STAR SATURDAY SUPPLEMENT.

AUCKLAND, N.Z., SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1»81,

RANDOM SHOTS.

[By Zamiel.]

Some write, a neighbour's name to lash, Some write—vain thought!—for needful cash. Some write to please the country clash. And raise a din. For me, an aim I never fash— I write for fun.

The Dargaville fiasco ended as I anticipated. The member for City West began with charges of corruption against the Premier and Treasurer in connection with the con solidation of loans, the gravamen of his accusations being that they were tools o { the Bank of New Zealand in that transac tion. It turned out that the Premier was not in Parliament at the time the Act in question was passed, and that the Treasurer (Major Atkinson) voted steadily against it with a very small minority of opposing members. Mr Dargaville then abandoned this charge altogether, making no attempt to justify it, but tried to substitute another about the investment of funds arising from the Insurance Department. Here again he lamentably broke down; the investment bein" as it turns out under the control of the Commissioner, and the mode of invest ment objected to having been established by a previous Ministry, and followed ever since. The particular investment on which his charge was laid turns out to be a singularly good one, at a higher rate of interest than could have been otherwise obtainable ; it is hardly to be marvelled at, therefore, that the affair has served chiefly to cover the member for City West with ridicule in the House.

What chielly interests me in the matter, however, is the distinction which Mr Darga ville has attempted to draw between per sonal and political corruption. Upon being informed by the Committee that they held his utterances to imply personal corruption, the member for City West expressed regret that any such inference should bo drawn, and declared that he meant only political corruption. Will Mr Dargaville be good enough to explain the distinction ? Does he hold that a man may be dishonest and corrupt in the administration of a high office of trust and yet be personally pure? If so, I fear Mr Dargaville will find few men to approve the impatient clamour for oilice which his enemies say has somewhat carried away his judgment. I have heard of bad men doing good public service, and can conceive it possible that one whose moral perceptions are none of the finest may occasionally rise to the greatness of a great occasion. But when it comes to bo recognised or asserted that a man in whom a nation has reposed Its trust, and on whom a people have be stowed the highest honours in their gift, may use that trust corruptly without incur ring personal dishonour of the blackest kind, then good-bye to political and every other kind of integrity. "To whom much hath been given, of him much shall be re quired ;" and the man who has got every thing a nation can give and then proves too scurvy a scoundrel to deal honestly by it, is the most despicable knave that crawls on the surface of the earth. It is high time that distinctions between political and per sonal corruption were met with so deter mined a display of public reprobation as to mark the man who would attempt to draw them as utterly unworthy of any place of trust in the body politic. What we want our public men to understand is, rather, that corruption in the administration of public affairs is the very worst form of rascality.

"Zamiel" has before remarked that he hardly ever bets —considering all gambling to be in the abstract immoral and degrading, though in actual experience very pleasant and seductive. Despite these views, I would not have been human had I refrained from putting up a small sum on the A.J.C. Derby run on Saturday last (of course a "flimsy" or two on each interprovincial football match "goes without saying"). Well, like a loyal New Zealander, I backed Martini-Henry for the Derby, and consider ing that he was recognised as first favourite for that exciting event, I stood ti good chance of finding myself in luck. As the date of the race drew nearer, the New Zea land horse became a hotter favourite than ever, and I doubled my bet, disdaining to " hedge " or do anything betraying want of confidence in the result. The reader (espe cially if he should happen to be in the same plight as myself) can fancy my disgust on learning that at the last moment Martini- Henry was " scratched," and did not even start. There's an old saying, " It's money makes the mare go," 'which may he capped with another proverb as old as Solomon, that " Money answereth all things." To a certainty it was the root of all evil that was at the root of this miserable defection of a horse which was bound to win the race, and money is thus proved to be equally potent in making the mare go or in making the horse stand still! The conduct of an owner who " scratches " a horse at the last moment without proper cause is on a level with that of the jockey who " sells " a race, and it is a pity that turf ethics could not be made to recognise and punish the one offence as stiffly as the other. Let me wind up with a little joke, to show that I am not em bittered by my losses. Isn't "Martini- Henry " the name of a breech-loading rifle of a certain pattern ? Of course it is, and the reader must admit that if tho rifle was no more successful in "going off" than its equine namesake has proved, it would never produce even a random shot!

The stories one reads in the papers about the mental state of the Queen and her re lations with the Prince of Wales remind one how completely circumstances have changed since the time when to make public ever so true a scandal concerning royalty would endanger the ears or the nose of the writer. Poor Prynne, the over zealous lawyer, because he censured the queen of Charles I. for contemplating taking part in some private theatricals, lost his ears, stood in the pillory, was fined and thrown into gaol. And gaols in those days were not exactly desirable places of residence. The partial reign of a Caldwell would have been welcomed a,s clemency and mercy itself by the unlucky Puritan and his associates. Then one recollects how roughly handled Wilkes was for criticising a speech from the Throne in his famous " No. 45." Yet his remarks were no more scathing and harsh than can be read now-a days every week in the eblurnns of a re spectable London daily with a reputation to keep np. If Wilkes had been made of stuff' less uayielding and mettlesome, he would have been speedily crushed, and never have become tlbfi champion of the liberty of the Press. 9s<X> more, Leigh Hunt, combining

irony with neatness of phrase, called the Prince liegent a " fat Adonis of fifty," and spent two years in prison for his rash ness. How times have changed since then ! I say again. It can be hinted now pretty broadly that Her Majesty is in danger of losing her reason after the manner of her grandfather, poor George 111., and neither editor nor printer is any the worse. The pillory has lon^ been banished to the limbo of brutal punishments, along with nose splitting, branding, and ear-chopping ; and liberty of speech has grown up by the side of this mitigation of barbarism in manners. If insanity runs in the Queen's family, so also does quarrelling between the inonarchs and their heirs. The first George fell out with dapper little George 11. when Prince of Wales ; the latter, when he came to be king, was at loggerheads with " Fred.," whom a cricket-ball carried to his long home, and deprived English history of a Frederick I. Every schoolboy (I don't mean Macaulay's " schoolboy ") knows how " the first gentleman in Europe " quarrelled with his respectable and virtuous, if dogmatic, narrow-minded father; and if Queen Victoria and her eldest son do not hit it as parent and child ought, why, "it runs in the family," and is, therefore, to be expected. XXX I am not usually an advocate of taking the law into one's own hands, and obtaining satisfaction for personal wrong by the em ployment of physical force, but I confess that I chuckled consumedly the other day after reading a telegram from Dunedin announcing that a barmaid there had waited on a so-called "gentleman" at his office, and avenged herself for a foul insult by administering a sound horsewhipping. One of the most infamous of our social customs is that which places women behind hotel bars to dispense drink. America, a thoroughly wide-awake country, scouts this colonial idea as unbusinesslike and unworthy of a " live " people, and I take it that if Auckland hotelkeepers had the courage to brave the hostility of the nin compoops for whose patronage alone the barmaid is accountable, they would find themselves none the poorer at the end of twelve months. The fact of being behind a bar, however, is no sufficient excuse for the sickening insults which some men heap upon the defenceless minister to their cravings for liquid refreshment, and if a few more such fellows were pursued to their business places and thrashed, I apprehend that two excellent results would follow— first of all, the practice of employing bar maids would become a little less popul.tr with hotelkeepers ; and where they were employed the precincts of a bar would be somewhat less degrading to those who frequent such places than they are at present. The loafer after barmaids can be nothing less than a nuisance to the hotel keeper and his regular customers.

In a recent number of the " Athcn&um ' I read the following sentence: "Not to believe what you read in the papers may be said to be the first and great commandment of modern life." This is admittedly a smart and clever saying, having about it an epigrammatic smack, which imprints it on the mental retina; but, like other smart things, it is rather wide of the truth. It has, besides, a priggish air around it, as if it originated with some reviewer possessed of a magnified sense of the importance of his office. To write for the " Athenteum " is of course a position of honour which many covet, and from that lofty pinnacle the critic looks scornfully down upon those low-bred fellows who do journeymen's work for "the papers." If the reviewer's new commandment had truth behind it, what confounded liars the race of journalists must be! And what an unhappy plight their deluded confiding leaders must be in ! It would be an easy matter to compile history in years to come ; for, given that the papers invariably told lies, all the historian need do would be to relate the very opposite version of each matter and incident. The papers said such and such was black ; the historian, following the reviewer's con venient rule, says it was white ; and so the truth is got at without more ado. But there's one consolation which the penny-a liners may take to heart, and that is, the new commandment will not be obeyed. The "Athenaeum" critic is preaching in the desert, and there is none to heed him. If the public believed him, it would decide to do without the papers—unless, and I say it sotto voce, it continues to interpret by contraries, like the coming historian—and those impudent rogues the journalists would find tlxeir mendacious occupation gone, and would have to come to what they no doubt richly desex-ve, viz., stonebreaking.

The Anti-CD. Act propaganda appears to be carried on in rather a peculiar fash ion. Some of the tactics adopted for the dissemination of literature bearing upon the subject is, to put it mildly, unwise, and may lead to unexpected reprisals of a very conclusive character. For the sake of clearness I will abandon the abstract, and come down to the concrete. I chanced one day this week to be travelling from the western Belgravia in a 'bus which was filled with ladies, I being the only in dividual of the male persuasion present. A stoppage was made half-way down Col lege Hill for some purpose or other, and seizing advantage of the delay, a little ferretty-eyed, scrubby-chinned, and well, anything but clean-visagcd man, opened the door hastily, drew a bundle *of pamphlets from some recess of his cloth ing, threw them upon us and, as the Yanks say "Vamoosed." After a hurried glance at his retreating form, I turned round to ray fair companions just in time to see three of them lift up a pamphlet each from their laps, glance at the first page, and throw it to the floor with a ges ture of disgust. This, of course, stimu lated the curiosity of the others; they all inspected and they all looked indignant, and remained wonderfully quiet. Then I too became painfully eager to know the why and wherefore of all this signifi cant action. I reached for a pamphlet, was confronted by a headline that at once explained everything, and at the same time made it impossible for me' to regard my fellow-travellers squarely in the face. The embarrassment was mutual and very awkward, but quite unavoidable. I alighted as soon as possible, and took with me a few pamphlets, the perusal of which soon convinced me that the matter was not fit to meet the eyes of the gentler sex. Let the opponents of the special phase of legislation which has been exciting such attention of late take all ex pedient and legitimate means of advancing their cause, but if they are so indiscriminate as to risk ;he danger of polluting and corrupting the mindß of our youth by scattering broadcast unwholesome litera' ture, and so shameless as to thrust it upon ouv mothers, wives, and daughters, they will assuredly defeat their own ends. Besides

that, as I have hinted above, they may provoke unlooked-for consequences which 1 need hardly particularise.

The circumstances of the unrecorded death of Tabby, a muscular cat, at l'assi- Flora Lodge, have attracted some attention and remarks from persons residing in the neighbourhood of CJrafton Road during the past week or ten days. Tabby was truly a tine cat, and, judging from the posthumous record of him, was a fit and proper parlour companion for the lady who owned Tabby, and who possessed a commendable love for animals and birds. Tabby was robust, strong of limb, well-proportioned, a fearless foe of rate and sparrows, and withal devo tedly attached to his thoughtful mistress. Unfortunately, however, for the peace of the lady's mind, Tabby fell dead in the still hour of an August night beneath the hand of an assassin, and was discovered the next morning stark and stiff on the dewy grass. The milkman made the sad discovery, and stood aghast at the sight of his customer's mangled remains. Tfie lady wept tears of bitterness over the body, and said she would give Tabby's weight in gold to find the merciless murderer of her bosom friend. A neighbour endeavoured vainly to console the bereaved one with a quotation (slightly altered) from no less an authority than Shakspere:— " Let Hercules himself do what lie may, The cat will mew, then die, and pass away." The owner ot Tabby, however, was incon solable, and went to the Police Station to consult Sergeant White upon her loss, stat ing that she was fully prepared to offer a substantial reward for the discovery of the perpetrator of the diabolical deed. She was persuaded not to give way to unavail ing grief, but, if found out, the miscreant might be prosecuted under the Cruelty to Animals Act. Having no clue to the heartless offender, the mourner determined to give at least a decent burial to a cat who possessed more of Christian virtues than many professing Christians. She called upon the minister of the parish, and requested permission to bury poor Tabby in the Anglican Cemetery, but the application could not be granted. The lady thought it unkind, as Tabby had been par excellence a Christian cat. " Well," she said, " I will bury Tabby in a consecrated spot in my own garden, and raise a monument in evidence of my gratitude to one who was faithful in life." The lady dug Tabby's grave with her own gentle hands, and in a spot where, on fine days, the sun would shine all day long. She made the grave and performed the funeral ceremony, and, with the example of the noble poet, Lord Byron, before her, she placed a white memorial cross on a neat pedestal on Tabby's grave, under the rosebush, and between two clusters of emblematic snow drops. The inscription on the inner side is characteristic, " Alas, Poor Tabby, Obit., August 25th, 1883. Hie transit gloria. mundi —So passes the glory of this world."

I have been to the Conditional Immor tality debate, and have had the nightmare over it. Methought I sat chained and manacled upon the front balustrading of an immense dress circle, while down on a colossal stage beneath me a terribly gaunt and hungry giant strode backward and for ward, pelting me ever and anon with stale ostrich eggs, bearing upon them in flaming characters .such cabalistic words as "Enosh," "Gosh,""Bosh," "Ish,""Hash,""Anash," "Balderdash," and so on, each hit being greeted by a tremendous guffaw from an in visible "pit." Then, too, there was another personage upon the stage, with disten ded eyes, who played upon me with along squirt which he replenished every few mo ments, from a ponderous tub labelled " mis cellaneous texts,"and after each discharge he gave vent to his delightby pounding away at a large table and turning a few somersaults over it. I stood the ordeal as long as I could, and then I roared for mercy, whereat I "trembling woke," and found myself under the bed. I have now forsworn polemical debates, and am resolved not to take my pleasures so sadly in future. A satirical friend has suggested that it is a symptom of atrophy of the brain, super induced by a dangerous mixture of "tea fuddling " with religious dialectics, but my own diagnosis is entirely different. Hence forth I eschew Brown and Plutson.

A Spanish Patriarch.

The Spanisli people are not, as a rule, parents of large families ; and they are, therefore, the more interested at the arrival in the country of a venerable patriarch* Don Lucas Negreiraz Paez, with a flourish ing family numbering 207 lineal descen dants. The worthy man is a native of Galicia, and has made a considerable for tune in America, from which country lie has returned to Europe at the age of 93 in a ship of his own, commanded by one of. his grandsons, who is in the mercantile marine. The Don lias been married three times, and has now 39 chil dren, of whom 10 are daughters, including nine wives, six widows, and one spinster, and 23 are sons, including six bachelors. The last of the sons was born when his father was 74 years old. He lias 47 grand sons, and 34 granddaughters, 39 great-grand sons, and 43 great-granddaughters, and, lastly, 3 "great-great-grandsons." There are now over 72 husbands and wives of divers of these descendants, who make up the total of persons composing the family to 279. The eldest son of the old gentle man is now 70, and has had 17 children, the eldest of whom is 28 years older than his uncle, the youngest son of the prolific patriarch. Among the various descendants there are members of almost all professions, so that the Don need hardly ever have any dealings with others than his own offspring. Vege tarians and teetotallers and anti-tobacconists will be delighted to hear that he is agreed with all of these sects as to his diet and manner of living. The French paper which relates this story caps it, however, by recalling that of Hera Dollfus, who, fifteen years ago, celebrated his birthday at Mulhouse, in company with his family, composed of 29S men and women, or 19 more than those credited to Don Paez. But the latter has, perhaps, still some years to live; and although he may not have any more children, it is quite on the cards that he may have some dozens more greatgrand children and great-great-grandchildren.

When a gentleman scolded his servant for drinking two bottles of choice ale that he had put ready for a dinner to be given to a few friends, the man excused himself by saying : —" I saw plain enough, by the clouds, that it was going to thunder, so I drank up the ale at once lest it should turn sour; for there's nothing I do abominate like waste."

A Conscientious Bridegroom.

A curious story comes to us from Belgium : "A Belgian bridegroom, a few days ago, being about to start for Paris on his honey moon tour, was informed by his bride that she thought of concealing several thousand francs' worth of lace about her, hoping by its sale to pay the cost of their journey. The bridegroom was not smitten with this frugal project, and pointed out that there were Custom-house officers and a female searcher at Ercquelines who were some times struck with an unaccountable fancy for examining passengers' pockets. This he said, being a timid man, and his bride, to humour him, promised to give up her plan; but, of course, she secreted the luce all the same without telling him anything about it. As the train approached the French frontier, the husband reflected that if his wife was not searched his fears would be mocked at as having been groundless, and lie would start on his marriage career with his prestige impaired. This was not desirablo—the rather was it essential that he should from the outset assert his infallibility ; so when the train stopped at Ercquelines, and the passengers alighted, the Belgian bridegroom left his bride's side for a moment, and sidling up to a Custom-house officer, whispered : " I think if you search that lady yonder you may find some lace." The officer winked, and the happy bride was accosted with an invitation to walk into the female searcher's room. She turned pale and tottered, but was led away, anil five minutes later dismal sounds of hysterics were hoard. Then the officer re-appeared and said to the horrified hus band, "Thank you, sir ; it is a good capture. The lady will be taken to prison, and half the fine will go to you."

Poison In a Young Lady's Bite.

Much alarm is said to have been created in Missouri society by a recent occurrence. "A young lady moving in the first circles," according to the " New York Times,'" " had a mock quarrel with a young man about a piece of jewellery, and play fully bit his arm. What was play to her came near to being death to him ; for some time his life was despaired of, and while lie was slowly recovering the papers gave cur rency to the circumstance that the year before a Missouri girl had also playfully bitten a young man's thumb, and he had died of the wound. The deduction that the bite of a Missouri girl is likely to be fatal is forced on readers of the incident, and this is made worse by the fact that even in the first circles of Missouri society girls are obviously in the habit of biting. Where the average girl would content herself with a tap of Tier fan, the "New York Times" points out, the Missouri girl snaps. Comment is made on the omission of Nature to provide some sort of automatic danger signal in the case of these deadly girls. The rattlesnake springs his rattle before he strikes. The beautiful Missourian strikes without warning. The only thing that can be done seems to bo to provide girls of playful disposition with muzzles when they go into society. A neat and serviceable article, that can be taken off at supper time, or, better still, that will open so as to admit lobster salad, cham pagne, and mayonnaise, between the fair wearer's lips, is much wanted. It may not look attractive, but it will be necessary if playful girls feel an inclination to waltz and expect partners to ask if they may have the pleasure.

The Prices of Some Historical Fish.

We in England, with the sea all around us, naturally expect to get our fish cheaper than any other nation ; as a matter of fact it is cheaper in London and other of our cities and towns than it is in almost any capital of Europe, barring only those of the Northern nations. Order a salmon cutlet or a sole in Paris, and the chances are very great, in respectable, though not the highest-class restaurants, that you will have to pay from three to five or more francs for your audacity. If it is fresh, congratulate yourself. Oysters have sold for as much as a paper rouble— about a shilling—a piece in St. Petersburg. But what are these to the prices obtained in ancient Rome? The equivalent of six pounds sterling was a common outlay for one pound of fish; some mullet, of which history makes mention, were sold for the astonishingly high figures of £48, £64, and £240. Fisli was half the time a luxury for millionaires only. There were human hogs, too, in those as in these days ; the Emperor Vitellius is said to have got through 1,200 oysters at a sitting. Though doubtless an exaggeration, it evidently meant an ex travagant fondness on his part for the de licious bivalve. It was by no means an un common weakness, then as now. >Seneca, the wise, could manage his 100 or so, and Latin poets sung its praises. Cicero boasted that he had learnt contentment in a state of modest retirement, which bebarred him from the enjoyment of eels and oysters, but as lie did not find a course or two of some rare fi.sli at the entertainments to which he was in vited, he was, all the same, rather apt to make a note of the deficiency. There is a story of one Cassidorus who sold his slave in the morning that ho might sup on a muriena, the purchase of which cost him all he got by the bargain.—"The Fisheries of the World."

" Larrikin " Gratitude.

Thackeray was one day sauntering away from the Gavrick Club, then close to Covent Garden, and strolling through Cranbourne Alley, stopped opposite a pieshop, around which several urchins of both sexes were congregated, looking with wolfish eyes upon some pork pies which the" baker had just placed in the window for sale. Thackeray had a great kindliness for child ren and dumb animals—in fact, for anything that could not hit back if injured, so his soul was touched by the hungry-looking children. Calling the tallest, a slip of a girl some eleven or twelve years old, ho g^ave her hnlf-a-crown, telling her to buy five sixpenny pies, take one for fcerself and give the others to her little companions. Presently he saw the girl with the five pork pies, one in her hand and the others in her apron, making off at her best pace. Over taking her he reproached her with taking all and not giving her friends any, where upon the girl screamed out, " Let me alone, you nasty, dirty old beast, or I'll call a policeman !" The novelist, it is needless to say, dropped this Flower of St. Giles's like (as ho said) "a hot potato," and never dabbled in practical philanthropy again. He took a cynical pleasure in relating the story as an instance of early depravity.

SELECTED POETRY.

(:-:)—

MY BOOKS

They dwell hi the odour of camphor, I hey stand in a Shcrraton shrine, 1 hey are "warranted curly editions," I hese worshipful books of mine. In their cream-coloured "Oxford vellum,' In their redolent. " crushed Levant " With their delicate " watered linings," Ihey are jewels ot price, I grant. "Blind tooled" and "morocco jointed " They have Zuchnsdorfs daintiest dress I hey are graceful, uttentuatc. polishedl Hut they gather the dust no less ; For the row that I prize is yonder A\yav on the unglazed shelves— The bulged and the bruised octavos The dear and the dumpy twelves; aiontaigne, with his sheepskin blistered s And llowell the worse for wear ■ And the worm-drilled Jesuits' Horace And the little old cropped Molioro ; And the Burton I bought for fourpence. And the Itabelais, foxed and lleued- For the others I never have opened But those are the ones I read.

AN AGNOSTIC VIEW.

From the "Index

At the end of every road there stands a wall Not. built, by hands, impenetrable, bare : Behind it lies an unknown land, and all I he paths men plod lead to it and end there. Each man according to his humour, paints bri'lit 11" 0 W'll! stran *>'c landscapes dark and Peopled with forms of friends or forms of Hells of despair or Edcns of delight. Then to his fellows, "Tremble!" or "Rejoice!" The limner cries, "Forlo! the land beyond!" And ever acquiescent to his voice * aint echoes from that painted wall respond. But now and then with sacrilegious band Somoono wipes otr those painted landscapes Mattering, " O, fools and slow to understand. Behold your bourne—the impenetrable wall!" Whereat an eager, angered crowd exclaims • ' Better than yon dead wall, though pale and Our faded Edens. Better fiends and flames By .fancy painted in her coarsest paint "On the blind, bald, unquestionable face Ot that obstruction, than its cold, unclad Uiicullous emptiness, without a trace Of any prospect either good or bad !' And straightway the old work begins again Of Picture painting. And men shout, and For response to their pleasure or their pain Getting back echoes from that painted wall.

THE FISHERMAN'S SONG.

Merrily over the dancing wave Swiftly speeds our boat along ; Our feathering oars tlie waters lave In measured time to our cheerful song: And the eddying waves that whirl and bound Spring upwards in joy at the gladsome sound, And scatter the spray-flakes above and around. While the wind blows fresh ana freely, i c ho, heave ho, yo ho, pull away ! Over the bar with a joyous shout, Lifting to the rising seas; Shaking the folds of our canvas out To catch each breath of the swelling breeze. Still over the billows our way we Keep, lo win living treasure-trove outof the deep. And busily work while the landsmen sleep, And the moon shines bright and clearly, Ye ho, heave ho, ye ho, pull away! Cheerily all through the stilly night, Tossing on the billows' crest. Tending our lines till the morning's light, And the sea in the sun's bright slioen is drees'd. Then merrily on in our homeward track. While the straining timbers K roan and crack, \V ltn the little ones watching to welcome us back To the cove we love so dearly. Ye ho, heave ho, ye ho, puil away! Then hurrah, hurrah! for a fisherman's life! And good luck to our bonnic boat • And hurrah, hurrah! for the fisherman's wife r Who bids us Godspeed as we outwards float .May our dames be true, and our sons be brave. May our storms be few as we plough life's May we'trust in Him who is strong to save In the hour of our need full freely. Ye ho, heave ho, yo ho, pull away!

HUMOUROUS CLIPPINGS.

A HiGii-CiiDiicii parson asked a Low Church parson: "Do you have matins- in your church ?" The latter replied, " Oh, dear, no—kamptulicon right up to the Communion table !" "Gentlemen of the jury," said a blundering counsel, in a suit about a lot of hogs, "there were just thirty-six in the drove. Please remember the fact—thirty six hogs ; just three times as many as in that jury-box, gentlemen." The counsel didn't gain his case. Lord Faulkner, author of "The Marriage Night," was chosen very young to sit in Parliament; upon which some of the older r members opposed his admission, urging that ho had not yet sown his wild oats. " Then," replied he, "it will be the best way to sow them in the house, where there are so many geese to pick them up !" The Abbe de Marollea had the head of St. John the Baptist shown to him at Amiens. Devoutly kissing it, he said, " Heaven bo praised. This is already the fifth or sixth I have had the good fortune to kiss." "Really, my dear," said poor Mr Jones to his better half, "you have sadly disap pointed me. I once considered you a jewel of a woman, but you've turned out only a bit of matrimonial paste." "Then, my love," was the reply, "console your self with the idea that paste is very adhesive, and will stick to you as long as you live." A tale is told of an Irishman named Pat, who was a candidate for admission to the police fox-ce of a certain town, and his ap pearance before the Mayor was hailed with a cry from a crowd of would-be officers of, "He can't write his name, yer honour ! His Honor announced that he was only there to take down the names of those who wished to apply for the vacant situation, and told Pat to come that day fortnight. "Now, Put," said a well-wisher, "go home, and every night do you get a big piece of paper and a good stout pen, and keep writing your name. I'll set the copy for you." Pat obeyed instructions, and when the day cume and the Mayor asked if he could write, he replied, "Troth, an' it's meeself that jist can." "Take the pen," said the Mayor, "and write— write your name." As Pat took up the j ien, exclamations arose behind him, "Pats a writing. lie's got a quill in his fist!" cried one amazed rival. "Small good will it do him—he can't write wid it, !1 cried another. They were dumbfounded when the Irish roan recorded his name in a bold round hand, and the Mayor declared, "that'll do;" but on recovering from their surprise, two of them shouted out together, " Ask him to write somebody else's name, yer honour." "Write my name, Pat," said the Mayor. '' Write yer honour's name I" exclaimed Pat. " Me commit forgery, and goin' into the police ! I can't do it.