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met the eye; a regular shower of human fragments of heads, of arms, of legs, appeared in the air through the smoke, and when that cleared away, these fragments lying on the ground, fragments of Hindoos and fragments of Mussulmans, all mixed together, were all that remained of those ten mutineers. Three times more was this scene repeated; but so great is the disgust we all feel for the atrocities committed by the rebels that we had no room in our hearts for any feeling of pity; perfect callousness was depicted on every European's face: a look of grim satisfaction could even be seen in the countenance of the gunners serving the guns. But far different was the effect on the native portion of the spectators; their black faces grew ghastly pale as they gazed breathlessly at the awful spectacle. You must know that this is nearly the only form in which death has any terrors for a native. If he is hung, or shot by musketry, he knows that his friends or relatives will be allowed to claim his body, and will give him the funeral rites required by his religion; if a Hindoo, that his body will be burned with all due ceremonies; and if a Mussulman, that his remains will be decently interred, as directed in the Koran. But if sentenced to death in this form, he knows that his body will be blown into a thousand pieces, and that it will be altogether impossible for his relatives, however devoted to him, to be sure of picking up all the fragments of his own particular body; and the thought that perhaps a limb of some one of a different religion to himself might possibly be burned or buried with the remainder of his own body is agony to him. But notwithstanding this, it was impossible for the mutineers' direst hater not to feel some degree of admiration for the way in which they met their deaths. Nothing in their lives became them like the leaving of them. Of the whole forty, only two showed any signs of fear, and they were bitterly reproached by the others for so disgracing their race. They certainly died like men. After the first ten had been disposed of, the next batch, who had been looking on all the time, walked up to the guns quite calmly and unfalteringly, and allowed themselves to be blindfolded and tied up without moving a muscle, or showing the slightest signs of fear, or even concern."

just bought and chanced to let fall." "I will
help you," said Prony, "if you will allow
me," with a touching eagerness. The pro-
fessor sought more with his hands than with
his eyes after the dinner of the "lion" of the
Regence; he at length found it, and, in restor-
ing it to the old man, said to him, with a
moved voice: "The little service that I render
you constitutes your happiness, for by the side
of your herring is a well-filled purse which you
must also have let fall: judging from the sound
of it, it is gold." "This purse does not belong
to me," answered the unknown; "and I be-
lieve I have guessed your intentions."
"You

do not guess my thoughts, and you should be-
lieve me, for I speak the truth. Keep this
purse; I shall advertise that we have found it,
and if its owner should present himself, we
will restore it to him." "Well, let it be so."
The man of the Regence kept the purse. Two
months afterward the law had caused his door
to be forced open, for the reason that for some
eight-and-forty hours neither he nor his wife
had shown themselves in the street. The police
entered. They were both dead of hunger, and
the purse was found intact under the bolster
of the bed! Honesty in living is more than a
virtue, but then would that our language could
enrich itself with a new word!

LEAVING THEIR COGNOMEN.-An American gentleman of common sense, now traveling in Europe, in commenting on the custom of Yankees, as all Americans are called abroad, cutting their names on rough stones, and leaving them in strange places, says:

"I have found Yankee names and initials cut, carved, and scrawled in the most unlooked-for places: upon the top of Mount Washington, upon the highest peak and deepest gorge of the Catskill, upon apparently inaccessible and dangerous points of Niagara, in the cathedrals at Montreal and Quebec, and at the summit of the fortifications at the latter place, and cnt upon the bar of trees miles into the silent recesses of the forest; and the list might be extended, I presume, all over the known world; nay, I should not be at all surprised if John Smith's name were not found by some curious traveler carved upon the topmost stone of the great pyramid, or Jonathan Doolittle's initials cut into one of the eyeballs of the Sphinx."

THEATERS.-The Rev. Mr. Barrett, a clergyman of the New Church, in a late discourse upon Recreations and Plays, quoted Swedenborg to prove that THERE ARE THEATERS IN HEAVEN. We give his quotation here:

HONEST POVERTY.-M. de Prony inhabited one of the most populous and unwholesome quartiers of the capital, in the neighborhood of the Place Maubert. Every morning he went out, as soon as daybreak came in upon him, and seldom was it that on his way he did not meet an old man and woman, arm in arm, walking slowly, and carrying, the one in the right hand and the other with the left hand, a red herring by a string. It was the dinner of these honest folks, who dated from the time of the Regence, who had infatuated themselves with their sumptuosity, and whom the revolutions had ruined "des pieds à la tête," as say the people in their picturesque language. For the space of four years M. de Prony was daily present, so to say, at the feast of these two octogenarians; they had both the one and the other a great look of dignity in their misfortune, and he had never dared offer them the least token of his interest and his esteem. Prony made an absence of several months' duration, for the purpose of a scientific inspection. He returned to Paris, and took to his same apartment and habits. But how great was his grief, when he descended the staircase for the first time, to behold the old woman alone clinging to the balusters, and holding but a single herring this time; when suddenly he stumbled against a body in the dark, having hitherto remained unperceived. "I crave pardon, sir," exclaimed a feeble, tremulous voice; "do not stir; pray wait an instant." "Why so?" "You would prevent me from dining." "I do PORTRAIT OF MISS NIGHTINGALE.-In his not understand you." Ah! you would per- "Culinary Campaign," Soyer draws the followhaps trample on a fine red herring that I haveing portrait of this truly noble young woman:

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"And to show how deeply inwrought into the healthy human soul is this love for amusements, and even for theatrical representations, Swedenborg assures us that good and heavenly-minded people do, at in heaven there are at times 'exhibited dramatic entimes, enjoy them in the other life. He says that even tertainments, representing various graces and virtues of moral life;' and that among the dramatis personis are soine inferior characters for the sake of relation."

It has been generally understood, according to the popular theology, that all actors go the other way; but now it appears that inferior characters are occasionally called up from below for the sake of variety and spice in the celestial plays!

"She is rather high in stature, fair in complexion, and slim in person; her hair is brown, and is worn quite plain; her physiognomy is most pleasing; her eyes, of a bluish tint, speak volumes, and are always sparkling with intelligence; her mouth is small and well formed, while her lips act in unison, and make known the impression of her heart; one seems the reflex of the other. Her visage, as regards expression, is very remarkable, and one can almost anticipate by her countenance what she is about to say; alternately, with matters of the most grave import, a gentle smile passes radiantly over her countenance, thus proving her evenness of temper; at other times, when wit or pleasantry prevails, the heroine is lost in the happy, good-natured smile which pervades her face, and you recognize only the charming woman. Her dress is generally of a grayish or black tint; she wears a simple white cap, and often a rough apron."

SMALL CHANGE.

We have heard a story of Incledon, the once famous vocalist, that fits "an affair of honor" most capitally. Poor Incledon was one of the unsophisticated, and said and did a great many things out of sheer simplicity that had been much better left unsaid and undone. Something of this kind gave offense to a gentleman with whom Incledon happened to fall in company, and the offended party resolved upon satisfaction. He sought out the singer, accordingly, and was lucky enough to find him enjoying himself, one fine afternoon, at a noted hotel. "Mr. Incledon," says the waiter, "a gentleman wishes to see you, sir."

"Show him up, then," says Incledon.

"Sir," said the visitor, in a towering passion, "I'm told that you have been making free with my name in a very improper manner, and I have come to demand satisfaction."

After some parleying, Incledon rose, put on his hat, and planting himself on one side of the room, began warbling Black-eyed Susan in his most delicious style. When he had finished:

"There, sir," said he, "that has given complete satisfaction to several thousands, and if you want anything more, I've only to say, you're the most unreasonable fellow I ever met with."

Everybody who knows Major Jones is aware that he carries more modesty under his hat than cash in his porte-monnaie. A short time since a highwayman undertook to rob Major Jones. He met Jones in a piece of woods over in Jersey. He asked Jones for his pocket-book. Jones refused to yield. Highwayman then took Jones by the neck, and undertook to "choke him down." Jones made fight, and kept it up for half an hour. At the expiration of that time, Jones caved, and the highwayman commenced rifling his pockets. The contents amounted to eighteen cents.

Is that all you've got?" "Every cent."

"What made you fight so long?"

"Didn't want to be exposed. Bad enough to have only eighteen cents; but a great deal worse to have the world know it."

TO CHOOSE A HUSBAND.-Dickens tells the following story of an American sea captain:

"On his last voyage home the captain had on board a young lady of remarkable personal attractions-a phrase I use as one being entirely new, and one you

never met with in the newspapers. This young lady was beloved intensely by five young gentlemen passengers, and in return she was in love with them all very ardently, but without any particular preference for either. Not knowing how to make up her determ ination in this dilemma, she consulted my friend the captain. The captain being a man of an original turn of mind, says, to the young lady, 'Jump overboard, and marry the man that jumps after you.' The young lady, struck with the idea, and being naturally fond of bathing, especially in warm weather, as it then was, took the advice of the captain, who had a boat manned in case of accident. Accordingly, next morning, the five lovers being on deck, and looking devotedly at the young lady, she plunged into the sea, head foremost. Four of the lovers immediately jumped in after her. When the young lady and her four lovers were got out again, she says to the captain, What am I to do with them now, they are so wet? Says the captain, Take the dry one! And the young lady did, and she married him."

A HOODISH GEM.

The "Brewers" should to "Malta" go,
The "Boobies" all to "Scilly;"
The "Quakers" to the "Friendly Isles,"
The Furriers" to "Chili."
The little snarling, caroling "babes"
That break our nightly rest,
Should be packed off to "Baby-lon,"
To Lap-land" or to "Brest."

From "Spit"-head “Cooks" go o'er to "Greece,"
And while the "Miser" waits
His passage to the "Guinea" coast,
Spendthrifts" are in the "Straits."
"Spinsters" should to the "Needles" go,
Wine-bibbers" to "Burgundy."

"Gourmands" should lunch at "Sandwich Isles,"
"Wags" at the "Bay of "Fun"-dy;
"Bachelors" flee to the "United States,"
"Maids" to the Isle of Man."

Let Gardeners" go to "Botany Bay,
And Shoe-blacks" to "Japan."
Thus emigrate-and mis-placed men
Will then no longer vex us,
And all who ain't provided for,
Had better go to "Texas."

The following rich scene recently occurred in one of our courts of justice, between the judge and a Dutch witness, all the way from Rotterdam:

J. What's your native language?
W. I pe no native.

J. What is your mother tongue?
W. Ich hab no mudder, mynheer.

J. (in an irritable tone) What did you first learn? What language did you speak in the cradle ?

I only cry in Dootch!"
W. I tid not speak no language in the cradle;

Then there was a general laugh, in which the judge, jury, and audience joined. The witness was interrogated no further about his native language.

A coxcomb, teasing Dr. Parr with an account of his petty ailments, complained that he never could go out without catching cold in his head. "No wonder," returned the doctor; "you always go out without anything in it."

A DISPUTED QUESTION.-An old toper, after indulging quite freely in his accustomed beverage, amused himself in teasing a nettlesome horse. The animal not fancying his familiarities, suddenly reared, and the disciple of Bacchus found himself sprawling in an adjacent mud-puddle. Gathering himself up as composedly as his situation would allow, he shouted

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Dr. Backus bought a load of hay. It came to his barn drawn by a string of cattle. The forward yoke were poor, diminutive creatures, about a year old. He asked the farmer who drove them, what he put such things into his team for.

"To draw," said the farmer.

"To draw!" returned the doctor, "such things as those draw! Why, they couldn't draw Watts's Hymns for Infant Minds down hill !"

Frederic the Great was always fond of disputations; but as he generally terminated the discussion by collaring his antagonist, and kicking his shins, few of his guests were dis- A report was in circulation that he had made posed for an argument. He asked one of his a remark of very questionable propriety for a suite why he did not venture to give his opinion clergyman. One of his deacons, believing it to on some particular question. "It is impos- be a mistake, called on the doctor and asked sible, your majesty," was the reply, "to ex-him if he had ever made such a remark. press an opinion before a sovereign who has such convictions, and wears such very thick boots!"

A CATEGORICAL COURTSHIP.

I sat one night beside a blue-eyed girl:
The fire was out, and so, too, was her mother;
A feeble flame around the lamp did curl,

Making faint shadows, blending in each other; 'Twas nearly twelve o'clock, too, in November; She had a shawl on, also, I remember.

Well, I had been to see her every night

For thirteen days, and had a sneaking notion

To pop the question, thinking all was right,

And once or twice had made an awkward motion

To take her hand, and stammer'd, cough'd, and stutter'd;

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But, somehow, nothing to the point had utter'd.

I thought this chance too good now to be lost;
I hitch'd my chair up very close beside her,
Drew a long breath, and then my legs I cross'd,
Bent over, sighed, and for five minutes eyed her;
She look'd as if she knew what next was coming.
And with her feet upon the floor was drumming.

I didn't know how to begin, or where;

I couldn't speak-the words were always choking;
I scarce could move; I seem'd tied to the chair;
I hardly breathed: 'twas awfully provoking!
The perspiration from each pore came oozing,
My heart, and brain, and limbs their power seem'd
losing.

At length I saw a brindle tabby cat

Walk purring up, inviting me to pat her;
An idea came, electric-like, at that:

My doubts, like summer clouds, began to scatter;
I seized on tabby, though a scratch she gave me,
And said, "Come, Puss, ask Mary if she'll have me."

Twas done at once: the murder now was out,
The thing was all explain'd in half a minute;
She blush'd, and turning pussy-cat about,
Said, "Pussy, tell him yes;'" her foot was in it!
The cat had thus saved me my category,
And here's the catastrophe of my story.

DAN RICE AND the Bad BILL.-Porter's Spirit of the Times tells a story of Dan Rice, which runs thus: Dan remitted in settlement of an Account, to the publisher of a paper in the West, a three dollar bill, which was returned with the brief remark, "This note is counterfeit; please send another." It was two months before he heard from Dan again, when he apologized for the delay, saying that he had been

"Not that I remember," was the reply. "Do you think," said the deacon, "that you ever could have made it ?"

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Very likely I might," said the doctor; "it sounds just like me."

"Bill," said Bob, "why is that tree called a weeping willow." "'Cause one of the sneaky, plaguy things grew near our school-house, and supplied the master with switches."

At the Woodbury plowing match, a few days ago, Mr. John Daw told the following anecdote: "Once having drained a field where nothing ever had grown before, I was standing near it looking at a crop I had there, when a neighboring farmer came up. We have one or two loose farmers in our neighborhood; one of them, in fact, came from Woodbury-(laughter)—but this is not the man I am speaking of-who came up and said to me, 'That is a bootiful crop; how did ee get it, sur?' I replied, 'Brains.' (Laughter.) 'Wat, manure the field wi' brains?" (More laughter.) The fact was, I had drained the field, so I said, 'Yes.' (Renewed laughter.) He replied, Lord, yer honor, where did ee get um ?'" (Roars of laughter.)

CLASSIC NAMES.-A Mormon elder, writing an account of his journey and companions to Utah, tells of preaching places in about the hardest string of names we ever encountered. He tells that he has visited and preached in the following places in Texas: Empty-bucket, Rake-pocket, Dough-plate, Bucksnort, Possumtrot, Buzzard-roost, Hardscrabble, Nippentuck, and Lickskillet, most of which, however, he says, are simply one-horse towns.

The Journal of Commerce tells the following reply of a boy to his mother: "The father was of the keep your children at a distance class, and the boy, wanting a new suit, very naturally asked the mother to intercede for him. 'Why don't you ask your father yourself, my son?" said the mother. Why, mother, I would ask him, only I don't feel well enough acquainted with him,' was the reply."

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After ineffectual appeals to the recollection, and finally to the honor of Bardolph, the farmer applied to Curran for advice.

"Have patience, my friend,' said the counsel. 'Speak to the landlord civilly; tell him you have left your money with some other person. Take a friend with you, and lodge with him another hundred in the presence of your friend, and come to me.'

"He did so, and returned to his legal friend. "And now I can't see how I am going to be the better off for this, if I get my second hundred back again; but how is that to be done?'

"Go ask him for it when he is alone,' said the counsel.

"Ay, sir, asking won't do, I'm afraid.'

"Never mind, take my advice,' said the counsel; 'do as I bid you, and return to me.'

"The farmer returned with his hundred, glad to find that safely in his possession.

"Now, sir, I must be content, but I don't see as I am better off."

"Well, then,' said the counsel, 'now take your friend with you, and ask the landlord for the hundred pounds your friend saw you leave with him.'

"We need not add that the wily landlord found ho had been taken off his guard, while our honest friend returned to thank his counsel, exultingly, with both hundreds in his pocket."

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The Harmony of the Divine Dispensations. By GEORGE SMITH, F.A.S., etc. In a series of discourses, Mr. Smith, already favorably known as an author, discusses the spirituality, efficacy, and harmony of God's revelations to man. He aims to show and to elucidate the substantial unity of the three dispensations-the Patriarchal, the Mosaic, and the Christian. In his own language:

"Each discourse is founded on an important portion of Holy Scripture. The letter and the subject of the text are illustrated by all the means which he could command, from ancient history, antiquarian research, Oriental discovery, and philological investigation. And the sense thus elicited is applied to the exposition of the great economy of grace, both in respect to the harmony of the manifestations of Divine truth to mankind in all ages, and the operation of saving grace in the hearts of individual Christians."

The work is preceded by a brief commendatory introduction from the pen of Dr. Whedon, and in typographical appearance is all that could be desired-a beautiful octavo volume, of three hundred pages, from the press of Carlton & Porter.

Gould & Lincoln have issued a first and second series of Essays in Biography and Criticism. By PETER BAYNE, M.A. Some of the papers are now published for the first time, but the greater portion was contributed to an Edinburgh magazine, and are here reproduced with variations and amendments. Mr. Bayne is a pleasing writer, and a keen critic. He deals, for the most part, tenderly with the subjects of his dissecting knife; and the reader, even when dissenting from his opinions, is obliged to acknowledge the ability with which he puts them forth, the felicity of his style, and his manifest honesty of purpose. Not merely as specimens of his manner, but as practically suggestive, and as affording food for thought, we append a few extracts. Take his illustration of what he

calls the phenomenon so tragically common in
these days of "passion conquering genius, and
foul ashes:"
quenching the heaven-soaring flame in its own

"Mirabeau, Burns, and Byron, to go no farther, seem to me to present a spectacle new under the sun. These all had iron constitutions. Physically speaking, they were good for the whole of the threescore years and ten. Yet all three were laid in the dust in the prime of their years; and whatever the palliations wo may admit, or the qualifications we may make, it remains a simple fact that they were, in too literal a sense, their own murderers. No cowardly feebleness, no false humility, no 'haunting admiration of the grandeur of disordered power,' no accursed 'hero-worship,' ought to be permitted to stifle in us the still small voice which proclaims the awful magnitude of this sin. God and nature affirm the declaration of that still small voice; affirm it in the fevered frame, the burning brow, the early grave; and we are weak, blind, or rebellious, if we do not acknowledge the fact and learn the lesson."

Of Wordsworth Mr. Bayne, while he admits that he shed over the natural world a sympathy more loving, tender, thoughtful, saintly, than had ever been cast over it by any poet, he says:

"But it would be highly absurd to permit it to blind us to the obvious, radical, and demonstrable defects of Wordsworth's poetry. His mind was irremediably wanting in all those qualities which give keenness and intensity to emotion, rapidity and practical force to thought, terseness and brilliancy to style. The absence from his mental composition of any sense of wit or humor was, in its completeness, scarcely human. If one may be pardoned the expression, his soul wanted crystallizing. Had you cleared his eye by one flash of that critical penetration which dwelt in the eye of Pope, had you edged his glance with one ray of that quick, piercing, caustic fire which belonged to Byron, how you would have enriched him! The value of wit, and of the critical faculty, is perhaps not so great to the world at large, as to their own possessor. They warn him, by silent, instinctive monitions, from the ridiculous, the childish, the inane. Such things as The Seven Sisters and Ellen Irwin are purely, per fectly, unapproachably bad. anticipation. We involuntarily exclaim, Every poet Parody is cheated by his own satirist! If a boy of nine had written Ellen Irrin, and died, it would hardly have been pardonable in his mother to publish it. No theory is here of any

avail; no arguing can make feebleness impressive, or render art synonymous with commonplace. But for original defect of mind, no theory could have blinded Wordsworth himself to the absurdity of such rigmarole. But not only was the want of wit, humor, and the critical faculty deplorably manifest in Wordsworth. An honest and searching criticism must explicitly allow that he possessed neither the penetrative and grasping imagination which seizes passion, nor the kindling, creative imagination which gives life and personification. Of this last power, which I believe to be the reflection in man, as the image of God, of the Divine creative energy, and to which can therefore, with no lack of reverence, be applied the terin which, immediately, could be applied to God alone, there is scarcely an instance, if there is one, in the whole range of Wordsworth's poetry."

To Mrs. Barrett Browning the author gives the first place among the poets of her sex:

"Over all the domain of her poetry, over its central ranges, its quiet gardened valleys, its tinkling rills, falls a radiance of Gospel light. Ever, as her music rises to its noblest cadence, it seems taken up by an angel harp: the highest tone is as the voice of spirits. It would, cannot doubt, be to their own sincere enjoyment and real profit, if the Christian public pressed boldly into the temple of Mrs. Browning's song. She is a Christian poetess, not in the sense of appreciating, like Carlyle, the loftiness of the Christian type of character, not in the sense of adopting, like Goethe, a Christian machinery for artistic self-worship, not even in the sense of preaching, like Wordsworth, an august but abstract morality, but in the sense of finding, like Cowper, the whole hope of humanity bound up in Christ, and taking all the children of her mind to him, that he may lay his hand on them and bless them. It is well that Mrs. Browning is a Christian. It is difficult, but possible, to bear the reflection, that many great female writers have rejected that Gospel which has done more for woman than any other civilizing agency; but it is well that the greatest woman of all looks up, in faith and love, to that Eye which fell on Mary from the cross.

"The greatest woman of all! This is my firm and deliberate conviction. I am, of course, not acquainted with the works of all great female writers, perhaps not even of many. But, as you look toward the brow of a towering mountain, rising far over the clouds and crowned with ancient snow, you may have an assurance, even though it rises from a plain, or, if amid lower hills, though you have not actually taken the elevation of each, that in height it is peerless. In the poems of Mrs. Browning are qualities which admit of their being compared with those of the greatest men; touches which only the mightiest give. With the few sovereigns of literature, the Homers, Shakspeares, Miltons, she will not rank. But in full recollection of Scott's magical versatility, and bright, cheerful glow, of Byron's fervid passion and magnificent description, of Wordsworth's majesty, of Shelley's million-colored fancy, of Coleridge's occasional flights right into the sun-glare, of Bailey's marvelous exuberance, and of Tennyson's golden calm, I yet hold her worthy of being mentioned with any poet of this century. She has the breadth and versatility of a man, no sameliness, no one idea, no type character: our single Shakspearean woman. .

"Woman, sister,' says Thomas De Quincy, 'there are some things which you do not execute as well as your brother, man; no, nor ever will. Pardon me, if I doubt whether you will ever produce a great poet from your choirs, or a Mozart, or a Phidias, or a Michael Angelo, or a great philosopher, or a great scholar. By which last is meant, not one who depends simply on an infinite memory, but also on an infinite and electrical power of combination; bringing together from the four winds, like the angel of the resurrection, what else were dust from dead men's bones, into the unity of breathing life. If you can create yourselves into any of these great creators, why have you not?"

"Mrs. Browning has exalted her sex: this passage was true."

But our space is.full, and other extracts must be deferred to a future opportunity.

Everybody has heard of ORESTES A. BROWNSON and his ecclesiastical gyrations, and everybody who knows him has been wondering into what sheep-fold he would jump next. He start

ed with Congregational tendencies; then became a member of the Presbyterian Church; grew tired of that in a little while; turned Universalist, and became a minister of that creed; then renounced it, and styled himself an unbeliever; when, as he tells us, he "felt like a new man.” Mr. Owen then took hold of him, and Orestes became a "world reformer;" soon grew weary of Owen and Fanny Wright; "resumed preaching on his own hook, [we quote his own language,] as an independent preacher, responsible to no Church, sect, or denomination." Then he was "with the Unitarians" a while, and looked upon himself as the forerunner of some great teacher yet to come. "The truth is," he says, in relating this phase of his antics, "I was quite modest in claiming for myself only the part of the precursor, and many came to ask me if I was not myself a second Messias." They must have been quizzing him, but he relates it in all soberness as "the truth." At length Puseyism dawned upon him, and he greeted it "as the most important movement of the times." "The Roman Catholics looked on, but said little; several of their clergy, as I have since learned, said mass for my conversion, and many, I have no doubt, in their prayers, recommended me to Our Lady!" Their "recommendation" was successful, and "Our Lady" took him into her service, and now he is "booked," that is, he has written a book, entitled The Convert; or, Leaves from my Experience, wherein those who have sufficient curiosity for its perusal may find all these queer capers narrated with a self-complacency that is quite refreshing. Being now, as we have said, "booked," it is not probable that he will "change" again until his first edition is disposed of. As a specimen of his Catholicity-he is fond of that word-and as indicating his present position, we quote two short passages from his book. First, why is he now a Roman Catholic:

"He is a Catholic because he believes the Catholic Church the Church of God; because he believes her the medium through which God dispenses his grace to man, and through which alone we can hope for heaven."

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Secondly, the reason, "the real reason" why we," meaning thereby all who have the felicity to read his book, should tread in his illustrious footsteps:

"The real reason why we should become Catholics and remain such, is because she is the new creation, regenerated humanity; and without communion with her we can never see God as he is, or become united to him as our Supreme God in the supernatural order."

The Life and Times of Aaron Burr. By J. PARTON. We freely accord to the biographer credit for his researches, and the praise of having made a very readable, indeed, a captivating book; and if it had been intended merely as a work of fiction our notice might stop here, but it professes to be history, veritable facts. In this sense it deserves condemnation, and the best that can be said of it is, that it cannot do much harm, for it is too late in the day to eulogize Aaron Burr. The special pleading of Mr. Parton, eloquent though it be, will not avail to set aside, or very greatly to modify the universal verdict long since pronounced against the murderer of Hamilton.

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