look and listen, and feel and think--they will never
forget anything worth being remembered. Do we forget "our children, that
to our eyes are dearer than the sun?" Do we forget our
wives--unreasonable and almost downright disagreeable as they sometimes
will be? Do we forget our triumphs--our defeats--our ecstasies, our
agonies--the face of a dear friend, or "dearest foe"--the ghost-like
voice of conscience at midnight arraigning us of crimes--or her seraph
hymn, at which the gates of heaven seem to expand for us that we may
enter in among the white-robed spirits, and

"Summer high in bliss upon the hills of God?"

What are all the jottings that ever were jotted down on his jot-book, by
the most inveterate jotter that ever reached a raven age, in comparison
with the Library of Useful Knowledge, that _every_ man--who is a
man--carries within the Ratcliffe--the Bodleian of his own breast?

What are you grinning at in the corner there, you little ugly Beelzebub
of a Printer's Devil? and have you dropped through a seam in the
ceiling? More copy do you want? There, you imp--vanished like a
thought!

DR KITCHINER.

SECOND COURSE.

Above all things, continues Dr Kitchiner, "avoid travelling through the
night, which, by interrupting sleep, and exposing the body to the night
air, is always prejudicial, even in the mildest weather, and to the
strongest constitutions." Pray, Doctor, what ails you at the night air?
If the night air be, even in the mildest weather, prejudicial to the
strongest constitutions, what do you think becomes of the cattle on a
thousand hills? Why don't all the bulls in Bashan die of the asthma--or
look interesting by moonlight in a galloping consumption? Nay, if the
night air be so very fatal, how do you account for the longevity of
owls? Have you never read of the Chaldean shepherds watching the courses
of the stars? Or, to come nearer our own times, do you not know that
every blessed night throughout the year, thousands of young lads and
lasses meet, either beneath the milk-white thorn--or on the lea-rig,
although the night be ne'er sae wet, and they be ne'er sae weary--or
under a rock on the hill--or--no uncommon case--beneath a frozen
stack--not of chimneys, but of corn-sheaves--or on a couch of snow--and
that they are all as warm as so many pies; while, instead of feeling
what you call "the lack of vigour attendant on the loss of sleep, which
is as enfeebling and as distressing as the