happened, in what ditch his bay horse had his sprain at that time, and how his man John-no, it was William-started a hare in the common field, that he never got to the end of his tale. Then he was extremely particular in marriages and intermarriages, and cousins twice or thrice removed, and whether such a thing happened at the latter end of July or the beginning of August. He had a marvellous tendency, likewise, to digressions, insomuch that if a considerable person was mentioned in his story he would straightway launch out into an episode of him; and again, if in that person's story he had occasion to remember a third man, he broke off and gave us his history; and so on. He always put me in mind of what Sir William Temple informs us of the tale-tellers in the North of Ireland, who are hired to tell stories of giants and enchanters to lull people asleep. These historians are obliged by their bargain to go on without stopping; so that after the patient hath by this benefit enjoyed a long nap, he is sure to find the operator proceeding in his work. Ned procured the like effect in me the last time I was with him. As he was in the third hour of his story, and very thankful that his memory did not fail him, I fairly nodded in the elbowchair. He was much affronted at this till I told him, "Old friend, you have your infirmity, and I have mine." But, of all evils in story-telling, the humor of telling tales one after another in great numbers is the least supportable. Sir Harry Pandolf and his son gave my Lady Lizard great offence in this particular. Sir Harry hath what they call a string of stories, which he tells over every Christmas. When our family visits there we are constantly after supper entertained with the "Glastonbury Thorn." When we have wondered at that a little, "Ay, but, father," saith the son, "let us have the 'Spirit in the Wood." After that hath been laughed at, "Ay, but, father," cries the booby again, "tell us how you served the robber."-"Alack-a-day!" saith Sir Harry with a smile and rubbing his forehead; "I have almost forgot that, but it is a pleasant conceit, to be sure." Accordingly, he tells that and twenty more in the same independent order, and without the least variation at this day, as he hath done to my knowledge ever since the Revolution. I must not forget a very odd compliment that Sir Harry always makes my lady when he dines here. After dinner he says, with a feigned concern in his countenance, “Madam, I have lost by you to-day.' "How so, Sir Harry?" replies my lady.-" Madam," says he, "I have lost an excellent appetite." At this his son and heir laughs immoderately and winks upon Mrs. Annabella. This is the thirty-third time that Sir Harry hath been thus arch, and I can bear it no longer. As the telling of stories is a great help and life to conversation, I always encourage them if they are pertinent and innocent, in opposition to those gloomy mortals who disdain everything but matter of fact. Those grave fellows are my aversion who sift everything with the utmost nicety, and find the malignity of a lie in a piece of humor pushed a little beyond exact truth. I likewise have a poor opinion of those who have got a trick of keeping a steady countenance and cock their hats and look glum when a pleasant thing is said, and ask, Well, and what then?" Men of wit and parts should treat one another with benevolence; and I will lay it down as a maxim that if you seem to | Guardian, extending from 1709 to 1714, is have a good opinion of another man's wit, he will allow you to have judgment. SIR RICHARD STEELE. SIR RICHARD STEELE. ICHARD STEELE was a native of Dublin; he was born 1671. His father, who was secretary to the lord-lieutenant of Ireland, had influence enough to get his son placed in the Charterhouse School, London. Here he first met Addison, with whom he was subsequently associated in the Spectator, and they were again together at Oxford. At the end of three years Steele left the university without taking a degree, and enlisted as a private in the Horse-Guards. In consequence of taking this step he was disinherited by a rich relative, but he became a favorite in the army, and, being made secretary to too well known to require repetition. He started some other periodicals on the same plan, but the famous "essays" had had their day, and they slept for a while, but only to be revived and incorporated with all that is imperishable in English literature. At the death of Queen Anne, Steele was made a magistrate, surveyor of the royal stables, and was knighted by George I. He also entered Parliament as member for Boroughbridge, and made some show as an orator and debater; but amid all his honors and literary successes his pecuniary difficulties increased, and he ultimately retired to his country-seat in Wales, where he lived almost forgotten by his contemporaries, and died September 21, 1729. J. E. CARPENTER. DEATH AND THE YOUTH. his colonel, Lord Cutts, he rose to the rank NOT yet; the flowers are in my path, of captain. He then plunged into all the gayeties of the town, and became “familiar with duns and bailiffs, misery, folly and repentance." To obtain funds he commenced. - authorship, and published in 1701 a treatise called The Christian Hero. He next produced a comedy, "The Funeral; or, Grief à-la-mode," which was performed at Drury Lane, 1704, with great success. He was now a popular man, and was appointed gazetteer and gentleman-usher to Prince George. He married and inherited from his wife-who soon died-a fortune derived from an estate in Barbadoes; a second marriage added to his income, but he was always extravagant and always in debt. His connection with the Tatler, Spectator (in which Steele wrote two hundred and forty of the papers) and The sun is in the sky; Not yet; my heart is full of hope: I cannot bear to die. "Not yet; I never knew till now How precious life could be; But Love and Hope, enchanted twain, ARISTOCRACY. To thee be all men heroes; every race ROBERT, LORD LYTTON. How long I have lain in this dungeon here Summer's heat or autumn's sere, Joy! I spurn thee with disdain! Nothing love I but this clanking chain. Once I broke from its iron hold: Nothing I said; but silent and bold, Like the tiger that crouches in mountain lair Hours upon hours, so watched I there, Till one of the fiends that had come to bring Herbs from the vales and drink from the spring Stalked through my dungeon entrance in. Ha! how he shrieked to see me free! Ha! how he trembled and knelt to me! He who had mocked me many a day, Had barred me out from the cheerful ray, Oh how I shouted to see him pray! I wreathed my hand in the demon's hair, And choked his breath in his muttered prayer; And danced I then in wild delight To see the trembling wretch's fright ! Oh how I crushed his hated bones 'Gainst the jagged wall and the dungeonstones, And plunged my arm adown his throat And dragged to light his beating heart And held it up that I might gloat To see its quivering fibres start! Ho! how I drank of the purple flood- more Till I found myself on this dungeon floor, Woe to the daughters and sons of men- My frame is shrunk and my soul is sad, Haunts me here in the gloom of night; Like the shepherd that watches his gentle Mortal smile or human tear fold, Never cheers or soothes me here; The spider shrinks from my grasp away, Light of day or ray of sun, Friend or hope, I've none-I've none! Never-ah! never-to see again Had pierced the gloom of this endless If the cheerful tones of a single voice Yet 'tis not always thus: sweet slumber If a single thing had loved me here, steals Across my haggard mind and weary sight; No more my brain the iron pressure feels, Nor frightful devils howl the livelong night! Visions of hope and beauty scem They bear me back to a long-lost day, And the sportive scene, And the valley the verdant hills between ; The beauty of manhood is not yet sear, When I roamed at large in my native glen, |