ng Frenchman? 'Has he property?
An edict from the _Grand Monarque_ can take it, and he is satisfied.
Pursue him to the Bastile, or the dismal dungeon in the country to which a
lettre-de-cachet conveys him, and buries him for life: there see him in
all his misery; ask him 'What is the cause?' '_Je ne sai pas_; it is the
will of the _Grand Monarque_.' Give him a _soup-maigre_, a little sallad,
and a hind-quarter of a frog, and he's in spirits. 'Fal, lal, lal! _Vive
le Roi? Vive la bagatelle!'_' Here we have a Materialist proving the
affinity of matter: 'All round things are globular, all square things
flat-sided. Now, if the bottom is equal to the top, and the top equal to
the bottom, and the bottom and top are equal to the four sides, then all
matter is as broad as it is long.' But the materialist 'had not in his
head matter sufficient to prove matter efficient; and being thus
deficient, he knew nothing of the matter.' One of STEVENS'S 'heads' was
that of a heartless, devil-may-care sort of person, in some respects like
the hero of '_A Capital Joke_' in preceding pages, who is always 'keeping
it up.' He illustrates his own character very forcibly: 'I'll tell you how
it was; you see, I was in high spirits, so I stole a dog from a blind man,
for I do _so_ love fun! So then the blind man cried for his dog, and that
made me laugh; so says I to the blind man. 'Halloo, master! do you want
your dog?' 'Yes, Sir, indeed, _indeed_ I do,' says he. Then says I to the
blind man, says I, 'Go look for him! Keep it up!' I always turn sick when
I think of a parson; and my brother, he's a parson too, and he hates to
hear any body swear; so I always swear when I am along with him, just to
roast him. I went to dine with him one day last week; and as soon as I
arrived, I began to swear. I never swore so well in all my life; I swore
all my new oaths. At last my brother laid down his knife and fork, and
lifting up his hands and eyes, he calls out: '_O Tempora! O Mores_.' 'Oh,
ho! brother,' says I, 'don't think to frighten me by calling all your
family about you. I don't mind you nor your family neither. Only bring
Tempora and Moses _here_--that's all! I'll box 'em for five pounds. Keep
it up!' . . . THERE is many a bereaved heart that will be touched by the
following sad, sad lines, from the pen of JOHN RUDOLPH SUTERMEISTER, a
young and gifted poet, whose mortal part has 'been ashes these many a
year,' and whom the reader may remember as the auth