say it was?

Boy. The moon.

Clergyman. But if you were told it was the sun, what should you say it was?

Boy. A lie.

Clergyman. I don't tell lies. Suppose I told you it was the sun, what would you say then? Boy. That yer wasn't sober.

A LENGTHY PAUSE.

An old gentleman, riding over Putney Bridge, turned round to his servant, and said, 'Do you like eggs, John?' 'Yes, Sir,' answered John. Here their conversation ended. The same old gentleman, riding across the same bridge, that day year, again turned to John, and said, 'How?' 'Poached, Sir,' was John's instant reply. This is the longest pause on record.

It is evident that there were the makings of an excellent domestic in John. A really good servant should never be in the way and never out of the way.

STATISTICS OF FRIENDSHIP.

Apropos of the loss of friends, some one, in the presence of Morgan, the great calculator of lives, deplored that he had been bereaved of so many friends, mentioning their number, in a certain space of time. Morgan, for the moment, said nothing, but taking down a huge book from his office shelf, and consulting it, coolly remarked, 'So you ought, Sir, and three

more.'

A SUITABLE BRIDE.

My friend Admiral E. E., shortly after his return from a cruise, met an old acquaintance in the streets of who said, after the usual salutations had passed, 'They tell me, Admiral, that ye had got married.' The Admiral, hoping for a compliment, replied, 'Why, Baillie, I'm getting on, I'm not so young as I was, you see, and none of the girls will have me.' On which the Baillie, with perfect good faith and simplicity, replied, "Deed, Admiral, I was na evenin' yer to a lassie, but there's mony a fine, respeckit, half worn wumman wud be glad to tak ye.'

SONG.

'Love in fantastic triumph sat

Whilst bleeding hearts around him flow'd,
From whom fresh pains he did create,

And strange tyrannic power he showed.
From thy bright eyes he took his fires,
Which round about in sport he hurl'd ;
But 'twas from mine he took desires,
Enough t' undo the amorous world.

'From me he took his sighs and tears,
From thee his pride and cruelty;
From me his languishment and fears,
And every killing dart from thee :
Thus, thou and I, the god have arm'd,
And set him up a deity;

But my poor heart alone is harm'd

Whilst thine the victor is, and free.'

From Abdelazer, or the Moor's Revenge, Aphra Behn (1642 1689).

TOM CAMPBELL.

A great many years ago an acquaintance of mine, a festive but very stupid fellow, who, to use one of his own homely similes, had no more feeling for poetry than a cow would have for a clean shirt, told me that he had known Tom Campbell. He used to meet him

at a small club in (I think) Regent Street: where he, and others, occasionally dined. Poor Tom would sometimes take a little too much wine. In those days almost everybody did so, and my acquaintance said that on one occasion, after dinner, Campbell got up and staggered towards the door. There were some providential pillars that supported the roof of the apartment, and he reached them with difficulty, and, having done so, he clung to one of them tenaciously, fearing to go further and afraid to return-and that he remained there! And,' said I, who worshipped Campbell with all a boy's enthusiasm, 'what did you do?' 'Oh,' says he,' we left him there, but every now and again, you know, we would flick a walnut at him.'

Campbell is well known to have been an interesting converser; he rarely left you without having made some observation that was singularly suggestive, and which lingered agreeably in the memory. It was he who said

To live in hearts we leave behind

Is not to die!

but the graceless animal (my acquaintance) knew nothing of this, he was only able to tell me that Campbell was a little fellow, that he spoke with a broad Scottish accent, and that he wore a wig.

Yet wandering I found in my ruinous walk,
By the dial-stone aged and green,

One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk
To mark where a garden had been.